Novels of the Promethean Age
Blood and Iron Whiskey and WaterInk and Steel (7/08)Hell and Earth (8/08) 

Principal Players in Ink and Steel
combined with a selection of historical and Literary figures as may be convenient to the reader.
Alleyn, Edward: (Ned) A player. Principal Tragedian of the Lord Admiral sMen. Amaranth: A lamia Arthur: A King of Britain. Mostly dead.Baines, Richard: An intelligencer and PrometheanBassano Lanyer, Aemilia: England s first professional woman poet. Mistress ofHenry Carey. Sadly, not appearing in this book because I did not have roomfor her. Bassano, Augustine: Court musician to Elizabeth, Venetian Jew, father toAemilia, and intimate of Roderigo Lopez. Also not appearing in this volume,but I promise you, he and Aemilia and Roderigo and Alfonso had manyinteresting adventures that Will never found out about. Someday I will writethe Jews of Elizabeth s Court book and you can find out all about it.Bradley, William: Stabbed by Thomas Watson in Bankside. Dead.Brahe, Tycho: An Astronomer Burbage, Cuthbert: Brother to Richard BurbageBurbage, James: Father to Richard Burbage. Owner of the Theatre in Bankside.Burbage, Richard: A player. A Promethean. Principal Tragedian of LordStrange s Men, the Lord Chamberlain s Men, and the King s Men. EventualShareholder at the Globe. Burghley, Baron: (William Cecil) Lord Treasurer. A Promethean. Member of thePrivy Council. Father to Robert Cecil.Cairbre: A bard, the Master Harper of the Daoine SidheCecil, Anne: Wife to Edward De Vere, daughter to William Cecil, sister toRobert Cecil Cecil, Robert: Secretary of State. A Promethean. Member of the Privy Council.Later, the Earl of Salisbury.Catesby, Robert: A Catholic recusant Chapman, George: a playmaker and poetCobham: Briefly, Lord ChamberlainCoquo, Oratio: Edward de Vere s catamite, a former choirboy. I am not makingthat up.Corinna: The love object in Ovid s fifth elegy, and a character in
Tamburlaine 
Davenant, Jenet Shepherd and John: Innkeepers along the road to StratfordDee, Doctor John: An astrologerDrake, Sir Francis: A privateerEde, Richard: A keeper at the Marshalsea prisonEdward: A player. A member of the company of Lord Strange s Men.Essex, Earl of: (Robert Devereaux) A PrometheanFaustus: A Scholar Fawkes, Guido: A Catholic recusant Findabair: A princess of Faerie. Dead.Fletcher, John: A vile playmakerForman, Simon: A physician of sortsFrazier, Ingrim: A servant to Thomas WalsinghamGanymede: Jove s cupbearer. Euphemistically speaking, a term for a catamite.A gardenerGardner, William: Justice of the Peace for Southwark Gaveston, Sir Piers: Leman to Edward II, formerly King of EnglandGeoffrey: A Faerie, with the head of a stagGreen, Robert: A vile playmaker and pamphleteerHenslowe, Philip: Owner of the Swan Theatre Holinshed: A historian, of sortsHunsdon, Lord: (George Carey) Lord Chamberlain. A Promethean. Member of thePrivy Council. 
Hunsdon, Lord: (Henry Carey) Lord Chamberlain. A Promethean. Member of thePrivy Council. Father to George Carey.John: A carriagemanJonson, Ben: A vile playmaker, son of a bricklayer, educated at Westminster.Formerly a soldier in the low countries.Kemp, Will: A player. Clown for the Lord Chamberlain s MenKyd, Thomas: A vile playmakerLangley, Francis: A moneylenderLanyer, Alfonso: A court musician, and husband to Aemilia Bassano. Sadly,also not appearing in this volume.Lavinia: A victim of rape and dismemberment in Titus AndronicusLopez, Doctor Roderigo: A Promethean. Queen s Physician and Ambassador fromAntonio, pretender to the throne of Portugal. Of Jewish descent.Lucifer Morningstar: An Angel, once, and most dearly loved of God. Gave NedAlleyn rather a bad turn, on one occasion.A mare Marley, Christofer: (Kit; Christopher Marlowe; Sir Christofer) A Promethean.The dead shepherd. A playmaker and intelligencer. Dead (to begin with).Marley, John: Father to Christofer Marley, a Master Cobbler of CanterburyMarley, Tom: Brother to Christofer MarleyMathews, Mistress: Landlord of the Groaning SergeantMebd, the: A Queen of FaerieMehiel: An Angel of the LordMephostophilis: A demon of Hell Merlin: A legendary bardMonteagle, Baron: William Parker, a cousin of William ShakespeareMorgan le Fey: The half sister to Arthur, King of England. The Queen of Airand Darkness. And, formerly, Cornwall and/or Gore.Murchaud: Morgan s son, a Prince of FaerieNashe, Tom: A vile playmakerNorthampton, Earl of: A friend to Sir Walter RaleighNottingham, Earl of: The Lord Admiral, a patron of players.Orpheus: A legendary musician who sought to rescue his love from HellOxford, Seventeenth Earl of: (Edward de Vere) A Promethean, alleging himselfa poetde Parma, Fray Xalbadore: A Promethean. An Inquisitor.Plantagenet, Edward: (Edward II of England) A historic king, the titlecharacter of Edward II by Christopher MarlowePeaseblossom: A Faerie Poley, Mary: Sister to Thomas Watson, estranged wife to Robert Poley, motherof Robin PoleyPoley, Robin: Son of Mary PoleyPoley, Robert: A Promethean. A moneylender and intelligencer. Eventually, aYeoman Warder of the Tower. Raleigh, Sir Walter: A sea captain, sympathetic to the PrometheansA lame raven Robin Goodfellow (aka Puck): A Faerie Rosalind, also Ganymede: The heroine of As You Like It Sackerson: A bear. Shakespeare, Anne: (Annie) Wife to William ShakespeareShakespeare, Edmund: Brother to William ShakespeareShakespeare, Gilbert: Brother to William ShakespeareShakespeare, Hamnet: Son to William ShakespeareShakespeare, Joan: (Joan Hart) Sister to William ShakespeareShakespeare, John: Father to William Shakespeare. A glover ofStratford-upon-Avon.Shakespeare, Judith: Daughter to William ShakespeareShakespeare, Mary: Mother to William ShakespeareShakespeare, Richard: Brother to William Shakespeare 
Shakespeare, Susanna: Daughter to William ShakespeareShakespeare, William: A vile playmaker. Principal player of Lord Strange sMen, the Lord Chamberlain s Men, and the King s Men. Eventual Shareholder atthe Globe. Sidney, Sir Philip: A respected poet. Husband to Frances Walsingham. Dead.Skeres, Nicholas: An intelligencerSly, Will: A principal player with the Lord Chamberlain s MenA sorrel geldingSouthampton, Earl of: (Henry Wriothesly) Patron to William Shakespeare,Promethean Spencer, Gabriel: A playerSpenser, Edmund: A respected poetStrange, Lord: (Ferdinando Stanley) A Promethean, and patron to playersStuart, James: (James VI, James I): King of Scotland and eventually EnglandStuart, Mary: (Mary, Queen of Scots) Mother to James VI of Scotland. Dead.Stubbs, Philip: A Puritan, dismembered for treasonous writingsTaliesin: A legendary bardTam Lin: A legendary nobleman kidnapped by FaeriesThomas the Rhymer: A legendary bardTopcliffe: The Queen s torturerTresham, Francis: A Catholic recusant A troll Tudor, Elizabeth: (Elizabeth I, Bess, Gloriana) The Queen of England, orperhaps Pretender to its throneTudor, Henry: (Henry VIII of England, Great Harry) Deadde Vere, Elizabeth: Daughter of the seventeenth Earl of OxfordWade, William: The Queen s other torturer, clerk of the Privy CouncilWalsingham, Etheldreda (Audrey): Wife to Thomas Walsingham, Frances: (Frances Sidney, Frances Devereaux) Daughter to SirFrancis, widow of Sir Philip Sidney, wife of the Earl of EssexWalsingham, Sir Francis: A Promethean. Spymaster to the Queen. Formerly, herSecretary of State.Walsingham, Thomas: Cousin to Sir Francis, Patron to Christofer MarleyWatson, Thomas: A poet and intelligencer. A Promethean. Dead.
Divers demons, ifriti, faeries, prentices, goodwives, publicans, recusants,damned souls etc as required. 
And since we all have suck d one wholesome air,And with the same proportion of ElementsResolve, I hope we are resembled,Vowing our loves to equal death and life.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Tamburlaine the Great, Part 1, Act II, scene vi 
Prologue
And since my mind, my wit, my head, my voice and tongue are weak,To utter, move, devise, conceive, sound forth, declare and speak,Such piercing plaints as answer might, or would my woeful case,Help crave I must, and crave I will, with tears upon my face,Of all that may in heaven or hell, in earth or air be found,To wail with me this Loss of mine, as of these griefs the ground.
EDWARD DE VERE, 17TH EARL OF OXFORD, Loss of Good Name Christofer Marley died as he was born: on the bank of a river, within thesound and stench of slaughterhouses. The news reached London before the redsun ebbed, while alleys fell into straitened darkness under rooftops stillstained bright.It was a bloody end to the penultimate day of May, in the thirty-fifth yearof the reign of the excommunicate Elizabeth.The nave of the Queen s chapel at Westminster lay shadowed when, at thesecluded entrance of a secret room, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford hesitated.Edward de Vere pushed his hood back from fine hair and wiped one ringed handacross his mouth. The panel slid open at his touch, releasing the redolenceof oil. The sputter of candles along the walls reassured him that he was notthe first. Four men waited within the stifling chamber.
Marley is dead in Deptford. Oxford tossed the words on the table like a poacher s take. Stabbed above the eye by your cousin s man, Sir Francis. Andwe are lost with him: have you so thoughtlessly betrayed your Sovereign?Marley dead? Sir Francis Walsingham s chair skittered on stone asElizabeth s hollow-cheeked spymaster lurched upright.Seated beside Walsingham was Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon the Lord Chamberlain who blanched white enough that it showed in uncertaincandlelight. Beyond him was the Queen s physician and Walsingham s DoctorRodrigo Lopez. A final man stood by the wall round, short, but of undeniablepresence: the player Richard Burbage, famous already at twenty-six.
Not on my orders, Walsingham said. Is t certain? We are undone. Oxford pulled a chair forth from the table and sat heavily,a dark metal ring on his thumb clicking. The magic we can perhaps managethat without Kit. I taught him what he knew, and it was not all I learned atDee s left hand. Oxford concealed a tight smile; that learning ranged fromthe science of astrology to the arts of summoning succubae.Lopez, a swarthy Portugall and well-known a Jew, whatever his protests ofconversion, leaned forward over folded hands. He stared at Walsingham withsignificance and said, This is not the first attempt on one of our numberOur aims may have diverged, Walsingham answered, but the others have not forgotten our names.And there s plague in the city, Lopez said. Think you tis unrelated to those other Prometheans? Can you discern a native plague from a conjured one, Physician?Some would argue there are no native plagues, but only devil s workOxford cleared his throat and his memories. But with Marley, we lose theLord Admiral s Men, leaving us without a companyThere is my company, Burbage put in, but Oxford s voice rose over theplayer s effortlessly.
and without a playmaker under whose name to perform our works. Never mindKit s ear for a verse. Walsingham extended a long, knotty hand, bony wrist protruding from dustyvelvet, skin translucent as silk over gnarled blue veins. Oxford But Oxford shook his head. I have not Kit s grasp on an audience, SirFrancis. Hunsdon s hands lay flat on the scarred tabletop. He closed his eyes. It risks Elizabeth. Walsingham s chin jerked sharply. We ll find another way. 
He stared down at his hands until his attention was drawn outward again whenBurbage coughed.What is it, then?Burbage drew himself up. I know a man. 
Act I, scene i
O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away theirbrains! WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Othello Will". "What? The leather-bound planken door swung open; the playmaker lifted hishead from the cradle of his fingers. He cursed as the hastily cut quillsnagged lank strands, spattering brown-black irongall across his hand, hiscuff, and the scribbled page. Richard, you come hand in hand with fortunetonight. You did perchance bring wine?
No such luck. Burbage shut the door, then hooked a battered stool frombeside Will s unmade bedstead with one booted toe and perched without waitingto be asked. He grunted as he leaned forward, elbow on knee, and tugged hisdoublet straight. Tis early for wine, and I m in no mood for a publichouse and ale with my bread. So he thumped a pottery bottle on thetrestle it ll have to be spirits.
Morning? Will set down the handkerchief with which he d been dabbing hissleeve and looked up at a shuttered window. Beside his elbow, a fat candleguttered, and his commonplace book was propped open before it.Morning. You ve worked the night through. And your chamber-mate . . . . . . won t be returning.
Will shrugged. He hadn t noticed the hour, though the absence weighed on him.Or not the absence Kit was often at the beck of patrons or conquests but theirrevocability of it.Burbage accepted his silence. Have you cups?Will stood and moved to a livery cupboard, patched shoe scuffing roughboards. What ails you, friend? He turned with two leather tankards in his hand and came around the front of the table. Burbage dragged the cork from the bottle with his thumbs and poured. To Kit. Will lifted the second cup and held it, wincing, below his nose. To Kit. He closed his eyes on an image of a man smug as a preening cat and soaked in hisown red blood. Will drank, leaning a hip against the table as if it were toomuch effort to reclaim his chair. You ll have heard the rumors he was working for the Papists, or the Crown.
I would not hazard myself to hazard a guess, Burbage replied, hooking abootheel over a rung. It s noised about that it was a drunken brawl, andKit s been in his cups of late, as poets sometimes go when they ve had alittle triumph. . . . Jokingly, he reached as if to pull the tankard fromWill s hand, and Will shielded it deftly. But, Burbage continued, Kyd gaveevidence against him, and Kit was still at liberty, as Kit seemed to stay nomatter the charge levied against him. So there s something there. What s themanuscript?
Titus Andronicus. Still? The plague will have us closed into winter, Will. It s five thousanddead already. And Titus a terrible story. We need comedy, not blood. If weever see a stage again.It s not the story, Will answered. Burbage was a shareholder in thetroupe Lord Strange s Men and as such he was half Will s employer. The brandytingled on the back of Will s throat and his tongue felt thick. Still, hereckoned even harsh spirits a more welcome mouthful than blood. Kit killed. Would he risk everything . . . ? But Kit had been rash. And brilliant, andoutrageous, and flamboyant. And young. Two months older than Will, who wasjust barely twenty-nine. He sipped again. They can t all be genius.Burbage laughed and tipped his mug. Did you ever pause to wonder why not?Oh, the brandy was making Will honest. Heady stuff, he commented. If myskill were equal mine ambition, Richard Will shook his head. What will we do for money if the playhouses can t open? How long will Lord Strangechampion players who cannot play? Anne and my children must eat. He d picked 
up the quill. He turned it over, admiring the way candlelight caught in itsink-spotted vanes.Burbage waved the bottle between his nose and the pen. Have another drink,Will. 
I ve a play to writeWhich opens tomorrow, doubtless? And poor Kit undeserving of a wake?Unfair! But Will lifted the tankard and breathed the smoky fumes deep,feeling as though they seared his brain. Poor Kit. . . . Indeed. Would serve your Queen so, Will?Serve her to the death? That brought him up short. Is that what poorMarley did? Not stabbed for treason, or murdered by his conspirators beforehe could name their names. Nor killed for his Will lowered his voice atheism, and the talk of . . . He drank again, but held his hand overhis cup when Burbage would have filled it. I can t write. Drink will fix it. Will did not uncover his tankard. Drink fixes little, and what it doth fixcan oft be not unfixed again.Ah. Burbage shifted his attention to his own cup as Will stood and paced.In vino veritas. Is a Queen worth risking your life for, Will?Why ask you these things of me? Splinters curled from the wainscot shelf.Years of dry heat and creeping chill had cracked the wood long and deepbetween cheap plaster. Will picked spindled wood with one inkstainedfingernail. He d papered the walls with broadsheets, which also peeled. A Queen. The idea of a Queen. . . .The reality not worth your time? Burbage leaned on the wall, brandy-sharpbreath hot on Will s cheek. He thrust Will s cup into his hand; Will took itby reflex. It s her got Kit killed, isn t it? Blood and a knife in the face.That s what Queens get you.Treason, Will whispered. Burbage s face was flushed, his cheeks hot,red-blond hair straggled down in his too-bright eyes. Like a man fevered.Like a man mad. You speak treason.His hands were numb. The tankard slipped out of his fingers, and the brandymade a stream that glistened in the candlelight like liquid amber as it fell.The stink filled his room, sharp as the bile rising up Will s throat. That s treason, man!Treason or truth? A ragged old slattern, belike. Bastard, excommunicatedaughter of a fat pig of a glutton, a man who might have invented lust andgreed he liked them so wellWill s hand acted before his mind got behind it; he struck Burbage across theface, a spinning slack-handed blow. Drunker than he d thought, heoverreached; the fallen tankard dented under his knee as he landed on it.Fie! Brandy soaked his stocking. At least he thought it brandy, and notblood. Get from me! Will pointed at the door with a trembling hand, thoughthe player towered over him. I ll find another company an those are yoursentiments! But Burbage, pink-cheeked from the blow, extended his own hand to help Willto his feet. Will could only stare at it. Your eloquence does desert youwhen you re drunk enough. On your feet, man. You ve passed the test.Test? Will wobbled up, one hand on the wall, refusing Burbage s aid.You ve maligned the Queen.Burbage winked stagily, while Will limped to his abandoned stool. Her Majesty would smile on it. Come.I ll go nowhere with you until you make yourself plain. A burning stingtold Will the brandy had found a cut under his stocking. You ve bloodied me. I ll pay the danegeld, Burbage answered. I can t tell you, Will. You haveto come meet them. Who? Blood soaked through light-colored wool, but only a drop. Will wincedand picked cloth away from the cut. 
Your coconspirators.Will looked up as Burbage rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. Didst not hear me sayI heard thee clear, Burbage answered. Since thou rt so loyal then, come onwith me and find why Marley was killed. The rumors are true, Will: he was aQueen s Man, sure.Will blinked. His skull was still thick with drink, though the pain cutthrough it somewhat. What do you need me for?Burbage smiled, and Will thought he saw the edge of pity in it. Will. To take his place.Will followed Burbage into a cool, overcast morning. The gutters hadn t yetbegun to stink, but Burbage picked his way fastidiously, one arm linkedthrough Will s to steer the still-unsteady playmaker across a maze of slickcobbles and night soil. Why not go home to Stratford-upon-Avon? he asked.
