“None of us Likesit,” Baines said softly, as Kit came up beside him like a dog at heel. “But we do what we must, for God. Innocents will die–”
“Aye. And you’ll avail yourself of black arts for power.” Catesby cast a pitying glance at Kit. “Is this our poet, then?”
“I am,” Kit answered, before Baines could do it for him, and extended his right hand.
“Christopher Marlin, Robert Catesby,” Baines said, stepping back to keep the hissing torch clear of a stream of water. Catesby slid Baines a sidelong glance and opened his mouth.
Kit cut him off. “You were about to say that I am a bit unprepossessing, Master Catesby?”
A startled glance back. The torchlight made Catesby’s nose look long and beaked. “How did you know that, Master Poet?”
Kit smiled. “Words are what I do, ” he answered. He stepped past Catesby, stubbing his toe among the jumbled stones but doing himself no serious harm. A row of unhappy black birds huddled on a long iron bar within, crouched shoulder to shoulder with their feathers ruffled against the cold. Despite himself, Kit looked for one with a twisted wing, but couldn’t see it. “What are the birds for, Dick?”
The torch bobbed and guttered as Baines coughed into his hand. “The sacrifice,” he answered.
What is your substance, whereof are you made
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
–William Shakespeare, Sonnet 53
Will paused in Murchaud’s shadow, half wishing he had a weapon in his hand and half glad he did not. “Downward?
“Ever downward,” the Elf‑knight answered, glancing over his shoulder for Tom and Ben before he started moving.
“There’ll be an echo,” Ben murmured. “Keep your voices soft. And we shall have need of a light.”
Murchaud blinked. “Of course you will,” he said. “How foolish.” Of himself or of them he did not say, Will noticed, but he waved his left hand in an airy arc, swarming green motes flickering into existence in the path of his moving fingers. They scattered, swinging low to the ground in twining pursuit, and illuminated the ground by Will’s feet, and Ben’s, and Tom’s. “Master Shakespeare,” he said, “can you manage the steps?”
“I’ll manage what I have to,” Will answered. “Could we make more expedience? Every moment we hesitate is a moment that Kit is in danger. ”
“By all means,” Tom said, setting his boot down carefully among a school of witchlights that danced about his feet like minnows in shallow water. “Let us make our way underground.”
So, so; was never devil thus blest before.
– Christopher Marlowe, Faustus,Act III, scene ii
He was thankful for so many things.
That it wasn’t Baines who undressed him, but two of the other men, and that they did it with impersonal disinterest. They stripped him only to the waist, and left his feet free when they bound him standing between two pillars, and not helplessly prone on some clammy altar. That there was wet stone giving steady purchase under his bare feet instead of the greasy mud, and that the lengths of white silk binding his arms wide as wings were soft around his wrists, and tied so he could clench his hands tight about them, his fingers leaving rusty stains of blood where they had cracked around the iron rings.
Poley’s men had set up a rough pavilion not too far away, and the warmth of the braziers protected by its span just reached Kit. A warmth that he was also thankful for, because the water that dripped slowly onto his hair and shoulders, leaving delicate branching trails of silt down his skin and slowly soaking the waist of his breeches, was so cold it burned. A cut he hadn’t noticed stung on the bottom of his right foot, and he could feel the warm stickiness of a trace of blood.
He tossed his head to flick his dripping hair from his eyes, and then wished he hadn’t, because Baines climbed up the three swaybacked steps to the dais and smoothed the muddy locks back with thick, gentle fingers. Kit flinched from the touch as if it burned him, and in his heart he heard an angel whimper. “You could have lent me a hat.”
“Sorry about that, puss,” he said. “The roof leaks a little. You’re all over gooseflesh. Shall I fetch your cloak for now, until we’re ready to begin?”
“It’s past midnight and gone,” Kit answered, gritting his teeth so that they would not chatter. “What are we waiting for?”
“The man of the hour,” Baines answered, and brought the white wool cloak to drape over Kit’s shoulders. He drew the hood up to shelter his head and settled it carefully. “‘Twill soon be over, and then we can all get good and thoroughly drunk.”
Poley emerged from the shadows on the far wall, carrying an end of one of the long iron cages Catesby had been tending. Kit watched, idly twisting at the lengths of cloth restraining his wrists. He should thank Baines for that, he supposed. The bindings were calculated to do him very little harm, no matter how he struggled.
Baines turned and walked down the steps to Poley, and Kit tried to relax into a state of waiting readiness, calling poetry to mind. What a pity thou has’t ne’er written a comedy. If ever, now would be the time for a happy ending–
He smiled to himself, and quickly dropped his head to hide that smile behind his hood and the fall of his hair. If his own work wouldn’t do to hold him together through this, he knew the play that would. Even if I “like this” not at all. Thank thee, Will. In mine extremity, I knew I could trust in thee.He drew a long, slow breath, tasting mold and wet upon it, and shaped the well‑loved words. as I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns, and, as thou sayest, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me welclass="underline" and there begins my sadness. My brother Jacques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit: for my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept.
He closed his eyes and leaned into the poetry as he leaned into the cloths that bound him, and his lips moved silently. I can bear this. With Will’s help.
I can do this.
I can–
«Kit.» A low urgency like panic in the angel’s voice that wasn’t quite a voice, and Kit looked up, his mute recitation stumbling when he saw who had entered the crumbling chapel, his brow ringed in shadows and his wingless body wreathed in light. Lucifer Morningstar had eyes only for Baines, sparing Kit not so much as a glance.
“Prometheus,” Kit whispered, leaning forward to see the red slick stain wetting the left side of the devil’s silken shirt.
“As I am summoned,” the fallen angel said formally, tilting his head so that the torchlight and the brazier light and the light of his own pale halo reflected on his hair in red and golden bands, “so have I come.”
His voice was a bare whisper, resonant of violoncello and the wind through midnight trees. It pressed Kit’s heart to thunder in his chest; all pretense of ignorance forgotten, Kit hurled himself backward against his restraints.
“I told thee no!” he shouted, fabric burning his skin. His feet went out from under him with the force of his struggle, but the cloths held him upright. He sagged against them– Like Christ from the cross–his arms lifted and spread wide, his shoulders bent open by the weight of his body, the bad one wrenched to pain. The cloak dropped to tangle about his ankles, leaving his bare back cold, the ghost of warmth fled. His hair hung in his eyes. He sobbed in pain and got his feet under him.
Lucifer did not turn his head, but Baines did, and smiled. “Hush, puss,” Baines said, a low tone that nevertheless carried. “Or I’ll yet see thee in that bridle thou dost so hate.”