Scene Forty Three
The same small shabby rental room, now made even more crowded by the addition of Will. Mistress Bull -- perceived as no more than a shadow in the darkened hallway -- closes the door behind Will.
Kit half stood, as Will came into the room. He half stood in panic fear, and wished he could yell at Will to run, run and not come back.
Silly, provincial Shakespeare, in his russet suit, with his receding hairline and his face creased and puffy like faces get when people haven’t slept for too long.
God alone knew how Will had got past Mistress Bull, or what he’d told her. Not that he needed to say much. If, in any way, he’d revealed that he knew her to be harboring intelligencers, she’d have brought him here, to let them deal with him.
For any man that discovered that Eleanor Bull’s often served as a safe house for members of the secret service, a place where they could do whatever dirty deeds were called for, aye, any common man possessed of that knowledge was a threat and must be killed.
So Kit stood, and tried to scream at Will to run. Even were this a normal gathering, and the wolf not present, Will would be dead, dead in his entering the room.
But Kit’s mouth, opened, uttered only silence.
He made a keen noise of frustration that called all eyes to him.
“I’ve come to help you,” Will said. He spoke plainly, and looked Kit Marlowe in the eye with a frankness that Kit hadn’t seen, hadn’t hoped to see in oh, so long. “I’ve come to help you, if you but tell me how.”
Poley, and Skeres exchanged looks, and Frizer made a barking laughter deep in his throat.
Kit felt laughter bubble out of his throat, too, the wolf’s howled, bitter laughter. “Oh, you can help me well enough, you sorry puppet. Only lend your throat to my dagger, allow me to drink your life.”
Kit shuddered at the words, and at the thought, at the thought of Will dead.
Provincial and inadequate, Will was, but something good and strong burned in him, something Kit could see all the brighter for it lacking wholly in himself.
And with Will, Quicksilver would die, and Lady Silver who was Kit’s one love -- or if not his true love, the closest thing such a poor show as Kit had ever come to love.
Kit’s heart beat disordered in his chest, as he tried to command his strength to obey him. Him, and not the wolf.
Oh, for some iron to touch, for some iron to plunge into Kit’s own traitorous chest, while yet the wolf remained dazed by his contact with the metal.
With a tremor that shook his whole body, like an ague, an unexpected fever, Kit bit his lower lip, willing pain to allow him self-control.
Though his own lips felt like unwieldy cork, his tongue like wood, he bent them to his wishes. Through the pain and the taste of his own blood, he said, “Go,” to Will, who stood amazed. And then again, “Flee. All is lost.”
But his last words were drowned out by the wolf’s laughter, by the wolf’s power and the wolf’s strength that traveled through Kit’s muscles, reclaiming Kit’s body as his own.
Fully in control, the wolf took Kit’s hand to Kit’s belt, pulling out Kit’s dagger.
Kit fought for control of the arm. Sweat sprang from his forehead stinging into his eyes, as Kit struggled with all his force against his own muscles that moved when he willed them not to.
Yet his arm moved, slowly, slowly, holding the dagger.
With all his force, Kit willed his arm to stay.
Curse it all. He would not do this.
Will Shakespeare, who’d taken a step back at Kit’s warning to flee, stood with his eyes as wide as those of a frightened horse, his face waxy pale. Will put his hand to his dagger. His hand trembled visibly. His gaze riveted itself to Kit’s own hand that fought with the wolf, not to pull Kit’s dagger fully out of its sheath.
Skeres and Poley stepped slyly towards the door, certain that Shakespeare would, of course, try to flee -- something they couldn’t allow, since he knew about this house and had seen them with Kit, whom they had meant to kill.
Shakespeare ignored their sliding steps to the door, and, in fact, seemed not to notice them. His golden falcon eyes remained trained upon Kit, his gaze slowly lifting from the dagger at Kit’s waist to Kit’s own eyes.
“How can I help you, Marlowe?” he asked. “I’m not fleeing. Only tell me how I can help you.” Though his voice shook, his words were resolute, and his gaze met Kit’s with such intensity that Kit felt as though Shakespeare were lending him strength for the fight against the wolf.
Oh, the fool, Kit thought. The sheer provincial fool. Had he then come here to help Kit? Who cared for Kit’s damned soul? Who cared if Kit got killed?
Kit wanted to believe no one did, and yet there was Will, staring at him with unwavering support, with quiet friendship.
Kit had never known anyone to support him who didn’t want something from him in return.
He shook his head, or started to shake it, but the wolf pulled the dagger out farther, and Kit had to concentrate wholly on his arm, on keeping his arm from moving.
He felt a great raging anger against Shakespeare, and, oddly enough, felt his eyes mist with tears.
What was this fool about and why? Why would he try to save Kit? What would that get him, if he did accomplish it?
He’d never had anything from Kit but mocking words and vague, patronizing advice. Did he think he’d get more?
“What do you want?” he managed to ask, though his voice sounded strangled, the wolf attempting to silence him. “What do you want from me?”
Will started. His eyes opened wider, in surprise. It was obvious he’d never thought of wanting anything from Kit. “To help you,” he said. “You... you’re the best poet I know. And we are friends. The tavern....”
Oh, hell. Buy a man a drink and he’ll follow you for the rest of his days? Never had Kit found such easy friendship. And yet, he found tears rolling down his cheeks.
He wanted to shout at Will that he should leave. He wished that he could make Will leave.
Didn’t Will realize that the only way out of this was for Kit to die, taking the wolf with him?
This thought, like a scream, fell upon a dreadful quiet in Kit’s own mind.
It was as if Kit’s divided mind, his tumultuous thoughts, had been a fashionable party, a well-heeled group of convivial lords and ladies, upon which a mad jester had walked, shouting unwelcome truths.
Like the silence that would fall on such a jester’s words, was the silence in Kit’s mind, half outraged affront, half disbelief.
The great resounding hall of his reason stayed mute, while the import of his thought sank in.
The only way to free the world of this wolf was to rid the world of Kit Marlowe.
Only that way could Shakespeare be saved. Only that way could Quicksilver be ransomed. Only that way could the world be set aright. Only that way. No other.
The thought, not new, this time loomed inescapable.
Only Kit’s death could set everything right. Yet, was Kit ready to die? Even to save the world?