 Go back to merchanting. Look at this place: half the shops shuttered, theplayhouses closed.I m a player. And a playmaker. Besides They passed a hurrying woman inrusset homespun, her skirts kilted up and a basket over her arm. She clutcheda clove-studded lemon to her nose, and Burbage snorted as she shied away fromthem. I have a wife and children in Stratford. A player? Might as well be a leper, for all the respect they give us,Burbage pointed out companionably, turning to watch the servant or goodwifepass. Her shoulders stiffened and she walked faster. Burbage looked down andgrinned, then tilted his face up at Will.I d die there. Suffocate under dry goods.You ll suffocate under vermin here. Burbage tugged him out of the path of atrio of rangy yellow and fawn dogs in low-tailed pursuit of a sleek,scurrying rat. If the money concerns you, go home.I need this, Richard. Your father s a playhouse owner. You ve grown up withit. For me It s worth abandoning wealth and family?I support them, Will answered, ignoring the twist of guilt his friend swords brought. Slops spattered down behind them, and Will stepped into theshelter of an overhang, Burbage following with an arm still linked. I ll bring them to London once I make a success.Bring them to this? Burbage dropped Will s arm, his gesture expansive. Willadmired how Burbage framed himself against the darkness of a brown-painteddoor in a pale facade, sweeping his arm up beside his hat, every inch theunconscious professional. Will shook his head. Burbage was younger. Younger,but raised to the theatre and knowing in his bones things Will struggled tolearn. Keep them home, Will. Away from the plague and the filth. I d go backto Stratford myself, if I could.I cannot see you without London as a backdrop. As I cannot see myself on anyother stage. And I need to write, Richard. The stories press me.Then you re stuck. Burbage led him out of the narrower streets ofSouthwark, toward a more open lane where a few trees straggled betweenmassive houses. Will blinked as sunlight abraded his eyes.Well and truly. Where are you taking me?To solve all your small problems and grant you large ones. Burbage produceda heavy key and unlocked a round-topped wooden gate in the garden wall of amortared brick dwelling.Will glimpsed green leaves and blossoms beyond; a sweet scent put him in mindof a haymow. This is Francis Langley s house. The owner of the Swan. Themoneylender.Burbage ignored the comment, holding the gate to let Will pass. You ll need to find a way to make it appear that the money comes from legitimate sources,and not be seen to be wealthier than the run of playmakers, at least here inLondon. Can your Annie run a business as well as a household? 
Money? My Annie can run my Lords! The grass was wet with nighttime rainunder his knee as his bow turned into a stagger and he swept his hat from hishead. Will put a hand down and tried to make it look intentional. Burbagelaughed behind him as he closed and locked the gate.
Oh, that was unkind of me, Will, Burbage said as a heavy hand fell onWill s shoulder. Will angled his head. The hand wasn t Burbage s. Neither was the followingvoice. On your feet, William Shakespeare: we speak as the Knights of theRound Table here. In defense of their Sovereign, all men are equal. Andthat s a little excessive even if we weren t. 
My lord. But Will got to his feet and looked into the downturned eyes ofEdward de Vere. Over his left shoulder, William Cecil, the Baron Burghley andthe Lord Treasurer, bulked large in embroidered brocade, side by side withthe Lord Chamberlain, Lord Hunsdon. Doctor Lopez, the Queen s Physician,loomed sallow and cadaverous a little behind them. And Sir Francis Walsingham stood narrow and ascetic on the right, leaning againstthe wall among the espaliered branches of a fruit tree. Heavy dark sleevesdripped from bony wrists; he tossed a lemon idly in one hand.Will s jaw slackened, words tumbling from his tongue as he rose to his feet,looked to Burbage for reassurance. A ghost
Merely, the Queen s dead spymaster and Secretary of State replied, wrysympathy informing his tone, a startling resemblance to one, Master WilliamShakespeare. I m both Walsingham and quick, I assure you. And lucky to be.I ve been in hiding these three years past, that my Queen s enemies may thinkthey succeeded in removing me. But Lopez here preserved my life.The doctor bowed, a heavy ruby ring glinting on his hand, while Walsinghamdrew a breath. Before Will could speak, the spymaster made a shift ofdirection quick and forked as lightning. You know that Marley studied withJohn Dee, the astronomer.
There are rumors. There frequently are. Oxford stepped away as Walsingham came closer.Burghley, a massive shape in rustling brocade, folded his hands before hisample belly. Will felt their eyes running questions up and down his frame.The rumors are true. Marley was well, no magician. But a playmaker with anart for it, and a loyalty to Britannia.I had heard he was associated with the Catholics Where a man goes, and what a man seems to do, are not always the truestindications of a man s loyalties.You want an apologist, Will said on a rush of breath he hadn t known he held. I can do that, in service to Gloriana.Ah, Burghley answered. Would it were so meet and simple. Aye, that s halfwhat we need of you. The other half is a sort of science, or philosophyWill saw the deaf old man s eyes trained on his lips as he waited for Will toanswer. Black Art? You can t be seriously . . . My Lord Treasurer, Will finished,suddenly aware that the nobleman was eyeing him quite seriously indeed, asmall smile rounding Burghley s cheeks under the white carpet of his beard.Will raised a hand to press to his breast, realized his action halfcompleted, and let the hand fall again.Oh, I can, Burghley responded. And not Black at all. Just the gentle artof persuasion, my shake-spear.A sharp scent of citron filled the walled garden, a drift of coolnessbrushing Will s hand. Citrus oil: Walsingham had driven a thumbnail sharp asa knife into the rind of the lemon. He tugged, revealing white pith andbright pulp. The pearls of oil in the rind burst and misted, hanging on thesoft moist air. Like persuading lemons to fruit in May, Walsingham said,offering half the rent fruit to Will.Will took it numbly. The skin was still warm with the touch of Walsingham shand, and Will followed the gesture of that hand toward the espaliered tree. 
He blinked. Lemons hung along one branch in late-summer profusion, olives on another. Thethird grew heavy with limes. Just an art, Walsingham said. Like graftingand gardening. In London, you can make surprising things grow.
You want me to hide spells in my plays? As Marley is said to have done inFaustus? We want you to change hearts and raise the rabble to the old tales of kingsand princes and ladies fair. To show the danger of damn d ambition, and thevirtue of keeping one s troth. As Kit did.I cannot write as Kit did. You will, Lord Hunsdon promised. You ve a gift in you, man in your Comedyof Errors, and your Henry VI. You ll write as Kit did, and better.And wind up like Kit as well, no doubt, with a knife in the eye. Henry washalf Marley s, Will thought, but didn t correct the Lord Chamberlain. Juicedripped over Will s hand, but Will did not raise the fruit to his mouth.There is that risk, Oxford allowed. A light wind ruffled his fine hair asthe day brightened and warmed. A dove greeted the sunlight with cooing, andstarlings fluttered on the grass.We have enemies. Lopez s accent was less than Will had imagined. He tuckedhis hands inside the drooping sleeves of his black robe, posture imperious,expression cold. Mistake it not. Our society was quite infested by traitors,loyal to Spanish Philip or to themselves. We ve picked them from the ranks,but Kit is not the first of our number to fall to their machinations. Perhaps it was the chill in Lopez s manner, the dismissal. But Will ralliedagainst it, when he might have bent under greater sympathy. It s whisperedin the kitchens, Doctor, that your swarthy hand was behind the poisoning ofWalsingham.Aye, said Lopez. And who spreads the whispers, playmender?Will, Burbage whispered.Won t. Burbage took a step back. Will felt six men lean toward him. Won t wind uplike Kit, he amended. I mean to die in mine own bed, warm and comforted.There s no way out of this once I ve accepted, is there?There s no way out of it now, Walsingham said kindly. I won t lie to you:we stand only for Elizabeth, and nothing else. No Church or love of God orman may come between us and the love of our Queen. Our enemies stand againstus with weapons fouler than a knife in the eye.What? Cannon? Sedition? Gunpowder?Plague, Hunsdon answered. Poison. Sorcery. Politics. The wiles of men whoshould be removed from secular things; the Catholic and Puritan factions whoplot against the Queen are their dupes.Puritans and Sorcery? Odd bedmates indeed.I ve seen odder, Walsingham replied, a shadow darkening his brow. They arepuppeted by shadowy hands. Including, it seems, hands I have trusted in thepast. Walsingham s gaze dropped to the lemon in his hand. He raised it tohis mouth, lips pursing tight when he tasted the juice.Will contemplated his own half fruit. And all I must do is write plays?All you must do, Burbage answered when no one else would, is write plays.And love Gloriana. Welcome to the Prometheus Club, Master Shakespeare.Long live the Queen. When he bit down, Will tasted shocking sour andbitterness, and the salt of Walsingham s hand. 
Act I, scene ii
Hell hath no Limits, nor is circumscribedIn one self place. But where we are is hell,And where hell is there must we ever be. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Faustus Kit awoke in darkness, confirming his suspicions. Secretly relieved not tofind himself in a lake of fire, he would never have admitted it to atheologian.It was dark, aye, and the right side of his face felt
Tom. Tom, how could you have betrayed me?
Oh. Oh, he said and tried to sit. Nausea and vertigo swept him supineagain. He groaned; cool hands pressed a cloth across his eyes. Long hands andcalloused with work, but tapered: a woman s, redolent of rare herbs androses.
 In faith, Rosemary, he said, so he would not hiss in pain. I hope I m notdead. I thought death was meant to be an end to worldly cares, and here Ifind rather less release than might be hoped from a knife in the eye. Tell methen, be I dead, or in Cheapside?
Neither dead nor in Cheapside, sir knight, an amused voice answered. And you ll find the legend of your wit precedes you. Drink, if you ll risk it.The cool fingers touched his lips, and water dripped into his mouth. Water?No, some tisane, sweet with honey and tart with lemons. Rosehips and catmint.
Better? No knight, he answered. But a playmaker. Yes, better by far than the tasteof my oversleeping. Was I fevered? He put a hand up to cover hers, but histrembled and hers was strong.Bards are honored as much as knights here, she answered. And you re aQueen s Man, which makes you more a servant of the crown than many entitledto a Sir. You are lucky to be alive.That did open his eyes his eye, as the right one seemed swollen shut. Heremembered a knife in the hand of his master s man Poultice or no, he sat,pulling the wet cloth aside. His ring was missing, the gold-and-iron ringEdward had given him. Where did you hear such deviltry, woman?She was tall. Hair black and coarse as wire, gray at the temples, strong andfine of feature with an aristocratic nose. If she d not had her hair twisted into a simple straight braid and been dressed in gray-green linsey-woolsey,he might have said she was like enough his Queen to be Elizabeth s owncousin.
 From Gloriana, she replied, straightening her spine like a Queen herself.And before you ask why you live, Kit Marley, Queen s Man call it a favor from one Queen to another.She plucked the cloth from his hand, and he winced to realize that it wasdaubed with clotted blood and a few red streaks that were fresher. And that he was shirtless as well, and the skin of his chest was damp. His headpounded at the assault of the light. Kit decided he d as well err on the sideof caution. Beg pardon, my ladyHead wounds are bloody, she said, turning away. Art pardoned. What?Your name, that I may repay this service?She stopped with a fresh soaked cloth in her hand. And smiled. May a manserve two Queens?He opened his mouth to answer, but she waved him still. You d know me as Fata Morgana. She held out her cloth. He took it, and she turned away again.But you may call me Morgan. Welcome to the Bless d Isle, Christofer Marley,like many a bard stolen before you.He blinked, and his head felt so much better for closed eyes that he keptthem that way. You speak a fair modern tongue for a wench a thousand yearsdead. One strives to be current. Her hands on his again, and a smell of wine asshe pressed a goblet on him. Drink. 
And have you drug me?
Would have done it with the tisane, Sir Kit, had I mind.
Again you sir me, Rosemary. Or is your name Rue? he said, but he drank. Itwas black currant wine, or perhaps elderberry: sweeter than the grape, andmore potent. He tasted herbs in it, and sandalwood and myrrh. Yppocras.
To strengthen your blood. You were hurt. Stabbed and left for dead. Andburied without a wake. 
How badly? He opened his left eye. May I see a glass?The chamber was homely, despite rich furnishings that did not match theplainness of her gown or hairdressing. He judged it hers, though, by thedress laid across the clothespress and the comfortable way she moved about,barefoot over golden flagstones and heavy patterned carpets in place ofrushes an enormous luxury. A cool breeze blew in, the shutters standing opento the night. It did not feel like May. We ve no steel, she answered. But here. From her belt she drew a silver blade, a dagger twice the length of his hand,polished like a looking glass. She held it up; he tilted his head to get thelamplight at a likely angle.The right side of his face was seamed with dried blood, for all the lady sbathing, and as ugly a cut as he d seen laid bone plain from brow to acheekbone almost lost in a welter of puffed flesh and purpling bruises.
Sblood, I can see why they left me for dead. He frowned when she flinched at the oath. Pardon, my lady. She might be mad, but she had been kind.It s not the cursing. It s the oath.Your pardon in any matter, he answered as prettily as he could. For if I have your pardon, it cannot matter what fault enjoined it, and if I have notyour pardon, then I shall have to facet my flaws to the light until you findone that sparkles prettily enough for forgiving.She snorted. Not a knight indeed. Ferret-quick, she lifted the poignard inher hand. Before he could flinch, she slapped him hard with the flat on eachshoulder, numbing his left arm from shoulder to wrist. There. That s done it. I dub you Sir Christofer. I d make you a Knight of the Table Round, butif my brother ever wakes I d hear of it. So you ll have to settle forCornwall and Orkney and Gore. Twill serve? She studied his face intently,birdlike. Twill serve. He made as if to stand, sliding his legs over the edge of her bed. She d lefthis breeches where they belonged, at least, but her frank appraisal as shedrew the curtain aside pulled a blush across his cheeks and made his swollenface ache. With a smile Like that, were I Less hurt, I d try my Luck withher. No blushing maiden, this. My lady
It will scar, she replied, as if he d asked the whole question. And badly.But a Queen s Man s the better for a few of those, earned with honor.He flinched again. So much for any secrecy I might have been Left. But Ican t fault her herbwifery. And at Least she hasn t mentioned blasphemy. Orsedition. Or sodomy.He wondered if she might be one of Queen Elizabeth s rumored bastards. Thelonger he looked, the stronger the likeness grew. Will I keep the eye?
No, she said flatly. Not a chance. You could let it scar closed, butthere s less chance it will take a taint and kill you if you wash with cleanboiled water and let it drain. 
Oh. He sat back against the bed, his bare feet flat on her carpeted floor.
Sir Kit One-eye. She spiked him a frown, and he grinned in return, althoughit stung. Oh, Tom. After everything It was an ache in his chest as if cold fingers closed over his heart, stopped his breath. He laughed past it. Could have been Kit-in-his-Coffin, though.
By the breadth of a finger. Finish your wine. When you re dressed, if youcan walk, you ll see the Queen.The Queen, he thought, and breathed out in relief as he raised the cup. 
Morgan showed him a white-painted wooden tub behind a screen, with flannelsand cakes of scented soap attending steaming water. The screen was a delicatelacework of pale stone. Soapstone, she said when she saw him runningcurious fingers over it. From the Orient. You have clever hands, SirChristofer. She caught one and studied it, then lifted direct gray eyes.
How many have you killed with them?Despite the silver in her hair, her face was no older than his; her thumbtraced circles on his palm. Every sentence from her lips was a fresh assaulton his practiced masks, and he swayed between stepping forward and steppingback. More than I wanted. His plain tone was its own surprise. Fewer than I should. I must get a message to Walsingham.She touched his face lightly before letting her hand trail across hiscollarbone and the bruise her dagger had left. Your murderers know not that the corpse they planted was but glamourie, and gone by sunrise of the dayfollowing and in a year, who could find the grave? They buried you in awinding sheet, without a marking stone. They said you died blaspheming. Notthe first knight to fall so.
I did? I remember Ingrim, the great oaf, slinging me about by a hand in myhair, and with a dagger in his other. And Poley and Skeres Held me down. There were other memories in that, old ones Kit wanted not, though they cameup anyway on a spasm like bating wings. Then pain, and great blackness.Blaspheming? No truth in the accusation, but vilest contumely! I do attractit: my wit and good looks. He touched his ruined face lightly, came awaywith gummy blood on his fingertips. Can you get a message to Walsingham?
Twas Walsingham s men did this to you.Kit shook his head and regretted it. Sir Francis, not that book-chewing ratof a Thomas, who had the gall to call himself a friend to me. He wondered if she could hear the grief in his tone. From the way her head cocked, birdlike,she did. I must advise Sir Francis that I live. Sensation was returning tothe right side of his face. It would have hurt less if it had been carvedclean away.
He s dead himself, Kit. Hast the blow to thy head addled thee? Gone from thyQueen s service these five years, and gone to his reward these three. HoweverQueen s spymasters are rewarded. Unjustly, if earth models heaven. She stepped away, leaving his flesh burning where her hand had pressed it.So she doesn t know all my secrets. Lacrima Christi. He let his breath trickle out, relieved and enflamed. The Privy Council, the Queen must haveinterceded, to bring me here and under care.At Least I ve the proof I give good service.
Morgan s black braid flagged against her shoulder like a banner. You ll want to scrub that wound with soap once you re in the water.Is that wise? Her hem whispered over stone as she vanished around the screen. It s all that could save you. If the wound goes bad so close to the brain well, it snot as if we can amputate. Soap will cleanse the wound.And hurt. Not so much as when I sew and poultice it. As I ll have to if you want aneat, straight scar and not a mess of proud flesh. He winced at the thought,then unlaced his breeches and tested the water on his wrist. Do you care for a man in an eyepatch, my lady? No answer, but he thought heheard a chuckle. The water came to his chin and was hot enough to make hisheart pound once he settled in. A deep ache spread across his back, thighs,and shoulders as tight muscles considered relaxation. He leaned against thecarved headboard and stretched his toes to meet the foot. Scrub, she reminded. He sighed and picked up the soap.When he was half dressed again, she washed the cut with liquor until white,clean pain streamed tears down his face. But it throbbed less after, and hishead felt cooler. The stitching was worse, for all she fed him brandy before.The needle scraped bone as she tugged his scalp together and sewed it tight; 
he whined like a kicked pup before she finished.Brave Sir Kit, she whispered when she d tied the final knot. He leanedspent against a bedpost. Braver than Lance was over his wounds, when Idressed them. He spat and swatted like a cat. She gave him more brandy andbound a poultice across the right side of his face. When he set the cup asideshe leaned down and licked the last sweet drop from the corner of his mouth.He startled, gasping, but regretted it when she leaned back, eyes narrowed atthe corners with her smile. My lady, I am not at my best. And then he worried at the knot in his gut, the fascination with which he followed her.
This is not Like me. Anything to think of, but Tom.
Welcome to Hy Br sil, poet. She balled up the cream silk hanging on thepale oaken bedpost and threw it against his chest. Put your shirt anddoublet on. It pleases the Queen to greet you.He dressed in haste: the shirt was finer stuff than he d worn, and the darkvelvet doublet stitched with black pearls and pale threads of gold, sleevesslashed with silk the color of blued steel. What royal palace is this? he asked as she helped him button the fourteen pearls at each wrist.
The Queen s.They re all the Queen s. Westminster or Hampton Court? Whitehall?Placentia? He scrubbed golden flagstones with a toe and noticed that someonehad polished his riding boots until they shone like his shirt. The pressureof bandages across his face calmed the pain; he hazarded a smile.Call it Underhill. She tugged his collar straight. Or Oversea, and youwon t be far wrong. Names aren t much matter, unless they re the right name.There. She stepped back to admire her work. Fair. Art my mirror, then?The only mirror you ll get but a blade. She d changed her dress while hewas bathing and wore gray moir : no less plain than the green dress, but offiner stuff and stitched with a tight small hand. Slippers of white furpeeked under the hem, and he stole a second glance to be sure.Ermine. He was glad he hadn t taken advantage of what the mad-woman offered,and resolved not to absentmindedly thee her again. Her Majesty does mehonor. Morgan offered him her arm. He held the door open as she gathered her skirts.She has an eye for a well-turned calf.I ve an eye as well, Kit admitted. Only one anymore, alas. But it servesto notice a fair turn of ankle still His voice faltered as they camethrough the doorway. His knees and his bowels went to water, as they hadn twhen Morgan showed him the gaping wound across his face. As they hadn t whenshe kissed his mouth. The door opened on a narrow railed walkway over a gallery that yearnedheavenward like the vault of a church. The whole structure was translucent golden stone, carved in arches airier than any gothic-work, the strutsblending overhead like twining branches. Between those branches sparkled thelargest panes of glass he d seen. Beyond the glass roof, through it, shone afull moon attended by her company of stars. People moved in eddies on thestone-tiled floor several lofty stories below; they passed through a guarded,carven double door two stories from threshold to lintel. Even from this vantage Kit could see not all were human. Their wings and tails and hornswere not the artifice of a masque.He licked his lips and tasted herbs and brandy, and a kiss.
