“Faith, William?” Kit tasted the ale; this cup was stronger. “Died blaspheming, indeed. Do you suppose He eavesdrops on those who call His name in passion? Oh, God! Oh, God! Mayhap He finds it titillating.”
“Kit!”
Kit snorted into his cup. “Faith. I faith, the Fae, who ought to know it, say God is in the pay of the Prometheans. I imagine He’d little want me in any case.” No, and never did. No matter how badly I wanted him. A little like Will in that regard, come to think of it.
“I sometimes suspect,” Will said softly, “that God finds all this wrangling over His name and His word and His son somewhat tiresome. But I am constrained to believe in Hell.”
“Hell? Aye, hard not to when we’re living in an argument on metaphysics.” Kit kicked the wall with his heel for emphasis. “Say that again once the Devil’s complimented you to your face.”
“But I am the Queen’s man, and the Queen’s church suits me as well as any, and I should not like, I think, to live in a world without God.”
“An admirable solution,” Kit said. “I flattered myself for a little that God did care for me, but I felt a small martyrdom in His name was enough, and He has never been one to settle for half a loaf. And I am maudlin, and talking too much.”
“I do not think your martyrdom little.”
“Sadly, it is not our opinion that matters.” Kit had finished the ale, he realized, and felt light-headed. He set his cup on the window ledge and leaned against the wall, letting the cool breeze through the open panes stir his hair. He put a smile into his voice.
“Your celebrity here is not little, either.”
Will laughed, and leaned against Kit’s shoulder. “I find the affection in which I am held adequate.”
“For most purposes?”
“The purposes that suit me. Are all poets admired in Faerie?”
“Only the good ones,” Kit answered. “And yet I envy you your freedom to go home.”
“If I knew a way to bargain for yours…”
“Poley would simply have me killed again.”
“He might find it harder this time.”
“Ah, Will. Everyone in London who loved me is gone. What had I to return to, even were it so?” Kit shook himself, annoyed at his own sorrow, and knowing as he said it, “Will, forgive me. Those words were untrue, and unfair.”
“I understand, Will answered. As for me, I am half ready to flee London overall. Our epics are not in fashion any longer, Kit. Shallow masques and shallower satires, performances good for nothing but jibing. More backstabbing and slyness than old Robin Greene ever dreamed of. Stuff and nonsense, plague and death. Stabbings in alleyways, and I’m as much to blame as any man, because my plays do not catch at conscience as they once did. My power is failing with the turning of the century.”
“Failing?” Kit laid a hand on Will’s shoulder and shook him, not hard but enough to slosh the ale in his cup. “Foolishness. The power is there as always; in every line thou dost write. It’s merely…” Kit squeezed, and shrugged, and let his hand fall in abeyance. “Because it depends, in some measure, on the strength of the crown.”
“Another raven.” Will set his cup aside and pushed away from the wall. “Waiting for Gloriana to die.”
Kit plucked the figured silk taffeta of Will’s sleeve between his fingers, drawing his hand back before the urge to stroke Will’s arm overwhelmed him. Across the hall, he saw Morgan mounting the steps to take a seat at the virginals. At least our feathers glisten.
“Look, Will. Smile, go dance attendance. Your lady takes the stage.”
Will looked him over carefully, boots to eyepatch, a frown crinkling the corners of his eyes. Kit held his breath as the poet leaned so close that Kit almost thought his lips might brush Kit’s cheek. But his hand fell heavily on Kit’s shoulder, and his frown became a smile. “I’ll see you.” Kit turned and took himself upstairs, to wait for Murchaud and the backgammon board.
A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion;
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet 20
A tankard of Morgan’s brew bittersweet and redolent of ginger and lemons cooled by Will’s elbow. He dipped his pen in raven-black ink, so different from accustomed iron gall, and watched it trickle, glossy, down the crystal belly of the well.
“Stop playing with your pen and write, Master Shakespeare.” Kit curled like a goblin on the window ledge, wrapped in his parti-color cloak against the chill breeze through the sash. “Commit mine immortal words to paper.”
“Thine immortal words?” Will smiled. He touched pen to paper and let the ink describe the arcs and knots symbolizing Kit’s immortal words. “I was just thinking, we haven’t done this since Harry and Edward met their fates.”
“We’ve improved,” Kit answered. He turned his back to the window and kicked his heels against the wall. “I heard from Tom last night. Another letter.”
“And?”
“All is as well as can be expected. I’ll read it to thee later. When didst thou think to return to London?”
A little too casual, that question. Will laid the pen down and turned to regard Kit, silhouetted against an autumn light. “I’ve been here three, four weeks now? I thought I might stay another month, perhaps, and go home to Annie before Christmas.”
Will thought of Morgan, and the way his hand was steadier on the pen than it had been in years. He’d stay as long as he could. He tried not to think that once he left, the chances of being invited to return were slim.
“I’m glad of the company. And then there’s our Chiron.”
“I couldn’t leave that unfinished. Although it will never be performed in London. Difficult to find a centaur to play the lead.” Kit’s gaze unsettled Will. He looked down at the paper again. “I think it might prove a challenge even for Ned, if Henslowe still had him.”
“He’d be fine as Achilles.”
“He’d be brilliant as Achilles.” The pen wasn’t flowing well; Will dried the nib and searched out his penknife to recut it. He couldn’t quite forget the stiffness and hesitance in his muscles, but simply being better was such a blessing he couldn’t bear to question it too closely.
“We should give Dian a stronger role. Mayhap an archery contest. Don’t cut yourself, Will.”
“Very funny.” But he looked up and saw Kit’s concern was genuine, and looked down again quickly. “Archery would give us a chance to bring Hercules in earlier, and show him at play with his arrows.”
“Aye. Will.”
The tension in Kit’s voice drew Will’s head up. “We could still do Circe, instead.”
“Nay, Kit answered. There’s a thing that happens here, every seven years. A tithe.”
“The teind. Morgan told me.” No, no mistaking that flicker of Kit’s lashes when Will said Morgan’s name. Nor was there any mistaking the relief on Kit’s face when Will continued. “She said I am a guest, and needn’t worry; hospitality protects me.”
“Then you’ll stay; tis settled.” Kit braided his fingers in his lap for a moment, stood abruptly and began to pace, almost walking into a three-legged stool that Will had absently left out of its place. “We’ll be like Romeo and Mercutio: inseparable. What happens after the archery, Will?”
“Mayhap a philosophical argument. Chiron and Bacchus. We could trade off verses, give each a different voice.”
“And I suppose I am meant to versify Bacchus?”
The sharpness of Kit’s tone halted Will’s bantering retort in his throat. “If you prefer the noble centaur, by all means. Kit, what ails thee?”
Will saw the other man pause before he answered, the moment of contemplation that told him Kit was framing some bit of wit or evasion. But then Kit looked him in the eye and frowned, and said straight out, “I’m jealous.”
“Of Morgan?”