Fairy wine, he said, half-breathless with awe and loss and betrayal. I drank fairy wine. I cannot leave.Morgan le Fey stepped closer on his blind side, resting her strong hand inthe curve of his elbow. I warned you about the tisane. And as long as you retricked already, we may as well see this ended so we can get dinner. Comealong, poet. Your new Queen waits. 
Act I, scene iii
Touchstone: When a man s verses cannot be understood, nor a man s good witseconded with the forward child Understanding, it strikes a man more deadthan a great reckoning in a Little room. Truly, I would the gods had madethee poetical. Audrey: I do not know what "poetical is. Is it honest in deed and word? Is it a true thing? Touchstone: No, truly, for the truest poetry isthe most feigning; and Lovers are given to poetry, and what they swear inpoetry may be said as Lovers they do feign.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It May became June, and Burbage s prophecy held: the plague carried off anotherthousand souls, rat- and cat-catchers roamed the streets with their poles ofcorpses and their narrow-eyed terriers, and the playhouses stayed closed.Will s new lodgings were over the tavern Richard Burbage favored, north ofthe River and closer to James Burbage s Theatre. They were considerably moreluxurious, possessing a window with north light for working by and a bed allto Will s own use. But Titus grew a scant few manuscript pages, and Willswore to Burbage that they might as well have been written in his own darkblood. Will sat picking at a supper of mutton and ale in the coolest corner of thecommon room, his trencher shoved to one side and Titus spread on the table,the ink drying in his pen. The food held no savor, but he set pen ininkbottle anyway and worried at the meat with his knife so he wouldn t sitthere only staring at the mottled page. How long did one go without writingbefore one stopped calling oneself a playmaker?It wouldn t be so bad if the pressure to have the stories out would relent. Instead of nagging after him like a lusty husband at a wife just delivered ofthe Last babe. The image made him smile, and then it made him frown. How Long since you veseen Annie Last? If you can t write plays, you could go home and watch yourson grow.
He picked the pen up, and a fat drop of irongall splattered a page folded infour for convenience of writing. But his grimace of irritation wasinterrupted when Burbage walked out of the warm summer twilight, crossing toWill s table after a quick examination of the room. A taller man might havehad to duck the thick beams Edward Alleyn would have been stooped justcrossing but Burbage strutted through clots and eddies of drinkers like arooster through the henyard. A flurry of conversation followed as the customrecognized London s second-most-famous player. Will gestured Burbage to thebench.
 Good even, Will. I ll not sit: had your fill of mutton?Since what you have to say will no doubt rob mine appetite. Burbageshrugged, so Will smiled to take some of the sting from his words. Whither? We ll to Oxford. Burbage offered Will a handclasp. This time, Shakespearetook it to stand. A long walk, he said, though Burbage s grin alerted him.Just across London Bridge, the player continued, softening his voice.We re stayed for at the Elephant, Cousin. Step quick!Will gulped the last of his ale and hung the tankard at his belt, then gavethe landlord s son a ha penny to run his papers and pen up to his room. Theleftover mutton and trencher would be given as alms to the poor or morelikely go into the stewpot. He wiped moisture from his palms onto the frontof his breeches and took Burbage s arm. I feel as if I m summoned by apatron, and I shall have to confess so little done on Titus Titus this and Titus that. Burbage led him north. Vex me not with Titus. What thorn is in your paw on that damned play?The houses and shops lining London Bridge came into view. Will checked hisstride as the foot traffic clotted, keeping one hand on his purse. Stonesclattered under hooves and boots. Will squared his shoulders, hooked thumbsin his belt, and charged forward so abruptly that Burbage struggled to pace 
him, bobbing like a bubble in an eddy in his wake.Will! 
Will shook his head as Burbage caught his elbow.Will, what is it?Will jerked his chin upward, and Burbage s eyes followed the motion. TheGreat Stone Gate loomed over them, cutting a dark silhouette across a skypink and gray with twilight. The last light of a rare clear sunset stainedthe Gate and all its grisly trophies crimson, and dyed too the elegant wingsof wheeling kites and the black pinions of the Tower ravens.If Kit hadn t been murdered in an alehouse, he said low, steps slowing,his head could be up there among the traitors.What heard you about the Privy Council proceedings?I heard that Kyd and that other fellow Richard Baines named him as theauthor of heretical documents. That he stood accused of atheism, sodomy, andworse. Kyd under torture, Burbage amended, tugging Will s arm. Baines somedayI ll tell you about Baines.Will had almost to be dragged several shuffling steps before he was walkingon his own. I ve writ not a good word since.It was Burbage s turn to stumble. Will. Will rested a hand on Richard s shoulder. What? You know what Kit was charged with. Sayst thou you know something of thetruth of those allegations?Will knew his eyes must be big as the paving stones underfoot, his face redas the sunset painting the Gate. Regarding Kit s alleged sins, I ll notdoubt it. But no, I m not likely to be charged the same. We shared the roomfor prudence s sake.Then what? A shrug and a sigh. We were friends. His hand was on my Henry VI, thouknowest, and mine in his Edward III. If he can come to such an end, whoseMuse dripped inspiration upon his brow as the jewels of a crown driplight what does that bode for poorer talents?Poorer talents? They were swept up in the tide of pedestrians before theyhad gone three steps, in the stench of the Thames, in the rattle ofcoach-wheels and the blurred notes of poorly fingered music: the sprawl andbrawl of London. Not so, Will. You ve an ear on you for cleverness andcharacter better than Kit s. And you re funnier.I can t match his technique. Or his passion.No. But technique can be learned, and you won t, perchance, end your lifedrunken and leaking out your brains on some table in a supperhouse. If Kithad the patience and sense of a Will He raised his hand to forestall Will s retort. Will s shoulders fell as the air seeped from his lungs. I listen, MasterBurbage.They came out of the shadow of the Gate and its burden. The Privy Councilwould have cleared him, Master Shakespeare. As it s done every time before:with a wave of the hand, words behind closed doors, and a writ signed by fiveor seven of the Queen s best men, Kit Marley goes free where another manwould go to Tyburn. How many men charged with heresy and sedition are free torent a mare and ride to Deptford, and not on a rack in the Tower? And you llbe afforded the same protection.And the same enemies. But it wasn t just the danger of his own position, orthe unwritten things twisting in his brain. He plainly missed Kit.You ll make enemies any way you slice it, with your talent. Ah, here weare. Burbage pointed to the scarred sign hanging over a green-painted door,and then led Will down a dim, stinking alley toward the back, where awobbling wooden stair brought them to the second story. Will clutched thewhitewashed railing convulsively, despite the prodding splinters. Although,if the whole precarious construction tumbled down, a death grip on the 
banister couldn t save him. A door at the top of the stair stood open to catch what breeze there was.Burbage paused at the landing and softly hailed Oxford within, while Willstood two steps below.
Enter, Master Players. Edward de Vere did not stand to meet them, but hedid gesture them to sit. Stools and benches ranged about the blemished table,and the small room was dark and confining despite the open door: it did notseem the sort of chamber an Earl would frequent. Incense-strong tobacco hungon the air in ribbons, the sharp, musty tang pleasing after the stench of thestreets.
 Lord Oxford, as you ve summoned us, Burbage said, taking a stool. Willdoffed his hat, reseated it, and sank onto a bench and stretched his legs.Oxford nodded to the player, but turned his bright eyes to Will. How comes the play, gentle William?The question he d been dreading, and Will twisted his hands inside the cuffsof his doublet, folding his arms. He almost laughed as he recognized Kit shabitual pose, defensive and smiling, but kept his demeanor serious for theEarl. An Earl who studied him also seriously, frowning, until Will opened his handsand shrugged. Not well, my lord. The story s all in my head, but
Times being as they are.Yes. I understand thou hast tried thy hand at some poetry. A manuscript calledVenus and Adonis has been commended to me. Compared to our Marley s Oxford s nostrils flared momentarily, as if he fought some emotion unfinished work. I d see it read. Heat rose in Will s cheeks as he glanced down at his shoes. You d see mypoor scribblings gone to press, my lord?I would. And command some sonnets. Canst write sonnets? Oh, that stiffened his spine and brought his hands down to tighten on hisknees. Burbage shifted beside him, and Will took the warning. I ve been known to turn a rhyme, Will answered, when he thought he had his tongueunder control. I need a son-in-law wooed, Oxford said. He stood and poured wine into threeunmatched cups. Will raised an eyebrow when the Earl set the cups beforeBurbage and himself. More than mere politeness, that. Henry Wriothesley,Earl of Southampton: I d see him married to my daughter Elizabeth, where Ican perhaps keep him from trouble. He s close to Essex and to Raleigh, nomean trick. Kit d befriended Sir Walter s lot their School of Night,so-called and learned a few tricks by me of the philosopher Dee. It s troublewaiting to happen: too many of the Queen s favorites in one place andrivalries will brew. Will s eyebrow went even higher at the familiar form of Marley s name. And you wish me toDedicate thy book of poems to Southampton. As if thou didst seek hispatronage. Afflict him with sonnets bidding him marry. Raleigh is an enigma:there s no witting which way he might turn in the end. Essex is trouble,though.Though the Queen love him? Burbage said, when Will could not find histongue.Robert Devereaux, the second Earl of Essex, was thought by many a dashingyoung man, one of Elizabeth s rival favorites and a rising star of the court.But her affections were divided, the third part each given to the explorersSir Walter Raleigh and Sir Francis Drake. And there was somethingdisingenuous in the look Oxford drew across them both, just then; Will wasplayer enough to recognize bad playing.
Sonnets. Sonnets, and I couldn t write a good word to spare myself thechopping block 
Gloriana, Oxford said, toying with his wine, is a shrewd and coy Queen,equal to the title King of England which she has once or twice claimed. Despite her sex. Ah, would that she had been a man.That tripped Will s tongue. Do you suppose she mouths those same words, whenshe feels herself alone? Oxford tilted his head as if he had not considered it. Master Shakespeare, Iwould not disbelieve should I hear her Maid of Honor mutter such gossip tothe bees. He stared past his guests to the smoky vista beyond the open door.
So. Thou wilt write me these poems? Or write Southampton these poems? Andbring me the manuscript for Venus and Adonis, that the ages might know it?Will you see Hero and Leander published as well? Will hesitated at the cloud that passed Oxford s face. He Liked Kit as well. And then Will smiled. Kit had had that about him, the ability to inspire black rage or blind joy.It s fine work, isn t it? Oxford didn t wait for Will s nod. He knocked the dottle from his pipe and began to pack the bowl again. Chapman another ofRaleigh s group proposes to complete it and see it registered. In Kit s name,not his own. Decent. Burbage rocked back in his stool, rattling the legs on the floor.My lord, you ll put Will in a place where, if Southampton is flattered, theymay become friendsEven if the courtship fails, we ll have an eye in Southampton s camp.There ve been a dozen attempts on Queen Elizabeth s life in as many years:your Kit s sharp wit helped foil two of them, and he was friendly withEssex s rival, Sir Walter. Now we have neither a hand close to Essex, nor oneclose to Sir Walter. Intolerable, should what I fear come to fruition. Essexhas links to the He stopped himself.Will observed calculation in that pause. What you fear, my lord, or whatfears Walsingham?Surprise and then a smile. The two are not so misaligned. We were one group,the Prometheus Club, not too long since. All of us in service of the Queen.But Essex and his partisans are more interested in their own advancement thanin Britannia. So, Will. Wilt woo for me, and win for my daughter?Will swallowed, shifting on the hard bench. I was to write you plays, mylord. And you would show me how to put a force in them to keep Elizabeth ssubjects content and make all well. I was not to spy for youOxford tapped a beringed finger on the table. I m not asking thee to spy,sirrah. Merely to write.
Not playsNo. The playhouses are closed, Will, and they ll be closed through the NewYear. We ll try our hand there again, fear not: but in the current hour, theenemy has the upper hand.The enemy. This plot against the Queen. Closing the playhouses is a sort ofa skirmish? An unseen one? Oxford smiled then softly. You begin to understand. They know what we can dowith a playhouse. Art is their enemy.Puritans. Naught but a symptom. Walsingham and Burghley are ours, after all Oxford drained his cup. I offer you a poet s respect. Nothing is so transient as aplay and a playmaker s fame. Except a player s.Will looked at Burbage, who sat with his hands folded between his knees,thumbs rubbing circles over his striped silk hose. Burbage tilted his head,eyes glistening. Twas true. The poem s the thing, then, Will said, when he thought he d consideredenough. Give unto me what you would impart, and I will wreak it into beautywith my pen.Oxford twisted his palm together, fingers arched as if to ease a writer scramp. Excellent. Another intentional hesitation. Your play.Titus Andronicus. 
Send it me. I fancied myself something of a poet in my youth. Perhaps I canbe of some small aid. My lord, Will answered, covering discomfort. I shall. 
Act I, scene iv
Was this the face that Launch d a thousand ships,And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.Her Lips suck forth my soul; see, where it flies!
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Faustus Kit s heartbeat rattled his ribs inside his skin. He clutched the balustrade in his left hand, Morgan steadying him on his blind side as she led him downthe sweeping marble stair and into the midst of creatures diabolic anddivine. His riding boots clattered on the risers: inappropriate to anaudience with the Queen of Faeries, he thought inanely. But it was homely andreassuring that they hadn t had time to make him boots and that the doublet,for all its fineness, bound across his shoulders.
Breathe, the ancient Queen whispered in his ear. You ll need your witsabout you, Sir Kit, for I can offer thee but small protection, and my sisterthe Queen is devious.He turned his head to glimpse her; the movement brought a twisting sharpnessto the savaged muscles of his neck and shoulder, which were stiffening again.Morgan must have seen him wince, for her fingers tightened. Thou rt hurting.
Fair face of a witch you are, he answered with a stab at good humor.Without herbs or simples better than brandy to dull a man s pain.She paused on the landing above the place where the stair began to sweep downand made a show of fussing right-handed with her skirts. He leaned on therail and on her other arm while the pale gold-veined stairs reeled.I d dull your pain, she answered, glancing at him before ducking her headto flick the soft moir one last time. And thick your tongue, and set yourhead to reeling. Which canst ill afford when you go before the Mebd, SirPoet. Her hair moved against the back of her neck, a few strands escaping thebraid. He stopped his hand before it could brush them aside. A blade of guiltdissected him at the impulse, and he embraced the pain, gnawed at it. He hadnothing left to be unfaithful to, save Elizabeth, now that his sweet Tom haddiscarded him. Kit welcomed the cold, the distance that came with thethought. Nothing Like ice for an ache.She s very Like Elizabeth would be, had she Leave to be a woman and not aKing. Queen Mab?
The Mebd, Morgan corrected, steadying his arm again. Below, faces turned uplike flowers opening to the sun. Queen of the Daoine Sidhe. She pronouncedthe name maeve, the kingdom theeneh shee. She has a wit about her Ah! Sir Kit. Come and meet my son.
Mordred? Kit asked, putting the smile he couldn t quite force onto his lipsinto his voice. Dead at Camlann, Morgan answered. He was fair. Fair as thou art, ashen ofhair and red of beard. A handsome alliance. Come and meet Murchaud the Black, my younger.Something in her tone made him expect a lad of thirteen, fifteen years. Butthe man who met them at the foot of the stairs, a pair of delicate goblets inhis hand, was taller than Kit by handspans, his curled black hair oiled intoa tail adorned with a crimson ribbon, his beard clipped tighter and neaterthan the London style against the porcelain skin of his face. Kit s palmstickled with sweat as he met the man s almost colorless eyes, saw how thebroad span of his neck sloped, thick with muscle, into wide shoulders. It wasa different thing from the inexplicable warmth he felt for Morgan. More raw,and less unsettling. He d like to see those black curls ruffled.
Mother, the lovely man said, extending a crimson glass of wine. His voicewas smooth, at odds with the power in his frame.She unwound her hand from Kit s elbow, but let her fingers trail down his armbefore she stepped away. Her son pressed the second goblet into his hand, 
taking a moment to curl Kit s fingers about the delicate stem. The touchlingered, and Kit almost forgot his pain. Your reputation precedes you,Master Poet. Sir Poet, Morgan corrected. I knighted him while no one was looking.You did? Mother, bravely done!She laid a possessive hand on his shoulder. Kit looked after her inconfusion, and she gave him only a smile. Things are different in Faerie,she told him, and dusted his cheek, below the bandage, with a kiss. Now drink your wine and go ye through those doors and court and win a Queen.You re not coming with me?Kit. Show them strength, not a cripple leaning on a woman s arm.He met her loden eyes, then nodded, tossed back the wine, and set aside theglass. Rolling his shoulders under the too-tight doublet, he stepped into therivulet of courtiers threading toward what must be the Presence Chamber.Frank stares prickled Kit s skin as he followed the crowd, conscious of theantlers and fox-heads, the huge luminescent eyes and the moss-dripping armorof those who moved around him. Masques, he told himself, and didn t permithimself at first to return the curious glances. Hooves clattered on the flooron his blind side: he flinched and turned to look, and a naked satyr caughthis eye and bowed from the waist.Kit blushed and stepped back, looking at the floor. As if I had an idea of precedence here. The rose-and-green tiled floor rolled under his boots likethe rising, falling deck of a ship. He hesitated and put a hand on thepaneled wall. A woman brushed his arm, elegantly human except that thediaphanous robes which stroked her swaying hips and breasts seemed to growfrom her shoulders like drooping iris petals. Then his attention was drawn byan antlered stag, richly robed in velvet green as glass, resting one clovenhoof on the jeweled hilt of a rapier and walking upright like a man.Kit s pulse drummed in his temples and throat. Adrift, he thought, and raisedhis right hand and touched the silk handkerchief binding his bandage. Thefingertips of his other hand curled into detail carved upon the wainscoting.
I don t know what to do. A novelty. I wot a knife in the eye does changeone or two things.
Follow me. A sharp voice dripping wryness. Kit looked down, putting it to awizened man who seemed all elbows and legs like a grasshopper. He came toKit s belt; his long ears waggled under a fool s cap. Before Her Majestywaxes vexed. 
Waxes vexed, and wanes kind? Kit pushed against the wall. Dizziness,Master Fool. You know me? Your plays have a wide circulation. The little man grimaced: it crinkledhis face so oddly that Kit at first did not recognize a smile. Art Marley,and I m Goodfellow, but mayst call me Robin if I may call thee Kit. We refools both, after all, and of an estate.I ll not dispute it. Kit pressed the heel of his hand to his injured eye,as if the pressure could ease the throbbing that filled his brain. I ve the belly to make a go of it if you ll steady me, Master Fool.One fool hand in hand with another. A Puck for a puck. You ve the belly formany things, I hear.I m notorious. The banter was tonic to a flagging confidence. A tall manwith four horns and the notched ears of a bull swept past, wearing abreastplate of beaten gold and trailing a cloak of burned blue velvet andvair. A circlet crossed the man s fair brow, just under the horns, and Kitreturned his stare. I am notorious. The bull-horned man turned his head, maintaining the eye contact, and almoststumbled over a side table. Kit wished he had a rapier to rest his hand on; aheady rush he liked better than wounded dizziness filling his breast. As ifair filled his lungs again after a blow to the gut. I m Kit Marley. I m Kit Marley. He curled his lips into a grin and stiffened his shoulders,put a cocky sparkle in his eye. Flickering torchlight picked out the river of 
Fae, limned them like the demons of Faustus, and the heat of it stroked Kit scheek. The bull-horned man turned suddenly to watch his feet. Marley thepoet. Christofer Marley the playmaker. Marley the duelist. Marley the player,the Lover, the intelligencer. I ve the honeyed tongue to seduce wives fromhusbands and husbands from wives, secrets from seditionists and plots fromtraitors. I m Christofer Marley, by Christ!I can do this thing.He tasted a breath, and then another one. For Good Queen Bess. For Elizabeth.I can do this thing and any other.
Lead on, Merry Robin, he said without letting the grin slide down his face,though it tugged his stitches and filled his mouth with musky blood. And show me your merry men.
Tis not the men that need concern you. Tis the maid stands at their head. Twiglike fingers encircled Kit s wrist and the elf tugged him forward,creeping on many-jointed toes.Kit had a brief, swirling impression of heavy paneled doors worked inbas-relief with masterful artistry, designs more Celtic than Roman. Thethrone room was longer than it was broad, the floor tiled in patterned marbleof rose and green, the dark windows hung with rippling silk and open to thenight. The Fae moved freely, clumping in knots of whispered conversation,calling witticisms across the table set with glasses and wine. Kit s headthrobbed with the scent of rosemary and mint, strewn with flower petalsunderfoot. Robin Goodfellow tugged his fingers, and Kit turned his headslowly so he would not miss a detail on his blind side.No hush fell when he entered, but the conversation flagged for half aninstant before Robin led him forward. On the far end of the hall, raised on adais, the Queen lifted her head. Kit would have gasped if he d had any wonderleft in him. She curled in a beaten gold chair, languid as a lioness. A cloth of estatestretched over her head, and as Kit approached uncouth nails ringing on thepaving stones she raised eyes that struck him through the heart. It wouldn thave taken much to send him to his knees, true, but Robin was there, and madethe stumble look a genuflection. Kit didn t look up, but the image of theQueen s golden hair knotted in braided ropes stayed with him, and thehaunting perfection of eyes that caught the light and glimmered one momentgreen, one moment violet, like orient jade. That most perfect creature underheaven, he thought, the moon full in the arms of restless night. She moved an arm, by the sound of it. Stretched in leonine grace. Unfeelingof the hard, cold stone he knelt on, he imagined the purple silk of hermantle drifting from a wrist as white and smooth as a willow branch. Heimagined the perfect pale mask of her face marked with a rosebud smile, andshivered deep in his soul. Her voice was furred like catkins, soft as thewind brushing his hair, and he heard a rustle of slick cloth and a jingle ofbells, as if she stood, or stretched, or danced a step and stopped.His breath froze in his belly when she said his name. She s just a wench, he thought desperately. She s ensorcelled me. This is sorcery. Glamourie.
Gentle Christofer. Another whisper of bells. Robin got up and shuffledaside. He didn t dare raise his eyes. You grace our court with yourpresence. We have seen your work. It pleases us, and we know of your otherduties before your Queen, and Gloriana pleases us as well.Somewhere, he found a voice, although it didn t sound like his own. You are gracious, Your Majesty.
Look upon us, she said, and his chin lifted without his conscious will. I am bewitched, he thought, and then realized how close she had somehowdrifted, silent as a thistledown. She reached out with soft fingertips, lacedthem through his hair, and traced the outline of his ear as if exploring aflower petal. He whimpered low in his throat, an anxious whine, and grittedhis teeth as a low, amused chuckle swept the room. 
They knew what she was doing to him. His breath came like a runner s aroundthe fire in his chest, but he managed to answer in pleasant tones. Yes, YourHighness.Like velvet stroked along his spine, like a hand in the hollow of his back,her voice kept on. I d grant you a place in my court, Master Poet. Your oldlife is lost to you. Will you play for my pleasure, sir? A little ripple ofdelight colored her tone at her own double meaning.
I m sworn to another he began.The hardest words he could imagine speaking then, but the Mebd cut him shortwith a wave of her lily-white hand. Pearls and diamonds slid about her wristwhen she moved, and emeralds and amethysts sparkled on her fingers. Hath been our royal pleasure to assist our sovereign sister Elizabeth inmaintenance of her realm, whether she wits it or not. She ll not grudge usyour service, Master Poet
Sir Poet. A voice like the yowl of a cat after the Mebd s silkenperfection. A voice from his blind side.Kit turned his head. Morgan stood beside him and a few steps back, her handsloose by her sides as she dropped a brief curtsey to the Queen. I ve knighted him, sister dear.
Ah. The Queen let her fingers trail across Kit s neck. Stand, then, SirPoet. Her voice said she smiled, but her eyes didn t show it, and Kit struggled butdidn t have to take Morgan s subtly offered hand. A man cannot serve two Queens, Your Highness, Kit said softly, against the pressure within thattold him to throw himself down and kiss this woman s slipper, the perfect hemof her perfect gown. Much as it may pain him. He shook his head, in pain.
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air / Clad in the beauty of a thousandstars; / Brighter art thou than flaming Jupiter / When he appear d to haplessSemele: / More lovely than the monarch of the sky / In wanton Arethusa sazured arms . . . 
Your Faustus, she said, but she seemed well pleased. She stepped back, asilver slipper gliding through the rose petals curling on the tile, and Kitfelt something snap in the air between them as cleanly as if he d broken aglass rod between his hands. We know it. She settled back on her chair.
 Thou canst never go home, Christofer Marley. Art dead unto them.Kit swallowed around the dryness in his throat. The dream was broken, themoment of perfection fled like the touch of the Queen s soft hand. His bellyached, his chest, his ballocks, his face; he trembled, and only half withexhaustion. Your Highness, he said, and his voice was again his own, if rawas the cawing of crows. I crave a boon. 
A boon? She leaned forward in a tinkle of bells. We shall consider it. What offer you in return?His luck had been running. Let it run a mile longer. He stepped away fromMorgan, nearer the throne, dropping his voice. A bit of information, YourHighness. You have an interest in Elizabeth s court?She smiled. Oh yes, he d guessed right, from the fragments of informationgleaned from her speech and Morgan s.
Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth s spymaster? He lives, in hiding.As do you, she answered, with a slight, ironic smile. It signifies. Whatwish you in return?Let me speak to him but once. I have information I can give no other, and itis vital to the protection of the realm. If Elizabeth s reign means somethingto your Royal Highness and I can see your sister Queen is dear to you I begyou. On bended knee. Let me make my report.And? And secure my release from service. For all his practiced manner, he couldhear the forlorn edge in his own voice, and imagine the mockery inElizabeth s. Am I so easy to set aside then, Master Marley? 
The Mebd watched him as he suited action to words, bowing his head, sinkingon the stone steps of the dais though they cut his knee like dull knives. Thequeen sighed; Morgan shifted from foot to foot behind him. At last, he heardthe sibilance of her mantle as she nodded, and her voice, stripped now ofglamourie. Let me see your wounds, Sir Christofer, she answered, notcruelly. Draw off your bandages.His fingers fumbled when he tried. The room spun, and he laid his palm flaton the edge of the steps to keep from tumbling down them. Morgan came upbeside him and lifted the coils of linen with gentle fingers, and the FaerieQueen sucked air between her teeth like any woman would at what she saw.
Hist, let me lay hands on thee, she said, leaning forward on her throne toprobe with cool fingers. I cannot heal the scar or give you back yourvision, poet. But I can seal the cut. Have I consent?Yea, he answered. Morgan s hand on his shoulder, only, kept him upright.The Queen stroked the wound again, and the pain ebbed, and the floor and thewalls blurred and spun. She muttered a word or two he did not hear. Well, Kit thought when she leaned back, I ve benefited from sorcery and had dealingwith the fair folk. If there s a hell after all, no chance of avoiding itnow. He thought of Faustus and managed a smile as Morgan and someone on hisother side Murchaud helped him rise.
Art dismissed. The Mebd turned her attention away.To complete Kit s disgrace, Murchaud had to carry him back up the stairs toMorgan s chamber. The knight took his leave, and Morgan stripped Kit overfeeble protests and placed him in bed. Sometime before morning, she drew thehangings back and crawled under the coverlet, and he found to his delightthat a little rest had restored him more than he d expected.There was something to be said for living after all, and for being alive, andthe simple joy of a woman who threaded strong hands through his hair andtouched the seamed white scar across his face as if it were merely anotherthing to be caressed like his nose, his ears, the lower lip she nibbled intosilence when he would have whispered fair words in her ear.She left again by dawn, wriggling from under his arm, and though he liftedhis head to see her slip through the door, he did not turn when the doorreopened and he thought she returned. A warm body slid beside him as hedrowsed. He startled from sleep to wakefulness in a moment, stifling a cry;the hands on his shoulders were dry and calloused with bladeplay, big enoughto close a circle around his upper arm, and the lips that touched his throatand the teeth that caught at his skin were framed with a tickling rasp ofbeard. A flutter of breath trickled through his teeth. He forced the words to followit. I m unfit for wrestling, Sir KnightMurchaud chuckled, his mouth growing bolder as his long hands tightened onKit s shoulders, around Kit s chest. Come, come, Sir Poet, he answered.
 I m understanding of your plight. Needs do nothing but sigh just like that,and I shall see your sighs well answered on this morn. 
Act I, scene v
Mercutio: Thou art Like one of those fellows that when he enters the confines of a tavern claps me his sword upon the table and says God send me no need of thee! and by the operation of the second cup draws it on the drawer, whenindeed there is no need.
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Romeo and Juliet June stretched through the heat of summer into August, until Will leanedagainst the wall beyond Oxford s patterned study door, a sheaf of poemsclutched in his hand, and fumed. Oxford s words rang in Will s head.Walsingham has Titus. It s good for what you have of it. Pray for an end tothe plague, and write me an end to the play.I didn t give the play to Walsingham, Will fumed. I gave it you for comment,good my Lord
He bit his tongue against a curse and realized his hands were bending thepaper his poems were scribbled on. Hastily, he smoothed them against hisknee, and eyed Oxford s penmanship on the page tidier than his own spiralingsquiggles when his brain outran his hand.Will folded the papers once in his hand. God send me no worse patron than afrustrated poet, he murmured, and headed out. A housemaid opened the sidedoor for Will. Satisfied that the ink had dried, he tucked the pages into hisdoublet, rubbing his eyes against brightness as he stepped into the street.He bought a pasty from a market stall and ate it standing in the lee of ahalf-timbered house, beside the garden wall. A ribsprung calico peered at himfrom a roof angle and dared to mew. The plague chasers will be on thee,Will observed. Mind you hide your face, Malken, or your kits will starvewithout a mother. He worried a bit of mutton loose from his lunch and tossed it to the tiles beside her paws: she flinched, expecting a stone, thengrabbed the morsel and was gone.
Kits and kits, Will whispered, cramming the rest of the pasty into hischeek and dusting the crumbs into the gutter. Errant rays of sunshine strokedhis face. He raised a hand as if he could catch and hold them. Paper crinkledbetween his doublet and his shirt. Marley, if your ghost can hear me, I bidyou good grace. Whatever you may have done He stopped and cocked an ear,but heard only a distant mewing that might have been the calico s kittens. Hetried again to picture the scene at Eleanor Bull s house, a drunken Kitdrawing Ingrim Frazier s dagger, attacking the other man, without warning,from the rear 
and failing to kill him. Failing so miserably that Frazier took the knifeout of his hand and drove it without further ado into Kit s eye. While RobertPoley and Nick Skeres stood by helpless to intervene? Is it that it s too pitiful and crass a dying for a man Like that? But great men die in pitifulwaysNo, he decided, as the pasty settled into his gut like a kick. It s that if Kit were to stab a man, he d Look him in the eye when he did it.And he wouldn t miss. Will nodded, chewing his knuckle, unaware that he dbegun walking again until a curse and a blow alerted him to the horseman whohad nearly run him down.Will needed to know what about Kit s plays had cost him his life. That hadhis name dragged through the streets as a traitor and a criminal, and theQueen herself covering his murder. He needs must know his enemies. Before hewound up with a knife in his own eye. Ignoring for the moment that the Queendidn t want it cleared, Will wondered if he might redeem Kit s name.He brightened as he turned toward the river and the looming presence of theGreat Stone Gate. Southwark, and home. If Oxford wouldn t answer his need,then perhaps Lord Hunsdon would.But in the meantime 
I think I d Like to speak to Master Robert Poley.
Poley frequented a tavern near his house on Winding Lane, where Will hadplayed at tables with Kit once or twice. He glanced at the shadows lying 
across the street: just time for a man to be thirsty for a bit of ale andhungry for a bit of bread and cheese. He wondered if Poley would recognizehim. He wondered if the man might be encouraged to drink
Her Majesty has signed a writ forbidding all inquiry into the events inDeptford on 30th May, 1593. But, Will reasoned, she hadn t forbidden thebuying of drinks for Master Robert Poley. He whistled as he swung out, eachnail-studded boot landing square on the cobblestones, strides clattering.The public house was called the Groaning Sergeant. Will stopped inside thedoor to let his eyes adjust, although the shutters stood open. The Sergeantbustled with a dinnertime crowd only a few benches open closest the fire,where it would be uncomfortably hot. But the aroma of beer and baking breadenticed, and he smiled into his beard as his gaze swept the common room andhe saw Robert Poley s blond head bent toward a darker man s in the quietestcorner. Poley, like Langley, was a moneylender, and a far less scrupulous one. He waswell known as a cheat and an informer, and he was one of the three men whohad been witness, in the little room where Kit was murdered.Will resettled the rustling pages under his doublet and took theuncomfortable seat by the fire. As the evening cooled, the benches would fillin around him, and in the meantime he d keep an eye on Poley and use thefirelight for working on his sonnets. But first He hailed the tavern s sturdy gray-haired mistress, who brought him small beer and warm wheat breadsmeared thickly with sweet butter and a pot of ink and a quill that wasn ttoo badly cut, on loan for a penny more.Will mopped the table with his sleeve and spread his crumpled sheets on softwood where they would catch most of the light. A breeze riffled the finehairs on his neck as he ate the last bite of bread. He drank the beer leaningbackward so the drops from sloppy drawing would fall onto his breeches andnot the poems, and he did what he thought was a passable job of not lookinglike he was watching Poley.Poley, who was drinking wine without water and eating beef like a man ofprosperity. And who seemed to have set up shop in that particular corner ofthe Sergeant, given the number of men who came and went near him in ones andtwos and sometimes threes. Some sat for a game of tables or draughts or diceda bit, while some merely quaffed a drink and spent a few moments in quietconversation. Will wasn t sure quite when, but after the third or fourthvisit, he started jotting descriptions and the one or two names heknew Gardner, Justice of the Peace for Southwark. Oh, really? on the reverse of a sonnet that began Is it for fear to wet a widow s eye. He kept anothersheet handy to drag across the paper.He and Kit had run in different circles, away from their connection to thetheatre and the financial straits that had occasioned sharing lodgings andcompanies the Admiral s Men and Lord Strange s Men for whom they both wroteplays. Will didn t know most of Poley s associates. But Poley was one of themen who had been in that small room where Kit had died. Poley never passed more than a glance in his direction in the brief gapsbetween guests. Will noticed that such patrons as did not seek Poley avoidedhim; he surmised that this was as much to do with Poley s own reputation asthe company he kept. The visitors seemed to come and go at regulatedintervals. As the sun set and the moon rose, Will gathered up his courage andtook a single deep breath.He spindled his poems lengthwise preparatory to tucking them back inside hisdoublet. That accomplished, he was making his way to the landlady to purchaseale for himself and wine for Poley when he saw a face he did recognize, andfroze. Richard Baines. A tall, fair man with a saddler s forearms, a cleric s smile,and a poison pen. Blessing his dull brown doublet and the darkness of hishair, Will stepped back into the shadows beside the bar, watching as Poley 
rose to meet his newest guest which Will had not seen him do before until thetwo heads leaned together, fair and fair. They embraced, and Will saw theglitter of a band on Baines thumb, a gold circle surrounding an inset ofsome darker metal, like the one Oxford wore. The flash of it drew Will s eyeto an odd-shaped scar on the base of the thumb, a string of pale knots likepearls.Baines, Will knew through Kit and Thomas Kyd, and Baines would recognize him.But the men weren t looking, so Will turned as if watching the landlady goshutter the windows, ducked to swing his hair across his profile, and startedfor the door. 
Why is Robert Poley, who stood by when a knife went in Kit s eye, talking toRichard Baines, who puts a knife to his reputation now that the man is dead?
For it was Baines who had written a note to the Privy Council that might haveseen Kit hanged for heresy.Salty sourness filled Will s mouth, and he hesitated a moment and stole onefinal glance, thinking it safe enough with Baines back to the room. But he found himself staring directly into Poley s eyes, as if the man had beentracking his motion across the room.Will froze like a doe at the crack of a twig as Poley s hand went out to reston Baines thick forearm. Baines turned, and both men began to stand, andWill took one more hasty step toward the door before Baines mocking baritonearrested his motion like a bullwhip flicked at his nose.
Well, well. The big man swung a leg over his bench as he turned and stood.William Shake-scene. Come sniffing after better company now that yourfancy-boy s dead?Will stepped diagonally toward the door. I was after supper, he said,wishing himself better armed than with a handspan beltknife. And I ve had it. Good even to you, Master Baines, and I ll thank you not to idly insultme. Some impulse made him step forward and add, Or slander my friends,sirrah. Benches scraped on planks as the Sergeant s custom recognized a brewingfight.Friends, Baines answered with a sneer. That s not what they call it that Iever heard. What will you do for a living now, you poor excuse of aplaymaker? Without that drunken sodomite Marley to doctor your work andbuggerWill opened his mouth to interrupt, but a determined, feminine voice overrodethe first rumble of his retort. Master Poley. The landlady stepped betweenWill and Baines, ample hands on her ample hips, and tilted her head to glarearound Baines broad shoulder at Poley. You will control your friend. I llnot have any man driving off custom.
Mistress Mathews, Poley said, and he laid a hand on Baines arm. As youwish it. But his eyes met Will s quite plainly, and the glare that followedWill to the door said, And don t come back. Well, Will thought later, barring the door of his own room behind him beforetossing his much-battered sheaf of sonnets on the table, that could have ended much worse. 
Act I, scene vi
Bernardine: Thou hast committed Barabas : Fornication. But that was in another country,And besides, the wench is dead.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, The Jew of Malta A better awakening than the last, though Kit was surprised to sleep so deeplyin a stranger s bed, with a stranger s arm around him. His right cheekpressed a pillow that smelled of Morgan s rosemary, and he remembered beforehe opened his eye that it should hurt. It didn t. He remembered as wellMorgan snipping and pulling bloody stitches after the Mebd had healed it, andher lips and body drawing out the agony the Faerie Queen s sorcery had dartedin him. But it wasn t Morgan s arm around his waist, her hand splayedpossessively across his belly though the dark hair drifting across his facein unbraided waves did not belong to Murchaud.Kit, thou hast outdone thyself. He couldn t recall Morgan returning, whichfrightened him: a man with enemies didn t live long if he slept too heavilyto hear an opening door.But Morgan le Fey probably had her own ways of moving quietly. And Kitcouldn t remember when he had last wakened with this silence still in him,the clamor of fear and rage and duty and bitterness and memory stilled.
Usually, Kit murmured, when the hand that clipped him slid down to strokehis flank, men whisper the delights of bedding sisters. Or mother anddaughter.Art anyway satisfied? Murchaud answered, cuddling closer.Kit turned to see him Twill serve. and Morgan chuckled on his blindside. Your Highness. She rose into his field of view, hair spilled acrossher face. The break in his vision was worse than he d expected, especiallyclose in. She stopped his lips with a finger, eye corners crinkling, then touched hisscar. It felt as if she stroked a bit of leather laid on his skin. Aren t we beyond that, my lord? Does this pain you still?
Only my heart, he answered. But if I may look upon a sight as fair as youwith but one eye, I ll count the other well lost. What what did she do to me?Your Mebd? Always the flatterer, Morgan answered. And my Mebd she isn t, and what shedid on thee was old sorcery, deep glamourie, to turn a man into a mindless,rutting stag.Her fingers caressed his throat, and a low moan followed.I ve used it myself, she admitted. You feel it still. Yes. Murchaud s hands tightened on his hips; Murchaud s teeth closed on the napeof his neck like a stallion conquering a mare. He cried out, but Morgan smouth muffled the sound. You re wondering, she whispered, her cheek pressedby his cheek as her son pulled him close, when I ll give thee a mirror tosee how the Mebd healed thee. You re wondering how she realized it, andyou re wondering that she englamoured thee of an evening, and at how youstrode through sorcery where another would have been lost. And why I havetaken an interest in you. Art not?Murchaud nibbled the place where Kit s neck ran into his shoulder, and hishands were adventurers. Aye, Kit whispered against Morgan s lips. Hisfingers brushed breasts like heavy velvet, skin like petals. She pressedclose, guiding his hands to her waist and the abutting curves. Her fingertipstraced an old scar on his chest, another on his belly, a third along theinside of his thigh. They were puckered and white, old burns that he triednot to think on.
 Time here answers the will of the Queen, Morgan said. She took a few months from your wound, is all: their passage dizzied and drained you. Ifthou hadst not been so brave in the cleaning, it would not have gone so well 
for thee. Lye soap. I should thank you.There s one mirror in all the Bless d Isle, Murchaud said. You ve boughtthe use of it, although releasing the secret Walsingham s un-death mightprove a high price.Morgan s lips moved on Kit s. Meanwhile, consider how you might repay me forreturning your wits, that you might bandy words with the Mebd.Remembering the white flame the Mebd had kindled in him with a mere smile anda turn of her hand, Kit shivered. Anything, so long as it is mine to give,the lady may claim as her own. Only how did you protect me, madam?Your boots, she murmured, wickedly, have iron nails. He stopped. And then he laughed, delighted at the simplicity of it, andstretched against her as he took her in his arms. She wrapped him in silk,and Murchaud enfolded him in steel, and he could have wept at the silencethey gave him, and the forgetting, that when they drew him down between themnothing whispered remember. Instead, the whisperer was Morgan, speaking against his ear: Things aredifferent in Faerie. Christofer Marley closed tight his eye.The mirror was not hidden in a private chamber or guarded under lock and key.Rather, it stood at the end of a blind corridor, in an oval frame oftarnished silver tall as a door wrought with lilies and spirals. The standwas swathed in velvet. The polished glass could have been obsidian.
It s called the Darkling Glass, Murchaud said when Kit hesitated. He stepped closer, laid one hand on cool crystal polished without a ripple.His palm left no print; his reflection was more a matte sheen than an image.And I Step through it. Morgan came up beside him. A tall white candle he did notrecollect having seen her light burned in her right hand. She raised itbeside his face, illuminating the dark band of his new eyepatch crossing apale seam of scar. Flecks of blood and scab showed where Morgan had pulledstitches free, but the ridged white line was straight from his hairline towhere it vanished under the eyepatch.Morgan touched a finger to his mouth and he dressed it in a kiss. His lipshad been called voluptuous by men and women both, his dark eyes enormous,exotic with the fairness of his hair. The heavy diagonal of eyepatchexaggerated the softness of his mouth. Not as good as an eye in his head, andhe knew he d have work to make up the lack, but it had a rakish dignity.And it might win him Walsingham s sympathy.Morgan leaned against his shoulder. He caught a pale glimmer like the moonover his left shoulder: Murchaud s reflection, further back. Step throughany mirror to return. I put that power in thee. And there s something youneed to know. 
I ve tasted the food of Faerie. Her gown gapped at the collar when she inclined her head. It will draw youback. A few days, a week. A passing of the moon. It is impossible topredict.
And if I do not come? Her cool cheek brushed his ear; her dark hair spread across the black velvetof his doublet. You will suffer, Christofer Marley, she said with a luxurious smile. And when you have suffered more than you can imagine, youwill die. Look there is your Walsingham now. Dost see him?The old spymaster s accustomed image swam into the glass. He bent over hisdesk examining a document with a lens held between bony fingers. Lightstreamed over Walsingham s shoulder in a swirl of dust motes, limning hishair and beard silver-gilt like a cloud. Now we know he lives, we can findhim, Morgan whispered. Have a care. Kit opened his mouth to reply, but a firm hand pressed the small of his back.He stepped forward and tripped through the mirror, and fell with ill grace 
into a stunned silence and Sir Francis Walsingham s arms.That silence lasted moments, as Walsingham studied him, and turned as if tosee what door in the air he d fallen from, and then studied him again. Andthen knotted fingers like ribbons of steel in his hair and turned his face upand kissed him hard, as a brother might. Before jerking back suddenly andstepping away, the long sleeves of his robe falling across his knuckles.
Marley, he said, touching his lips and speaking between the fingers. Not a ghost, I wot. Hell threw you out?Hell wants me back when you ve done with me, Sir Francis. The smile came upfrom somewhere under Kit s breastbone, and it bubbled through his chest andthroat until his lips could not contain it. But I have secured a visitation. Walsingham turned away, shuffling his papers into a pile and weighting themwith the lens. He stole a glance across his shoulder, and Kit tried the smileagain. Sir Francis. You re fussing.
Kit thine eye. He turned again as Kit came forward, his right hand risingto touch the terrible scar. Plucked out? Cut through. Kit looked down. Your cousin Tom had a hand in it, I llgrant. How am I living? Do you know?Walsingham crossed to the arched window and shuttered it; he crossed again,and barred the door. Will you drink wine with me, Christofer? Thomas and theQueen s Coroner identified your body. I ve broken with Thomas over it. Hemaintains his men were innocent, your death the result of some unhappydouble-dealing you revealed in the course of the conversation that day butwhat were you doing in Deptford, and where have you been the past four monthsand more? Why did you Leave me thinking you dead? It wasn t said, but Kitcould taste the betrayal.
Four months? He put a hand on the desk to steady himself as his bellycontracted. Four months and a night.Long enough for that to heal. Walsingham touched his face again. Oh, thatgrieves me, Kit. But not so much as the thought of your body cold in anunmarked grave. I d have pricked thee out for a lover, not a fighter.Cannot a man be both? And a poet as well. Where have you been?Stolen away by Faeries. I have what day is t, Francis?Then don t answer me, man. October the third.Good Christ! Your wound is well healed. Walsingham poured the wine after all, though Kithad never answered him, and let Kit choose his glass. And you stepped intomy rooms as if from thin airI told thee. Stolen by Faeries. Would I lie? Kit tasted the wine, rolled iton his tongue. He set the glass down by the papers, and the handwriting drewhis eye. An angled look, a gesture for permission, and Walsingham s nod, andKit reached across the sand tray and took up the sheaf. Will s improving.But then this is Oxford s hand . . . Oh, Francis. Not Will.Walsingham covered his eyes with his hand, the other one with the glass init dropping to his side. We needed someone. Will s Kit set the papers back on the desk and weighted them with hisnow-empty wineglass. Naive. Will s as old as you. Older than when you came to meKit turned to regard Walsingham square from his one good eye. Francis, theman has children. Which was a body blow. He d never married, and Walsingham knew why. He wipedthe taste of wine from his mouth. Never married. Now he never would. Too much to risk. To much to fear for. Too much to give up for a nuptial bed.Kit, so do I. Walsingham shook his head. Something s altered in youA knife in the eye will change your perspective.Kit, cruel. Walsingham s face went white, and his mouth worked, and Kit sawhim as if for the first time: old. I would have protected you, he said, and 
then quoted words that might have broken Kit s heart in his chest. Wouldst thou be loved and feared? Receive my seal, save or condemn, and in our namecommand, what so thy mind affects or fancy likesNay! A hiss, not a shout. Kit s hand stinging flat on the polished desk,cupped to explode the air beneath it, and Walsingham leapt at the sound andthe rattle of the ink pot. Edward II, and Kit couldn t bear it. Nay, sweetFrancis. I wrote those words not for thee, and I ll not have you filthy yourmouth on them! 
Not to me? To an age, surely. It s put about that you were killed for them,by Essex s men, or those who took them as an affront to Scottish James, asatire on his love for his exiled minion Lennox. No, Kit answered, drawing breath to slow his racing pulse. Him they werewrit to knows it. Sweet Walsingham, who else should I trust with this? I mustbe Another breath, a calmer one. I must be released of mine oath. To the Queen.Kit would have gambled that the old man s face could grow no whiter behindthe gray in his beard. He would have lost the bet. Kit, why?A tilt of the head to bring his scar into the light. The Faerie Queen whorescued me demands it. Walsingham held his gaze a long minute, then shook it off like a workworn oldstallion shaking away a fly. Kit. I cannot release thee. You must plead withyour Queen.Kit had known. He nodded, lightheaded and cold. Eleven years, that oath hadheld him. And now it could be gone on a breath.Like his life.
 Arrange it, Sir Francis. Will not thy Queen hear thee?My Queen, Walsingham answered, has never forgiven me her royal cousin sdeath. But, aye. She will hear me if I ask. What will you tell her?That by her own coroner s hand, I am dead. And a dead man can give noservice to a living Queen. He ignored the irony in Walsingham s quick smile.You will care for her in my name?Kit. Just his name, and all the answer he needed.There is another thing. More vital.Walsingham caught the tone, and long acquaintance made him nod, gaze level,and come so close that Kit could taste the wine on his breath. The spymasterdidn t speak, but he bent his head to listen. Such trust, Kit thought,shocking even himself. I could have a knife in that belly before he drewanother breath. As Frazier put a knife in your eye, Christofer Marley?
No one knew where to find me but our little conclave of playmakers. I wasstaying with Tom and his wife.I know your arrangementKit ignored the disapproval. Not Raleigh s people And the message summoningme to Deptford came under Burghley s seal, phrased as a Royal command.Walsingham had not become Walsingham because he couldn t follow a trail. We were betrayed from within.Yea. Verily. More than by Tom. By someone who knew who could summon me, andmake me run Kit put enough dry irony in it to make Walsingham laugh, butlaughing made him cough.Kit went to Walsingham and laid a hand on his shoulder, but the older manshook him away until the fit ended. Then Walsingham raised too-bright eyesand continued as if uninterrupted, Who do you think betrayed you?
The orders came from Her Majesty, under Burghley s seal. But there areforgers aplenty.And if it s Her Majesty s hand ordered your death? Going to her for succorwere dangerousKit let the implication slide off with a ripple of his neck and shoulder. Mylife was ever hers to dispose of. I make no exception for my death. When theQueen says go-and-die 
Walsingham shifted on his feet.Kit glanced at the crack of light between the shutters. Francis, may I lookat Will s play again? I think Oxford s made some poor suggestions, and it issome hours yet until dark. And I think I cannot well go abroad by day.Walsingham laughed. There s more wine. I ll have a fair copy made before Ishow it to Will. 
Wine would be welcome. And then I ll tell you of the Faerie Court and itsQueen.Walsingham stopped with the wine bottle in his hand, staring at Kit as Kitappropriated his chair. The ink was fresh, the pen well cut.
You re serious. As treason. Huh. Walsingham came closer, to peer over his shoulder. And even now, youcan t resist a manuscript?Kit shrugged and dipped the pen. What poet could? 
Act I, scene vii
Moore: If that be called deceit, I will be honest.WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Titus Andronicus Lord Hunsdon never answered Will s request, but on the fifith of October,very early, a note was delivered to Will s lodgings, inscribed to Mr. W.S. It directed him to the home of Francis Langley, and it was signed F.W. Come at once. Titus needs you.Does that mean unseemly haste, Will wondered, shrugging a brown woolendoublet over his shirt and tending to the lacings, or just all due speed?Titus needs you.At Least Walsingham has a sense of humor. An anticipatory tickle of dreadpressed his breastbone like a thumb. It had been so long. There was notelling what horrors they d wreaked on Will s poor words. Will stomped hisboots down, jarring puffs of dust from between the floorboards. At the doorhe paused, casting a final eye around his chamber to find all in order.Behind him, he tugged the panel tight.It was a fine autumn morning, sharp and cool, still pink with sunrise. Themoneylender s house was close. Will hesitated by the garden gate the onlydoor he had been shown through and rattled it testingly.It was unlatched. He glanced over his shoulder. The street lay empty, and Will shrugged andlifted the handle. Not cut out for espionage. He blushed as he remembered his confrontation with Baines. The rumors about Kit had only grown morescurrilous since, and he suspected Baines and Poley were behind them. Heslipped through the gate, aware that any observer would have seen a drablyclad skulker with no right to be there.The lemons and olives were long over, yellowed leaves drifting from thegrafted tree espaliered to the gray garden wall. Will shrugged his doublethigher on his shoulders and kept on, hoping he didn t surprise a maidservantwhiling away the early morning hours with a cellarer.As it was, the gardener dropped his pail as Will rounded a curve in thegravel path. Master Shakespeare! He must have leapt almost out of hisboots, because he staggered in the spilled manure, and then whipped his capoff, covered his face with it, and laughed. Oh, you startled me. Sir Francisis expecting you. He s had breakfast laid. Shall I tell the steward you vearrived? 
By all means, Master Gardener.Walsingham was already seated in an armchair before a long hearth banked toembers. The spymaster gestured Will seated and handed him a toasting-fork,indicating a plate of crompid cakes. I shan t stand on ceremony, the old man said, waving one hand as if to include the wainscoted walls and thechambered ceiling in his invitation.
Isn t this Francis Langley s house, Sir Francis?That smile turned the corners of Walsingham s eyes up. The front half. Closed for the winter now, and Langley has never hesitated to earn a fewcrowns in whatever closemouthed way he can. Pay no mind to the details of mysubterfuge Oxford gave me your work, with some scribblings on it. I took theliberty of making a clean copy he gestured to a pile of papers neatly sortedin the basket between the chairs and I was hoping you d consent to look itover. Will retrieved his breakfast from the banked embers and inspected it, knowingit couldn t be nearly warm yet. He set it on the dish and picked up the pagesso quickly that Walsingham chuckled, One poet is very like another.It was not the manuscript he had given to Oxford, so that Oxford could doctorit with his magic scenes. Not Will s own looping, hurried script, but a fineuniversity italic, formal as the Queen s. His own text in a center column,neat as if ruled, and running down the right margin notes and suggestions.A corner of his lip curled as he recognized Oxford s overwrought phrasing. Asuggestion here was better though, a sharp-ended pun and an enjambed line 
that ran a ragged stanza smooth. It almost, Will thought, captured a rhythmof normal speech, but left the formal power of the blank verse intactHis mouth went parched and he reached without thinking for the cup of cidernext to the dish, feeling Walsingham s eyes upon him. Some of this, he said, when he had wet his tongue enough to free it from his palate, is veryhelpful, Sir Francis. You have a good ear: I know this is not Oxford s doing,this radical line. 
Nor mine. A poetical friend.Indeed, Will answered. He dropped the pages on his knees and picked up thecrumpet. Walsingham had applied butter, but the pastry wasn t warmed enoughto melt it. He bit into it anyway, at pains not to scatter crumbs. He has a lovely hand, your secretary. It was your secretary who transcribed this foryou?Walsingham smiled at him around the rim of his glass. He said we couldn t fool you, he said, setting his cider down.Will closed his eyes. If Walsingham lives, why should not Marley? Oh, tellme I am not dreaming, Sir Francis. Tell me where he is, that I may rest mineown eyes on him.Here, Kit said through the doorway. Will stood up, pages scatteringunheeded by his feet, and crossed the richly tiled floor, and pushed thepanel open on its hinges, and took Marley by the wrists, and pulled him intothe parlor and the light.Will regarded Kit for a moment a compact man with a pouting lip and fine fairhair, wearing a tomcat strut and tilted his head, and finally, carefully, hesmiled. Not unscathed after all, then, Christofer.
No, Kit answered, crossing the sitting room. Not unscathed at all. He knelt, the plume on his hat bobbing over his shoulder, and began shufflingthe scattered pages of manuscript together. Ah, all this work just toconceal my hand. I told you he d catch us out, Kit continued, speaking toWalsingham, who impaled another cake on his toasting-fork.Will sniffed, then leaned against the wall. This smells pleasant enough fora room inhabited by two dead men.Kit laughed, stood, and set the pages of Titus on the mantelpiece, weighingthem down with a thick stump of candle on a gilded dish. A wry and wickedgrin. Die? I have died most verily, and two or three times since I bespokethee last. 
An you re alive, then, what need have these of me? Will looked at Walsingham guiltily, but the old man seemed not to hear. Instead, he closedspidery fingers on one arm of his chair and struggled to stand for a moment,the toasting-fork still in his other hand. Kit crossed to him withoutthinking and lifted him to his feet, a strong hand on Walsingham s knobbywrist, and then he blushed and stepped back as if in apology.Sir Francis snorted and handed Kit the toasting-fork and its burden. I know I m old. You won t offend me. He looked from Will to Kit, and settled hisrobes with a shrug. Kit, you could explain better to Will what we need ofhim than I. 
Aye, Sir Francis. Will wasn t sure he understood the look that passedbetween the other two. A moment of silent understanding, and then Kit twistedhis lips in a slow, arrogant smile. I can educate him well, I warrant.
Love me Little, Love me Long.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, The Jew of Malta The door closed tight behind Walsingham, and Kit let his head roll down torest against his chest. Another borrowed shirt, though this one fit himbetter. He propped the toasting-fork, cake and all, back in the rack andreturned to Will. Will, his dark hair oiled in curls and his blue eyesbrilliant over handsome cheekbones, his dogged nose wrinkled inconsternation, his neatly trimmed beard not thick and not obscuring the lineof his jaw. 
Will, who looked gutted and hung in the silence that followed the click ofthe latch, but Kit knew him enough to see he d find his feet in a moment.Not Will. Kit glanced at the manuscript on the mantel, the earnest eyes ofthe man confronting him. There was brandywine on the sideboard, andhand-blown glasses from Cornwall which might have made Kit laugh, if he hadbeen in a laughing mood. Did you want that cake?
I want answers, Kit.Ah, there it was. The spike of stubborn under the man s quiet demeanor. Thistime, Kit did smile, and crossed the room to raise the decanter. Delicateglasses, with a soft blue spiral design, the bottom center rising like awhirlpool in reverse. Homely and humble, compared to Faerie s crystalbubbles. He slid his palm around one while it filled.
I m drinking, Kit said, watching Will in a looking glass hung on the wall.His hand trembled and his eye was unsure. Brandywine the rich gold of ambersplashed the marble of the sideboard. Kit turned with the glass in his hand.Art thou? Will I have need of it? Yes. Then no. Will winked; he d scored in the familiar game.I might have overfilled the glass. But no. Kit didn t spill any more. Come on, Kit said. We re going to the kitchen. Sir Francis takes littlebreakfast and almost nothing at dinner, and keeps no cook. The servants willlikely be done with their repast and gone about their duties.The kitchen? I ve something to show thee. Kit held the door for Will. He led them through Walsingham s well-appointed hallways and down a half flight on theservant s stair, near blind in the darkness, careful not to stumble.They came into a room that was both close and dark. Hold my glass, he said,and found the latch. There were always secret ways in Walsingham s houses,and before Francis had survived the poison that had left him so ill he hadchosen to pretend he had died of it, Kit had known most of them. Voila. The kitchen. As predicted, the room was deserted, dark, and close. A banked fire glowed onthe hearth; the yeasty thickness of rising bread spread under oiled clothsmade him sneeze. A homely place. For now.He retrieved his glass and noticed that the level had dropped. Ah, Will.What? It s like Faustus, isn t it? The scent of charred flesh. The heat of theovens of Hell. A table along one wall held heavy knives and kitchen axes, achopping block and hooks for fowl and roasts. An unfortunate hen graced thecenter peg. Destined for soup: Walsingham could manage little else.Kit, what are you about?But he didn t answer. The taste of the liquor nauseated him, but he swallowedanyway. A fat hen on a hook. Not Will. Will cleared his throat. I need to know how to do what you did. How to writeplays thatChange things?Aye. I do not think my teacher understands what he says he understands. Knowyou the Earl of Oxford?Edward, Kit said. The firelight made the room dim, but he could see theripples shaking through his glass. Aye, we are acquainted. That is to say,he is beknownst to me, and I to him. He glanced over his shoulder the longturn for his missing eye to make sure Will took his meaning. Have younoticed how he treats his wife? I have not had occasion. Ah. Kit turned and leaned against the table beside the chopping block, thehard edge pressing his back. The sensation quickened his breath in memory.Her name is also Annie. She s Burghley s daughter: Oxford was raisedBurghley s ward, as was Essex. Essex, who is not fond of Sir Walter. Kit 
brushed the black silk of his breeches, knowing Will would take his meaning:the habitual black of Raleigh s disciples, matching the doublet Walsinghamloaned him, which Kit had left in his room.The School of Night. Sir Walter Raleigh s group of freethinkers andtobacco-smokers, opposed to Essex s group as the men each sought favor withthe Queen. To which Kit had been associated. The alliances are complex.
Oxford wishes his daughter married to Southampton, Essex s friend, Will said quietly. Your little conspiracy has members on both sides of the game,then. The Prometheus Club, I gather, is usThe Prometheus Club is both factions, Kit said. It was one conspiracy, nowsundered at the root. One conspiracy of the Queen s favorites? Sir Walter and Essex?Oh, older than that. From the earliest days of her reign, before you or Iwere even conceived of, sweet William. The schism came later, and there arethose in the other faction who place their own advancement above theQueen s or England s well-being. I believe myself that Good Queen Bess takessome pleasure in playing Essex and Raleigh for rivals and I wonder a bit ifit was Essex who saw fit to have me removed, as I was Sir Walter s friend.I faith, Kit, is there any man in Elizabeth s court you haven t let buggeryou?There s a few I ve buggered instead. Kit waited for the chuckle. Will did not fail him. Will. I said, friend. In any case, Oxford and Burghley havenot been on good terms since Oxford decided that Anne was not to his liking.Your doing.Edward s doing. Anne was blameless as poor Isabella, and kept herblamelessness better. And I m not Gaveston. Tis not meet a good woman shouldsuffer for no greater crime than a bad marriage He felt Will s eyes on hisface, and forced himself to match the gaze. Tis true. I believe you, Will answered. Tremendous tension came out of Kit with the breath he had been painfullyholding.Thank you.But then why art thou dead, or playing at it? And why have you concealedyourself these months? Will was angry, and the thought warmed Kit. How few true friends have you had since you entered this Life?Only Walsingham.
Tis a complicated story, but it suffices that all thought me dead, exceptperhaps Her Majesty, and I might have been dead indeed. All but Sir Francisstill believe it. He put a hand out, pleased with its steadiness, andclapped Will on the shoulder. Art a true friend to me, Will. How it pleasesmy heart, I hope you know.Will s lips thinned around a smile. Is there some message I could pass yourparents in Canterbury?
My . . . No. Since I left Cambridge to become a vile playmaker, they veregarded me as a cuckoo s egg. Better leave me dead.I must tell youThat is? I ran afoul of Poley and Baines at the Sergeant.Despite the warmth in his belly, Kit s mouth ached around the words hecouldn t quite say. Oh, not Will. Not Will. Poley. And Baines together. Didthey see you?They threatened me.Ah, no. Will, you have to break with Oxford and Walsingham now. Burbagetoo Now that you re returned, they can do without me. But I am pleased to defendmy Queen, and if you teach me what you know, the art of your playsDon t choose sides in this. Kit wanted to take the other man by theshoulders and shake him, but he gave him pleading instead. Flee. Take yourAnnie and get away. I m not returned, man. I m dead, and you ll be dead with 
me if you stay. He caught himself worrying his eyepatch, and forced his handdown. Put it on Will s arm, instead, and clutched the broadcloth of hissleeve. Some one of us is a traitor. Some one of us betrayed me, and willbetray you. I trust only Walsingham. You cannot choose sides, Will: they lleat you.Will looked at him for a long moment, and then shook his hand off and movedaway, close to a broken-backed chair pushed up beside the hearthstone. Run if they ve broken you
Broken me! 
I ll not be called a coward. It stung as much as if Will had spoken the accusation plain, and Kit flinchedand looked down. In the dark kitchen that was very like the dungeon that Kit had come here toremember, William Shakespeare shook his head. I mean to choose the side that s right.
Tamora: So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee;No, Let them satisfy their Lust on thee.WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Titus Andronicus Langley s kitchen grew hot and close while Will leaned against the arm of abroken chair and listened to embers crack on the grate. It was a long timebefore Kit answered. Tis not what side is right. Tis what side you reon. Elizabeth and the Protestant Church The third or fourth time you re raped by a priest, you may start to regardthe Church s moral pronouncements with a jaundiced eye. Kit turned away,still cupping that glass, and ran the other fingers over the scarred wood ofthe block. Kit, from you of all people Will left the chair, came close enough tolower his voice and murmur through tightness. Sodomy s accounted a sin worsethan any.What? What two men do willing is a sin worse than rape or usury? Thanmurder? Than denying God? I know Church doctrine A deprecating tilt of hishead to show how well he knew it. Uncomfortable words through a stiff throat. Equal to witchcraft, they say.Then burn me for a witch and a playmaker. I thought better of you. The unspeakable Christofer Marley, may he rot in Hell, and he got Less worse thanhe deserved. Say it if you think it! It s what the Puritans will write.Although by their own doctrine, and I understand it aright, I ve as good achance of election to Heaven as any of them, for if all our acts and oursalvation are predetermined, how can you condemn any man?Will had no answer. It was different, to know generally enough for coarselaughter what men and boys did in small rooms and shared beds, and to lookinto the face of his friend and see a rough, kind sort of honesty that beggedhim to understand it. He moved some steps as if Kit s sin could taint him.Kit picked at the mortar between stones with a fingernail, eyes downcast.
More get at it than you might imagine, Will. Some hypocrites touch and kissand clip and never call it what it is. But I am a lover of discourse, goodWilliam, and as I have said before, I would liefer lose my life than myliberty of speech. A pause, and Kit chuckled. And as I prophesied it, so ithas come true. 
No. But I would hear you say you ve never enjoyed the pleasures of abeardless boy, who cries rape now.Never one who took no enjoyment in return. Kit met Will s gaze a moment,then turned his head and spat upon the floor. Oh, unfair, Shakespeare. Whatdo you take your Marley for?The cellar stone was cool as Will pressed his hand against it. He thought ofhis friend s beautiful hands and lips turned to acts his stomach coiled tothink on, and struck out savagely to deny the image. Is that why you refusedholy orders? Because you couldn t trust yourself around boys? 
Kit half turned back. He shrugged, and Will saw the bitter edge of a smile,as if Kit had expected no less. Call it an unwillingness to practicehypocrisy, and another unwillingness to abandon the pleasures of the flesh. Ishould not expect anyone to understand who does not know for himself andthere was Rheims. Richard Baines was at Rheims. 
Rheims? Where the Romish seminary is?I went to France for Walsingham and Burghley, and made pretence to studyamong the Papists while they plotted. It almost got me barred from my Masterof Arts at Cambridge, but the Privy Council interceded. They knew what I haddone to preserve our Gloriana. I did not tell them all I sufferedThis same Baines who has slandered you since your death?A transparent attempt to turn him aside, but Kit was inexorable. Tis not surprising. Gloriana has said that she would rather a loyal Catholic than aPuritan: our Queen is a freethinker, for all Burghley and his son RobertCecil would like to see every Catholic hanged. Kit looked up, folding onehand into the crook of his elbow as he lifted his glass to his lips. Some of them are Prometheans. Ours, theirs. Does Baines accuse me of atheism andsodomy? Of blaspheming and railing?He does, and puts about the word that you died drunken, cursing God after aknife-fight in some filthy alley.Would that I were drunken at Rheims, when they put the irons to my skin.There s an art to it, did you know? You burn a little, and a little more. Afinger s breadth at a time, and never so deep as to numb sensation. Kit s voice was level and soft as a tutor s, his eye unfocused. And sodomy? Aye,and five men by turns, and one an Inquisitor. As for cursing God? Bainesshould know how I blasphemed in Rheims, before Baines stopped my mouth with ablack scold s bridle. Baines was there, also acting as an agent for theCrown. I could never prove treason against him, though I professed it: heswore he thought I was the Pope s own man and not the Queen s when hebetrayed me. All lies. He belongs to them, though he pretends service to theQueen but what man cares that outrages are perpetrated against a catamite,or a heretic, or a poet?Kit scratched his wrist, half idly, a cat attending to its paw. And Willtasted bile. He wished he could stop his ears with his fingers, but heswallowed and stepped toward his friend. Sayst thou he knew of this? AnEnglishman?!
Oh, Will. Marley worried his eyepatch with nervous fingers. Will, he heldme down. A dark, too-knowing eye. A sliver of an earnest smile. Will looked down,looked away. Anywhere but at his friend. Kit 
It wasn t so much different than Cambridge, all in all. I have been told Iwas a lovely boy.Oh, sweet Christofer. Will s knees folded and he sat down on the floor. One hand landed on the edge of the half-mended chair. He hauled himself into it,shaking.Kit squared his shoulders, leaning against the wall, one hand circling in thedim room like a white moth near a flame. So, three times now I ve escapedhim and his masters. In Rheims, when he referred me to the Catholicplotters though I have some satisfaction in knowing that truer Papists caughthim out before he left France, and they put him to the question in thestrappado. Then in the Low Countries, when he forged a charge ofcounterfeiting upon me. And in England, now, and a knife in a hand I thoughta friend s. 
Can you prove it was Baines?I can prove it was Thomas Walsingham. And Baines will do as a sop to myrage, can I not find the grace to beard his master. But yet the Crown sees inthem both loyal men. I must have proof, or his death. Elizabeth can lackstomach for blood. Kit stopped as if his voice ran dry. But I see I shock you. 
Will unclenched his hands from the chair arms and stood. No. Tell me more. Tell me about these shadows we oppose. Tell me how you escaped.Kit threw his brandy back like a man intending to get drunk, and quickly.Glancing at the glass in his hand as if he meant to hurl it into the hearth,he shook his head and after three quick steps set the fragile thing lightlyon the mantel. He crouched before the fire and held his hands out. You re expecting the story of a daring escape.Will nodded. Close heat made his beard itch.
 I swore Bess and the Church of England blue and bloody. I vowed I d see herheadless corpse dragged through the London gutter. I vowed I made them think they had broken me. Hell, they did break me. I would have crawled, andgladly, but I hid my loyalty to our Queen A sound almost like a hiccup, soWill averted his gaze. It doesn t matter. I lied. And I lived. And later a few were hanged. Hast seen a Tyburn hanging?God help Will, he had. Slow strangulation, but not to the death. With thecriminal cut down living, disemboweled living, emasculated living, hackedinto bloody chunks.God have mercy, by then almost certainly dead.
That s what a Queen s Man is, Will. It isn t for you.Will raised his hand from Kit s shoulder, brushed his fluff of hair aside. Hehalf expected a flinch, but Kit turned the long way round to look upon himsquare. Christofer 
How plainly can I tell you? Get out. This is not for you.How old were you?How ? I was twenty-three. It wasn t so long ago.You survived. Lucky me. Unlucky Edward the Second. Or with an airy wave of his hand that 
Gaulish or Saxon commander. Whatever his name was. The one the Romans cut slits in, so more could go at him at once. Or was he a Roman raped by Gauls?Still, an Inquisitor. I m tempted to count it some species of honor.He s drunk after all, Will realized, and almost laughed that the only reasonhe had known it was that Kit couldn t remember the name of an obscure historical figure. Not the tactics the Inquisition normally approves.A tilt of Kit s head, and that fleeting smile, shy as a girl s. It does seem a touch unprofessional, doesn t it? These Catholics at Rheims were no trueCatholics. They did not seem overly concerned with what the Church bids orunbids. I can t but say I agree, somewhat: had God not wished us to savormeat and enjoy drink, he would have given us tongues too numb for tasting.Had he not intended us to enjoy companionship, would he have given us tonguesso facile for conversation . . . or such a taste for it? The Church is not God. 
Kit, that s heresy.A smile bent around his scars. I died for it. Will opened his mouth. Embers in the banked hearth popped.Kit rested his hands on Will s shoulders, leaned his forehead against thebridge of Will s nose. These are very bad people, Will. Get out. Go to theContinent. Join a nunnery. Save yourself.Will set him back at arm s length and studied his face. Flushed, maybe, buthis gaze was sharp and he stood steady on his feet. You haven t run. 
I m Kit Marley.And I m Will Shakespeare. Dammit, Marley, an you d ward me, tell me truth!The truth? Will took a breath. Aye.Kit gestured to the chair and hooked a peeling stool over with the toe of hisboot. If you can t be dissuaded, he said, then by what s holy, Will, sitdown. 
You must be proud, bold, pleasant, resoluteAnd now and then stab, as occasion servesCHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Edward II 
The fire burned low. Kit found a black iron poker beside the hearth a longbit of rodstock with a looped handle, the tip spiraling to a point like someblack unicorn s horn and poked the coals idly, knocking sparks and cinders upthe chimney. An orange flame licked in the crevices, and Kit wedged the pokerthere, resting the loop on his knee.Will coughed once against the back of his wrist. Kit at last folded his armsone over the other and smiled. You re tangled over Titus. 
I m horrified, Will answered with a shrug. I ve got to Lavinia mutilated,ravished and next I must have the Moor s treachery to Titus, and I findmyself as tongueless as Lavinia, and as bottled full of tales. Hands cut off,tongue torn out. How does a man make that real?
You haven t her rage to put in it.Will nodded. Her rage and her hurt. Tis not something that can be set rightin an act. 
Tis not something that can be set right. That s what makes it a tragedy.The coals had gone dark near the poker s tip. Kit leaned forward and puffedair until they flared blue and orange, casting disconcerting heat across hisface. The plays your plays have the power to make people believe. Some ofit this craft lies in what I did to Titus. Some of it is in your own visionand tongue. Oxford writes some scenes and words, but he only knows what Itaught him. It s Plato s magic; you make an ideal thing, and if the peoplebelieve that thing, the world itself must be beaten to the form.
Plato. Like love, then.Aye, Kit said dryly. If you believe in love. And then the performance.Alleyn was good enough to carry the spell. Burbage and Kemp are strong aswell. He twisted the poker in the fire, one boot propped on the hearthstone.There s an art to that too: to giving the audience belief in a dream as real as the touch of hand. The Senecan structure won t work for it, and blankverse is too static. Fourteeners are a loss, too formalA Platonic ideal. 
and people will live for it. It seems too simple, doesn t it? Kit looked away from the embers. The loop of the poker grew warm against his knee. Heshifted its resting place from his stocking to his breeches. But give themmen who could grasp heaven, and who turn away through willfulness and greed.Give them strong kings, or give them the truth of what happens when kings arenot strong. Make them grieve for men they would hate but it must be fresh,not stylized: words spoken trippingly on the tongue. Reality is drama. He paused, and watched Will chew his mustache. Like that lemon tree of Sir Francis . If you can convince enough eyes they ve seen a thing if you canconvince a man or a beast he is a thing better than he is, more loyal, moretrue that thing holds.
I have often thought, Will said carefully, for this was a heresy too, that a man given half a chance might act morally. Because he knows what moralityis. Not Robert Poley.No. But another man. What man? Myself. You. Her Majesty. You don t believe in God. And yet you were neverbut kind to me. Oh, Kit said. I believe in God well enough. It s the Church I take issuewith. But who would believe Kit Marley, monarchist?A King we must have. A man might prefer a strong woman who temporizes to aweak man who beheads. Kit looked at his nails. Will cleared his throat after a time. And . . . you say Titus is formal. And finish it formal. You ve an ear for a scansion and a fair eye for animage, and there s this in you: thou fearest not to own the myth. But now youmust put the fire in it, and not shy away, and bring them under the spell ofyour words. You ve played my Jew. 
I have. Will smiled. Tis strong. But the third actI know. It wasn t all the play he would have had it be. Write thy playsabout people. You ve a way of spinning height and depth I envy. All I m fitfor is making light in darkness, and spreading blood and bitter farce acrossthe planks.Foolishness, Kit. I ve read your Leander. Pretty, isn t it? I m partial to Tamburlaine myself: still my best work, Ithink. Will choked, and laughed, and turned back on himself nimble as a ferret.Where s this danger?The danger s in the men who don t want the plays written. Men like Baines,and Sir Walter s rival, the Earl of Essex.Raleigh is an ally?Raleigh is someone I cultivated a bit, but he is not one of ours. RobertDevereaux, though Essex is one of theirs. Though both sides still use thesame name, and trade alliances like chessmen.What do they want? Kit marshaled half-drunken thoughts. As I think it? Elizabeth off the throne, for one thing. A ruler in her place without such personality.Gloriana is the Faerie Queene. The other Prometheans, their goal is theelevation of man. Admirable. They want safety and an end to poetry, Will. An end to greatness of spirit,and all men made equal. They want to own God, and use him to make all mensubject. I should liefer lose my life than my liberty of thought.And our half? Our half, is it still? Elizabeth and England, we stand for. Tis rough work.Even for a rogue like myself, whose works drip with gore, unacquainted withgentle thoughts.Can the man who wrote Hero and Leander claim to be unacquainted with gentlethoughts?Acquainted and yet unacquainted. Kit shifted before the iron could scorch his leg. The tip was not yet glowing. Tis a quaint small thing, a poemabout passionKit, it s a poem about Leander s arse.The iron slipped: Kit caught it right-handed and hissed, juggling a twist ofsleeve around the metal to shield his hand. How smooth his breast was, andhow white his belly, / And whose immortal fingers did imprint, / Thatheavenly path, with many a curious dint, / That runs along his back, but myrude pen
Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men. Will s long nose dentedsideways with the twisting mouth. I faith, I think betimes you purpose toshock. You underestimate the wit in your pen, rude as it may be or so I veheard tell. From those with more interest in the loves of men than I. 
Rude enough for most purposes. It was his last chance to impress upon theman the severity of his choices. Is this pen enough to write with? He lifted the poker until the smoking end hovered a finger s width fromShakespeare s eye. Will. Move not.
 Kit, what are you about There was a little squeal in Will s voice, good.And a tremor under it as Will pressed his head back hard against the wall.Ah, there was a red glow at the tip after all, like a pen dipped in blood.Excellent.
 Look on it well, he said, watching Will s shoulders rise as if that couldprotect his face from the cherry-hot iron. Kit swallowed bitterness when itrose up his throat one more time, but couldn t quite get the taste down. Athunder in his chest like beating wings prevented it. Will s eye wasgray-blue and looked very soft; he didn t blink, and the dark pupil swelledas if it would encompass the whole of the iris in velvet black. Will seyelashes curled from the iron s heat; Kit drew it back a little. That could 
be thy final vision. Imagine it. Can you imagine? Image yourself unhandedlike Stubbs, or racked like Kyd, or branded and blinded like me. Damn you,William Shakespeare. See it. The apple in Will s throat bobbled. He dared not nod.
Tell me once more you mean to do this, and I ll let it lie.Will s mouth worked. I mean to do this thing.Bloody hell. But Kit said it tiredly, and turned and strode to the table,and drew back his arm. The poker was heavier than a rapier, but he managedwell enough to be pleased: the strength wasn t out of his shoulder.A thump first, and close on its heel a sizzle. Kit thrust the fireplace pokerthrough the body of the unfortunate hen off-center, his aim untrue with hismissing eye and into the mortar of the wall. It didn t hold: he stepped backfrom the clatter as it fell. Damn you to hell, William Shakespeare.
Oh. Will stood. I can probably manage that for myself. He came and threw an arm over Kit s shoulder, and Kit dropped an arm around his waist. I knew you wouldn t put my eye out.Kit heard an edge of hysteria in his own laugh, and wished he could afford toget drunker. Clearheadedness was the last thing he wanted. I wouldn t relyon that knowing too much, my friend. 
Act I, scene viii
Hark, countrymen! either renew the fight,Or tear the Lions out of England s coat . . .WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, First Part of King Henry the SixthWill itched with the sensation of words filling his brain, like a pressurebehind his eyes. Kit saw it: Will could tell from the sly way the other poetabandoned him in the drawing room amid cider and staling crumpets, beside aleather-surfaced secretary fitted with every tool for writing a man couldwant. Will fetched another cup of cider and settled himself with his back toa window so light could fall over his shoulder. He proceeded to deface firstone and then another sheet with his cramped looping hand. Fewer mark-outsthis time, fewer words scratched through.It was well that Kit walked into the edge of the door frame on his way backinto the room, or Will might have upset the ink pot in startlement. Willglanced up. The light had changed and he d turned in his chair to follow itwithout noticing, and he d covered half a score of folded leaves with notesand lines of dialogue, scanned lines sketched here and there with adouble-underlined blank, waiting for the perfect word.
Christus lacrimavit, Kit growled, rubbing his shoulder. He d changed to ashirt of cobweb lawn, this one without scorches on the sleeve; a doublet ofblack silk taffeta, slashed crimson, was slung unbuttoned around hisshoulders. Walsingham is resting. How comes it?
It comes. Will pushed the pages across the desk, waving Kit an invitation.I don t remember you so clumsy, even drunk.If I were still drunken, I d have something to answer for. Tis noon. Didst not hear the bell? Kit riffled pages until he found the first. I ve been tripping on nothings since . . . He tapped a knuckle on the eyepatch withoutlooking up.Not yet accustomed?It seems only an hour gone by when I had two good eyes to see with. Will,that any mortal man can write such verse so quickly is an affront to angels.This exchange betwixt Marcus and Titus with Titus unhanded, and his sonsbeheaded, and his daughter dismembered Why dost thou Laugh? it fits notwith this hour. Why, I have not another tear to shed. That s good, Iwarrant. It does sing true: to read it, you can see the man smile, and it isterrible. Crisp pages rustled; Kit held each up, opened along the folds toread slowly, tasting the words.Learning them, Will thought. Is he truly so blind to the irony? He found himself looking at his friend s face for a shadow of pain, and saw only aplayer s concentration, a thin line etched between Kit s dark brows.Will went to the window. He rested a hand on the glass and stood looking overthe garden, watching yellowing leaves twist in a soft October breeze. If youmean to go about London unnoticed, you might dress less like ChristoferMarley and more like a cobbler s son. I can bring a false beard from theTheatre, and a bit of gum. No one will see aught but that and the eyepatch,an you play the role.A cobbler s son. Amusement in that. Only a man who dresses like a glover sson would say so.One more rustle, then silence as the pages stopped turning.We ve come from close places, haven t we, Will? And worn very differentroads to the same end: poetry and service.Your father saw the value of an education. As yours did not. I may have to teach you Latin.Shakespeare snorted.Another leaf tugged loose of a pear twig before Kit spoke again. I shan t be in London long.Where will you go?I cannot tell. Where can I write to you? 
I do not know. Will paused. You ll be on some mission for Her Majesty, he said,considering. I understand. No, Kit answered. I go tonight, under cover of darkness, to beg my serviceback from Gloriana, in point of fact. I have been offered refuge by a foreignmonarch, that I might live.That you might live? Will set his rump on the window ledge. Kit stillstared at the pages, but his eye no longer scanned the lines. What mean you?I am A breath, and a sigh. Kit s shoulders rose and fell as he steppedback from the desk, scrubbing his nails on his doublet. The motion arrested;he plucked at the material, pulling it into the light to examine. It is a little Kit Marley, isn t it? No matter. I m poisoned, Will, with a slowpoison, and the cure lies in a foreign land. If I do not return I shall die.He ruffled paper. Horribly, I am assured.Which was truth, Will decided, watching Kit. Or as much of a truth as anyonewas like to get from Marley. I shall worry.
And I for thee. You ll be in more danger. But I shall discover how a lettermay find me, if a letter may find me, and send you word on the means.I may take a month in Stratford come Christmastime. If the plague stays inLondon. If the playhouses stay closed. If you send a letter. Will resumed his chair and reached for a fresh sheet. He could feel Kit s smile resting onhim. Annie is speaking to you again.Annie thinks I should see my children, as she had Susanna write me, before we re grown and gone. I ll be sleeping in the third-best bed with Hamnet, Iimagine. And she s yet a better wife than I deserve, Kit: there s few enoughwomen who would even pretend to understand why a man might leave kith and kinto crawl through the gutters of strange cities, all for the grace of a poem.There s few enough men who understand it, Kit replied. And, here or inStratford, I may be capable to make a visit, now and again.From overseas? Not so much overseas as under them, Kit said cryptically. He glanced at thewindow, measuring the light, and fanned the folded sheets upon the desk.Shall we work on these a little, before I must disguise myself for HerMajesty?Will Sir Francis loan you a cloak? A hood should suffice in a carriage. Keepthe doublet: you ll want to look pretty for the Queen. Otherwise she won tbelieve you re Marley.At least I don t dress like a Puritan, Kit answered, with a scornful glancefor Will s brown broadcloth, and reached across the desk for a pen. 
Act I, scene ixDido : What stranger art thou that doest eye me thus?Aeneas: Sometime I was a Troian, mighty Queene:But Troy is not, what shall I say I am?
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Dido, Queen of CarthageYou ll want to look pretty for the Queen. Kit caught himself examining hisfingernails in the light of the candles burning on a gilt wooden table, andlet his hands fall to his sides. There was ink along the knuckle of hisforefinger, but that was nothing unusual, and at least he was tidier thanShakespeare. Will took no pride in his appearance or his scribing whatsoever.
And writing Lines such as his, he does not need false pride. Anyway, tis Sir Walter s duty to Look pretty for his Queen, and not mine. Queens will justhave to take me as they find me.
Gallant thoughts, for a man alone in a small white marble room with noescape, when anything could be coming down the narrow passageway he d enteredthrough. A long table and a few narrow windows dominated the room, litbetween flickering shadows by a rack of candles like stag s antlers. Hewondered if he were quartered in a priest s closet, or some strangerappurtenance and how riddled the walls of Winchester might be.Walsingham had led Kit through a secret passage within a chapel at WinchesterPalace, and then taken Kit s dagger and abandoned him. Kit wasn t sure whatgarden the small, tight window looked over, but it admitted a breath of air,and over the flowers he could smell the river. At least it wasn t an abattoir, as in Deptford.The Queen was letting him cool his heels. He examined the ink stain on hisfingertip again: it resembled a map of Italy. He pressed back a mousy handfulof hair. At last, soft footsteps sounded beyond the panel, and Kit turnedwith a question on his lips, hoping it would be Walsingham come to retrievehim but fearing it could be another sort of visitor altogether one armed withsharp steel and a quarrel.The panel slid open, and Kit stepped forward. And met, open-mouthed, themasterful gaze of his Elizabeth. Alone and without escort.
Highness! he stuttered, and bent a knee somewhat credibly, for all hishead-kicked foolishness. His breath hurt his throat, but he held it and kepthis eyes on her shoes. Gold cloth, sewn with pearls. Toepointed slippersclicked daintily on the marble as she stepped forward, her hem so stiff withlace that it made a sound brushing the threshold like a curry down a horse sback. The scent of herbs and musk as she hesitated, and Kit wondered for amoment if she might strike him. She was not unknown to lay her wrath on thosewho displeased her.
Sir Christofer Marley, she said, after a while. He choked on that heldbreath and looked up at her despite himself. Into a prescient smile under thecrimson tower of her wig and eyes wide with mockery and amusement. Yes, weknow something of your adventures. Stand up straight, lad: even Queens tireof bended necks when they haven t an axe to hand.He stood. Your Highness is well-informed.
We pay a great deal for the privilege, she answered. In gold and coin, andin the flesh and blood of our loyal subjects. Has she claimed thee?Your Highness?The Queen of Faerie, she said, with a lift of her chin. She shut the panelbehind herself and claimed the center of the narrow chamber. Kit s pulsefluttered in his throat: a different sort of awe than what the Faerie Queenproduced. This was the awe of temporal power, of strength and age and a witequal to any man s. She is the pillar the sky is hung from. The beautiful pitiless lady. Has she claimed you?She wishes to, madam, he answered. But her sister, called Queen Morgan,was the one who knighted me.And bedded you? Oh, don t blush like that. For all tis engaging. We knowsomething of the ways of the Fae. So. Stolen by Faeries, Queen s Man. And yet 
you seek an audience with your Sovereign, and we are disposed to grant it.Speak.Your Highness. Her eyebrow arched under its paint as he sought for words.
Do women always fluster you so badly, Kit?Only when they re Queens. He genuflected again, straightening hastily whenshe coughed.Sir Poet, she said, not unkindly. We are pleased that our subtleties havepreserved you, and well-pleased are we to see you well. But now our goodWalsingham tells us you beg release of your oaths of service. Your Queenwould know why, and what adventures befell you. Our intimate Spirit,Burghley, had you buried, and those were of a certainment not our orders.
My Queen. He would have gone to one knee again, but her worn, irritatedfingers caught his elbow and held him on his feet. He couldn t look Glorianain the eye, though she put her fingers under his chin and tilted his facelike a maiden aunt with a wayward boy. What choice is left me? He saw her lips purse under the masque of her paint, smelled the marjoram andambergris and civet that clothed her. She tilted her head to examine hiseyepatch and the scar that ran beneath it. What befell thee, Queen s Man?
Your Highness knowsYour own words, man, and be quick about it.A dagger in the eye, Your Highness. He choked. Thomas Walsingham s menYour death was to be an illusion, Christofer Marley, she said, seeming not
to notice when her words rode over his. A false body put in your place, andyou spirited overseas. As was arranged in the letter you should have hadunder our seal. You have given much, and demanded little. We thought to makerecompense.
It was not so, Your Highness.We see. Her hand left a trace of scent on his skin as she stepped away, hergaze steady on his scar. I ve witnessed worse, but it is not pretty. Andearned in our service. You are a poet, she continued without a breath. Give us a poem.That was a challenge. She smiled when he drew himself up. And yet before Iyield my fainting breath, I quite the killer, though I blame the kind, Kit whispered, amazed at his own audacity. You kill unkind, I die, and yet amtrue, For at your sight, my wound doth bleed anewFalsely said, but pretty. Like all sentiments of poesy. As a poet myself,I ll forgive it. Our subterfuge Burghley s, Thomas Walsingham s, and mine wasto have saved you.Kit nodded. A cramp knotted his stomach; he had to brace his knees or theywould have failed. Dead men are hard-pressed to die again. My Queen. I knewyou could not prove false to me, for all you are a Prince, you are a woman astrue as any woman, and the mother of a son.She stepped back as if stung, and then shook her head in admiration and rue.
Hist! Kit Marley, you ve got a tongue in you. Wilt convert me to atheismnow? She leaned close, voice confidential. You are privileged in your loss thisonce and once alone. Unmarried Queens do not have children, sir.
Your Highness. As I am bidShe smiled then, gentled. We are given to understand that we owe you lifeand reign twice over, Sir Poet. We meant to reward you with your life, but itseems you have that in spite of us. What would complete thee?
Do you know, Your Highness, of Thomas Walsingham s faithlessness?Not unlike his cousin, she said, whose trickery painted me to a standwhere I must have my royal cousin executed. The men who support me are trueto my reign, but they will work at cross-purposes. We believe he is uprightin his conviction that your death was warranted for all he was misled to that conclusion. Do not ask yourself revenged on him.I would not. Does Your Highness wish our task ended? 
A tilt of her head under the weight of pearls and hair. A subtle smile. We are, she said, very fond of plays. You were about to answer my question.
I should ask for Ingrim s head roasted and brought in on a platter with anapple in his mouth, and bits of boiled egg to make the eyes. I was a guestof that same Thomas Walsingham when your summons found me, Kit said carefully. There were papers. Manuscripts. Poems, part of a play
I am sorry. He believed her. He has burned them. Better my life lost than my words, Your Highness, Kit said. There is nothing else I will be remembered by.She stared down her nose. You will be remembered as a sodomite, a heretic,and a mediocre playmender who died in a cluttered tavern through a tawdrybrawl over some free-looking young man s favors. We pardoned your IngrimFrazier, and we have buried your name, and we have saved your body andperhaps your immortal soul. Our Spirit s cousin, the estimable Widow Bull,will be tarred as a feckless tavern wench, and all that will be known ofMarley is that he was a shoemaker s son who came to a sad and ugly end. And then that smile, and a negligent wave of a jeweled hand. You may save yourthank-yous.Every word a blow, and yet the logic galled like a spur against his skin.
Widow Bull is Baron Burghley s cousin? Your Highness! I did not know that.She is also a distant cousin of the Queen of Faerie s court musician.Elizabeth s smile broadened. Twas she saved your life, sweet poet. Her delight was a schoolgirl s, and Kit could almost smell stolen flowers when hemet her eyes.Thank you, Your Highness, he murmured, and she laughed like a very youngwoman indeed. I knew it should come. Now beg your boon. The hour grows late, and old womenkept from their beds wax querulous.She d used and discarded him like a street-corner lightskirt, and still hepermitted her to charm him.As if permission had anything to do with it. Your Highness. If it suits you,would you share what you know of the Mebd, your sister Queen?Elizabeth s eyes widened: her only indication of surprise. A fair and clever question, Sir Christofer, she answered. And one I cannot answer with the rectitude that it deserves but I will send you as well armed into Faerie as Imay, and hope you will remember your old Queen with fondness. Her smile grewpensive under white lead paint and carmine. Dizziness spun him. I have been ever too fond with you greedy, extravagant boys.Our reign reinforces the Mebd s, and so in subtle ways she supports it. Thetricks you wreak with your plays have a greater place there than here, forher land is wove of the stuff of ballads and legendry. A strong Queen inEngland means a strong Queen of the Bless d Isle, and she is old enough toknow it. Old enough to remember Boudicca and Guenevere.But you have a problem, Sir Christofer. She paced, pausing at last by thecandelabra, and passed her hand through flames as if she caressed a lover sface. Because it wasn t the Queen of Faerie who knighted you and bedded youand took you into her service, was it? And when we release you, it is not toher service you will go. And she is dangerous when thwarted, that one, andambitious to a fault. 
Morgan, he said, understanding, as another spasm wracked him. Was the souppoisoned? Does she want her sister s crown? Elizabeth shrugged, and her eyes grew dark before she turned away. Who can say what one Queen wants of another?
Who can say, indeed. I will never He stopped, and then found his voiceagain. Great QueenDo not flatter me, Christofer. Tis boring.Your Highness. You release me from your service.We do. 
He bowed around the hollowness that filled his throat, though pain grew inhis belly like a flame. I must return to Morgan, he thought, realizing thesource of the agony suddenly. Service is what I have borne you, YourHighness, for I have not known you. And now that I bear you no service, Ifind I do know you. And my Queen, for what a playmaker s word is worth, Ihave traded that colder thing for a warmer thing, and with your permission, Iwill say now that I bear you love.
So many masks, Sir Christofer. She raised one hand to her face. We have that in common. Her eyes narrowed as he broke, leaned forward, a cold sweatdewing his forehead.Your Highness he apologized, and she waved him silent.Gone too long from Faerie already, she sniffed. There s a mirror in mychambers that will serve. Come, then. Lean on mine arm.Your Highness. It is beneath your dignity. But a bubble of pain silencedhim. Elizabeth jerked her chin, dismissing his protest with a gesture. I am old and a Queen, and you shall do as you are bid. I will not have your life on myconscience after so much contrivance to preserve it!Your Highness, Kit answered. And for the last time in a short mortal life,obeyed an order from his Queen.She handed him through the mirror, an old woman s exquisite fingers steadyinghim. The glass surface clutched like bread dough, then snapped away beforeit could tear; he tumbled through, striking his knees and hands on stone.When he pushed himself up he thought the Queen s long hands had come withhim. But no, it was a rasping voice, jingle of bells in flicking ears, a strongsmall figure propping him up. Sir Poet? 
Puck. Kit struggled to a crouch, the agony in his gut receding. And didn tunderstand why his next words were, Where is Morgan?And whence the twist of worry and Lust that almost sent him back to his knees a moment after he d toiled up off them?
Oh, about her tasks, I imagine. Or in her rooms. The Mebd set me to watchfor you. She thought you might need assistance.I did, Kit said, but I found it. Morgan s rooms does Murchaud keepquarters here?The Puck s lips compressed as if Kit had said something unwittingly funny,but there was concern? sorrow? in the droop of the little man s ears and theset of his eyes. Aye, he said. I ll show you Morgan s rooms. And PrinceMurchaud s. And the ones that will be your own.
Mine own? It was a pressure. The beat of a wave. As if being gone fromMorgan s side had pooled behind a dam, and now all struck him suddenly. Gone? Kit, you bedded her not two days since. But gone was the word, and gonestayed with him.
Aye, Puck said. The Mebd s given you an apartment. Would you like toMorgan, Kit said, and it came out a whimper. God, what has she done to me,Christ, what has she done
As you wish it. Puck reached up to take Kit by the elbow. Kit thought heheard pity in the little Fae s voice, but it might have been only the jingleof his bells. The gallery over the Great Hall is by way of these stairsKit lurched up them half at a run, aware that Robin fell behind on purposeand watched him go, bells jingling. Kit found Morgan s door as much by luckas memory, tried the latch, slipped within breathing like a racehorse.Morgan. She sat before the window, embroidering. Her golden hands moved over andunder the frame, chasing a silver needle, dragging threads of colors Kitcould barely comprehend through linen white as doves. She glanced up, pushedher stool back from the frame, and stood.
Safe home, she said, and he hurried across the floor to her, the iron nailsin his boots ringing immunity. She met him halfway, sleeves rolled back from 
the linen of her kirtle, clad in a gown so antique Kit had only seen thestyle on statues and in tapestries. Sir Kit. He hadn t words. Something screamed betrayal in his belly. Christ. Christ. He couldn t name it. She brought her arms up, laced them about his neck when hefroze, suddenly, aching. Craving. My QueenShe laughed, mocking, her black hair tossed over her shoulder, braided into arope to bind his soul. Long and long since I heard those words, she said.
 Speak more.But words abandoned him again. He fumbled at the knots on her gown, torecloth. Never Like this and this is not me but she was lovely, oh, skingleaming in the light that streamed through the window, thighs like pillarsrevealing a flash of Heaven s gate as she stepped neatly from discardedclothing. He had no words. For the first time in his life, he had no words. He couldn t kiss her mouth. Couldn t bear that intimacy. He dragged her intoan embrace, teeth against her throat, half sensible that he first crushedher, scratched her against the embroidery and jeweled fixtures of his doubletand then slammed her to the wall, cold stone against his knuckles, her nakedbody twisting in his grip, her hair knotted in his fist. Christ. It hurt. He bloodied his hand on the rough stone dragging it from behind her,fumbled the points on his breeches, the warmth of her sex against his scrapedflesh like a siren song. What am I doing?What 
No, he was a juggernaut. Automaton. She whimpered as he tore at her shoulderwith his teeth, tasted the salt of her tears, his tears, remembered a mouthfull of more blood than this and the pain of torture, rape, confession. Hestrangled on a scream he couldn t quite voice, unlaced an erection he thoughtmight just burst Christ, she s pliant and end his suffering, pinned her tothe wall as she squirmed against the velvet and silk and rough decoration ofhis clothes. 
No. No. No.
 Christofer. A murmur. One hand, light on his collar.God. Almost a whisper. More of a groan. His hand cupped her sex. He mighthave been a statue. Morgan.Not yet.What? He ached, twitched. Writhed toward her warmthI m not ready.
Oh. 
He stroked her breasts with bloodied hands. Caressed the curve of her belly,the amplification of her thighs. Fell down on his knees before her. Kissedthe arch of her hips, the black-forested delta below. She tasted of vinegar,rosemary, honey.He wept. He made her scream and knot her hands in his hair, pulling untilheat seared his scalp. When she gave consent at last, he took her there, onthe floor by the window, her naked body arching against his black-velvet-cladone and she licked hot tears from his cheeks and laughed. 
Act I, scene x
Malvolio: . . . Thy Fates open their hands; Let thy blood and spirit embracethem; and, to inure thyself to what thou art Like to be, cast thy humbleslough and appear fresh.WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Twelfth NightFor once, Burbage knocked before he entered. Or possibly, he tried the handleand found it latched. A new habit. Will rose from his seat against the chimney his room had no hearth, but theheat from the ground floor s giant fireplaces kept the corner nearest the bedtolerably warm except in the coldest hours of morning and carefully laid hisquill aside before crossing the wide floorboards to answer. His fingerlessgloves made his grip on the wooden doorpull uncertain, but he fumbled it openafter a moment s struggle.December cold flushed Burbage s cheeks as he came into Will s drafty singleroom. He unwound and dropped his muffler on the table next to Will s squatlamp and the papers, where it shed a few flakes of snow. Will, I have wordfrom the Lord Chamberlain. He s spoken to Lord Strange, and the playhouseswill open in January. We ll start rehearsals for Titus, and see if we canbreak the plague once and for all.Will leaned back against the wall, stretching limbs stiff from too longhunched over his writing. Will it suffice? 
I don t know. Burbage laid his hands against the chimney bricks, warmingfingers tinged white. There s more. The Queen requests a comedy for TwelfthNight. The word through Burghley is that she wishes to see weddings andbeddings in no particular order. Have you something?Will handed Burbage the first two or three of the folded sheets scatteredacross his table. Almost the last words I heard from poor Kit Marley werethat I should not short myself for comedy.
Katharine, eh? A likely name. Why Padua?In the cold months, a man likes to dream of warm places. Will shrugged.She s a shrew no man will marry, and well, tis a metaphor. As a wise andgentle woman respects her lord, so must a land bow to its sovereign. I llfinish it in time for Oxford and Walsingham to dig the nibs of their spellsbetween its lines, and then for mine own hand to correct their scansion.Will picked up the page he had been working on, judged it dry, and held itcloser to the poor light. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, /Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, / And for thy maintenancecommits his body / To painful labor both by sea and land, / To watch thenight in storms, the day in cold, / Whilst thou liest warm at home, secureand safe; / And craves no other tribute at thy hands / But love, fair looks,and true obedience; / Too little payment for so great a debt. / Such duty asthe subject owes the prince, / Even such a woman oweth to her husbandWill glanced up. Burbage was smiling.
Twill serve? Twill please the Queen: she has little use for women.Tis a trick I had from Kit 
Will. Burbage shook his head. You know Strange won t hear Marley spokenof, and has forbidden us to rehearse his plays. It is a risk to so oftenspeak his name. He s dead, man, and there s little you can do to stem thetide of scandal now. 
He was your friend, Richard.Aye, and dead, I say again. And you are my friend as well, and quick. Do youhear me? I hear you, Will answered, but rebellion soaked his heart. Not so dead after all, he wanted to retort. But he remembered Kit s words: One among usis a traitor. It could be Burbage.It could be anyone. A chill settled into Will s bones. He tossed the scribbled leaf upon his table and stepped back beside Burbage, against the 
warmth of the chimney wall. Twelfth Night and then he paused, anotherdread setting in. I promised Annie I would come to Stratford for Christmas.I was to leave on Monday morn.Richard tugged his mittens back on. Send her a letter. Bid her to London: quote those lines you just quoted to me. Surely they will stir a woman sheart to understanding. Are these ready for Oxford? A gesture indicated thepages on the table.
They are. Will edged one sheet a little farther from the lamp with aforefinger. Oil from his fingertip glistened on the paper. Take them from mysight.Will. What? I had supper with Ned Alleyn at the Mermaid last night. Most of theplayers Lord Strange s Men and the Admiral s Men have been whiling away anidle hour there now and again while the playhouses are shuttered. It wouldn tdo you any harm to be seen more often: you re missed, and some wonder ifyou re well. But aside from that Burbage raised a hand to forestall Will sinterruption Ned said if I saw you, to tell you this: Robert Poley s beenLooking for our Will, and in the company of a great oaf of a tradesman, blondas a Dane. 
Burbage mimicked Alleyn s sonorous tones perfectly. Will would have laughedif he hadn t recognized the description. Baines. Looking for me? Did Poleysay why?As it was Poley, I assumed you owed him money and he d come to take it outof your back in one-inch strips. Chapman s still in debt to the usuriousbastard No. It s not money. Thank you, Richard, and I ll come by the Mermaid tonightand thank Ned myself.Ned said the second man was near as big as Ned himself. Burbage s voicefell. There s more on Strange, as well. Burghley as it happens, Lord Strangewas contacted by a Catholic conspiracy. They wished to see him as pretenderto the Throne, and Elizabeth . . . done with.Strange? Accused of treason? Will s voice too dropped to a murmur, as hethought of skulls painted red by the afternoon sun. Surely notNo, he reported the conspiracy to Burghley, and Burghley who has no fondnessfor Catholics of any stripe will use the information as best befits theQueen. All is well.What of the loyal Catholics who will be punished as well as the guilty? But Will didn t say it, although he counted the silence more of a betrayal thanfailing to defend Kit. There was no way to raise Kit s supposition that theCatholic enemy were not Catholic at all, not at their deepest roots. Becausethe man was, as far as Burbage knew, six months dead. Will comforted himselfthat Walsingham should know it, if Burbage didn t.But by that action, Burbage continued, Strange has made of himself anobstacle to the plotters. Have a care, Will, and keep an ear to the wall. He tapped the boards.Oh. Will ordered the pages before he handed them to Burbage. I will. Flakes of paint came away on Will s fingertips as he pushed the Mermaid speeling plank door open. Edmund Spenser s pointed visage and dull brown beardgreeted Will s eye, framed in a lace-tipped falling collar. And what does Spenser in London? Will had heard he was in Ireland, avoiding Lord Burghley swrath. But no one man in London could keep track of the politics thatattended his own name unless that name were Walsingham never mind the onesthat trailed like cloaks and hat-plumes about the shoulders of every man whowas any man at all.A coterie had gathered around England s greatest poet. Spenser held forth,one hand curled around the base of his wine cup and the other moving throughthe air as if he drew strands of wool for spinning. Will paused, not tointerrupt the tale, but he did not miss the broad-shouldered gentleman beside 
Spenser, greased black hair hanging over his untied ruff, slumming it amidstbase players and poets and pamphleteers.It was not a usual thing for a patron to move among his servants in thetheatre. The customary arrangement was for him to loan out his livery forwhatever status or notoriety the players could provide; in exchange, theplayers were not classed masterless men, criminals, but servants to a lord.Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange, turned only slightly as Will entered,offering the playmaker bare acknowledgement. But his dark eyes drifted pastNed Alleyn, big as a chalk giant, who had taken up the thread of conversationnow, bony hands moving like angel s wings. Will followed Strange s glance andnodded, skirting the crowd wooly-faced Chapman jostled his elbow in silentgreeting and went to fetch a bench.Will kicked rushes aside so they wouldn t snag under the wooden legs when hedragged his prize back. The other men gave him room to sit beside his patron.Strange himself waved for the wine, never disrupting the flow of Ned smonologue.
My lord. Will poured two cups as the door swung open on a frigid blast. Thebreeze blew Kemp and two Burbages Richard and his brother Cuthbert into theroom; Cuthbert shut the door firmly. Tis an unusual pleasure to see youhere. 
You are to perform for the Queen. Strange leaned so close Will could smellhis hair pomade. A stout man, Strange, and soft around the middle despite badteeth but his hands showed tendon. The right one moved in a manner Willmemorized as a character detail, turning like a leaf moored to the stem.
We are. Strange hid his mouth behind the rim of his cup, the interior belling backhis voice. Thou knowest Southampton is the enemy s dupe.It was only a player s presence of mind that kept Will s startlement from hisface. He was glad attention was focused on Richard Burbage and Ned Alleyn,circling one another like a terrier and a mastiff who might decide to befriends and who also might not.
The enemy, my lord? Will sipped his wine.Don t blanch so. I would not be Burbage s and thy master if I did not knowsome things. Strange s slick hair broke in locks as he turned a lopsidedsmile on Will. Have a care. I may not be able to protect thee, but Burghleywill. As long as thou dost remain useful to him.Burghley? Not Oxford?Strange lifted one shoulder eloquently, appearing to watch the verbalsparring between rival players ride the edge between wit and acrimony.Oxford was a mistake Oxford thinks Southampton can be convinced.Thou wouldst get better odds on Raleigh.Noble rivalries, my lord? Burbage had caught Alleyn s elbow and drew himaway from the fire. The taller man bent his head to hear the smaller sarguments. The cross Alleyn had worn ever since a particularly disastrousperformance of Faustus dangled from its cord as he leaned down.If you like. Fingers against the table, a nervous, rilling tap. Don t trust Edward de Vere, Master Shakespeare. And don t trust too much in thepatronage of Southampton, for all thou dost flatter him with thy poetry. He sa boughten man.You know this, my lord? Will noticed the dark line furrowed between Strange s dark eyes. Aye. You know it.I know too much. Strange finished his wine. He inverted his cup and pushedhimself to his feet; the other men at the table jumped up as a Lord stood. I am expected home to sup. Finish the bottle, Master Shakespeare.Strange threw coins on the table. His tired smile struck Will hard. There wastoo much resignation in it. Don t give up hope on your poor players, mylord, Will said, hoping that Strange would hear both his words and themeaning under them. The playhouses will be open soon. 
Lord Strange turned back from the door and smiled. See that you make meproud, Master Shakespeare. Masters Burbage, Master Kemp. And with that,Ferdinando Stanley collected his hat from the peg by the door, and went.Will s letter to Annie dispatched the following morning netted only a stonysilence in reply. He meant to send a second one a week after the first, butgood intentions were lost in the whirl of rehearsal and rewrite and frenziedpreparation of two plays at once: the tragedy Titus Andronicus, for whichWill need not only learn his roles but also face down Oxford in a series ofhour-murdering meetings; and a light-hearted comedy which was finally, aftermuch argument, entitled The Taming of the Shrew. The clownish Will Kemp wasappointed Lord of Misrule chief of Christmas festivities for Lord Strange sMen, thus ensuring that drunkenness and disorder would ride sovereign overthe frantic preparations for the Twelfth Night play. And between a tailor svisit or three, rehearsals all day and all night (and drinking at theMermaid), occasional church services and the Twelve Days festivities, thefirst time Will had a moment s silence between his own ears was on January 5.And only because a thin-lipped, towering Ned Alleyn, who plied by Burbagewith liquor and conversation would perform with Lord Strange s Men this once,threw the entire company out of the Mermaid Tavern and into the street to gohome, the Lot, and rest your heads so as not to Lose them before Her Majesty!
Will s stomach had been too sour for much drinking, and now, as he lay in hisbed against the warmth of the chimney, it was too sour for much sleeping.
Perform before the Queen.
He sat up in bed and let the bedclothes slip aside. A draft came between thefloorboards as he set his feet down; he stood anyway, shivering with hiscoverlet wrapped around his shoulders, and crossed to light a candle. Afterunrelieved darkness, the glow warmed him as much as a fire. Perform before the Queen and her rival favorites, and remind them that their duty is totheir sovereign, and not to their quarrels.Oh, I wish Annie were here to see this. He set the candle on the sideboard and opened an oaken cupboard, drawing out the soft wine red velvet drape ofhis new doublet. Kit would have loved it: it fit like a second skin, snug atthe waist and broad at the shoulders, slashed in peach taffeta and buttonedwith knotted gilt. Kit would have been much calmer, Will thought, as hepicked up a clothesbrush and polished the nap of the already spotless velvet.The steady rasp of the brush on the cloth helped him think: his racing,exhausted thoughts rocked instead of spinning, and Will forced himself tobreathe and contemplate.
Put on the role, and play it. Turn a trembling hand into a swordsman sconfidence, and quivering voice into an arrogant sneer. I m a player, if I mnot a Burbage. I can manage a role indifferent well. So tomorrow I LL be arole And then the day after tomorrow, I will write to Annie, and see if she LLhave me home for Lent. 
January the sixth Twelfth Night dawned with a cold that settled over Londonlike the locking of a chest, but even in winter of a plague year, festivitycould be found. A solemn sort of merriment fought with nausea as Will peeredthrough a gap in the draperies, amazed at the splendor of Westminster Palacebannered in holly and ivy and ablaze with more candles than a church. Thegreat Gothic hall echoed with the busy footsteps of players and tirers,servants flitting like shadows through the bustle on any pretext to get aglimpse of the great Richard Burbage, of the famous Edward Alleyn. Alleyn waseasy enough to mark: broad-shouldered as a monolith, his lips moving silentlyas he reviewed his cues. Burbage vanished twice for not above half an houreach time, and each time Will noticed a serving girl went missingsimultaneously. One sweet dark-haired lass caught his own eye, and if ithadn t been for fear of rumpling his doublet, he might have sought a kiss.
Just for Luck. 
But it was past time for that, and time to be tending to paint, reddeningboys lips with carmine and lacing them into their corsetry. A black wig forKatharine and a blond wig for Bianca. Will swallowed his own fear: the younger boy, also named Edward, was trembling as Will made a mirror for hispaint.
Tis only a Queen you perform for, Will said in the boy s ear, tidying hiskohled eye with a cloth. Surely that s happened before. Edward giggled, forall his cheeks stayed white as a bride s.Will patted Edward on the shoulder above his bodice before walking away. At least your name s not under the title.He went to have Burbage mend his own painting. And found the round littleplayer pacing five short steps, back and forth and back again. Richardconsidered. Too much on the lips.Too much indeed, Will thought, standing what seemed a moment later just outof the audience s view. There was the Queen, her chair surrounded by heradmirers. Sir Walter Raleigh, glossy in his black, leaned to murmur in HerMajesty s ear. Her hand came up to brush his shoulder, and the loosely sewnpearls on his doublet scattered at the snap of a thread. Will could plainlysee the Queen s condescending amusement at her favorite s expensive conceit.On her other side, ferret-faced Henry Wriothesley Southampton frowned at thedashing Earl of Essex in his white-and-gold, who frowned more deeply still atRaleigh while Raleigh affected not to notice. Will noticed for all theirposturing that it was Burghley s son, Robert Cecil, to whom the Queen mostoften bent, and spoke, and smiled.All fell silent as the prologue began. What would Marley do? The expectedconfidence did not burgeon Will, although Burbage stepped close enough tobolster him with a shoulder. But Marley was dead, or as good as: Will on his own, and
boy: Let me come and kindlyThere s my cue.
Will swallowed a painful bubble, let his hands fall relaxed to his sides, andstepped out on stage amid a swirl of trumpets, half convinced his voice wouldfail him. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds. BroachMerriman the poor cur is embossed, and couple Clowder with the deep-mouthedbrach. 
This is the stupidest thing I have ever written. She LL have me whippedaround town for stepping above my station. A nothing part, a pompous Lord,and Will had been playing on stage six years now. Still, his hand shook. The Queen. I am no Richard Burbage, to collect hearts Like so many butterflies.
Sawst thou not, boy, how Silver made it good at the hedge corner, in thecoldest fault? I would not lose that dog for twenty pound.But the Queen was leaning forward in her chair, the last three fingers of herleft hand moving in a faint, dismissive gesture when Essex tried to draw herattention. The Earl looked down sulkily, fiddling something in his lap. Overhis shoulder, Lord Burghley standing near to his son and a little furtherfrom the Queen caught Will s eye.The boards creaked under Will s foot. He upstaged the huntsman, forcing himto turn so Will could follow Burghley s gaze and catch a glimpse of Essex stask. The Earl riffled the pages of a little book, an octavio, of a size fortucking in a sleeve or a pocket. He couldn t be reading the playscript; itwasn t published. And Southampton was leaning forward over Essex s shoulder,his lips moving.
Interesting.Thou art a fool, Will said. If Echo were as fleet There was something, apressure. Almost as if a stiff wind sprang up. But the Queen was laughing,and Will leaned on that, camped his dialogue, airy turn of a sleeve to offseta pompous thundering. The scene was almost all his, and he carried it.The prologue ended, and Will beat his retreat with a glance across theaudience. Engaged. Alive, at least. He gulped ale through a tight throat and 
leaned against a pillar, listening. It was a mistake to recruit Alleyn he stoo overblown for comedy no, he s managing it. Oh, this may workHe fretted his hands, one over the other, feeling the power rise up inopposition to his work. Feeling the play itself, its rhythms and stresses,the connection between player and playgoer. The surge of emotion and thoughtthat bound the audience to the performance, and the energy that ran betweenthem, like lovers giving one another all.
I should have taken out the jokes about tongues and tails. Not before HerMajesty.
But Elizabeth laughed again, a provoked and provoking sound that carried overthe sedate chuckles of her courtiers, and Will grinned despite himself.
Tis no different before the Queen.But there s a power here.
It was a heady thing, and he finished the ale and straightened against thewall as he grasped it. This is what Kit was trying to show me.This. This power. This consensus.This is the thing we manipulate.I can do this thing.
Will toweled the paint from his face, tossing the spotted cloth onto a pile.Someone thrust a cup into his hand. He quaffed it, choked when he found wineinstead of ale, and turned to Burbage s grin. You re a success. We re a success. Will embraced Richard. His own shirt was transparent withsweat when he stripped it over his head, and he wet a cloth and wiped thesalt from his chest. Burbage, of course, looked pressed and dapper. Hand me my clean shirt, wouldst thou? We must go be charming and earn our bread.As long as tis Kemp singing for his supper, not thee.What? I am a very nightingale Will tucked the shirt into his breeches and pulled his doublet on.In that thou shouldst sing only after dark, when they cannot see thy face tohunt thee, aye. Burbage clipped Will about the shoulders while Will wasstill fussing with laces, and steered him back out into the hall. The Queenhad risen from her chair to lead a galliard. Will let his gaze sweep theroom, wondering if he could catch the eye of that dark-haired girl again, butinstead found Essex s gaze. Will bowed to the Earl, who affected a habit ofwhite silk that contrasted sharply with Raleigh s glossy black. Burbage,still holding Will s elbow, caught the bow and echoed it in unison, makingWill smile. Richard was many things. And the best at most of them.The players straightened as the Earl turned away, his brow thundering, hisarms crossed as if he slipped something into a sleeve pocket. He does not approve, Will murmured.
 More intrigues. He s of the other camp, and I no longer doubt it. Did youmark his ring?NaySome of the Prometheans wear them. But then again, so too do some meremortals who meddle with magics. An iron ring on the finger, or steel in theear. Who is that he spoke to?Burbage arched his neck, as if searching the crowd. The tall fellow with the lovely hair?In gold pinked with white. The very one.The one coming toward us? Why Will, Burbage said, that s Master Thomas Walsingham.A glance aside to Burbage, and Will swore under his breath. Burbage s colorwas high Will noticed a drinker s vein or two blossoming on his cheeks, thathadn t been there a year before and his smile set. Kit s . . . patron.Kit s betrayer, and ours, as I have it from Oxford. But yes, they shared ahouse and rumor says that isn t all, though Master Walsingham a married man.That s his wife, Etheldreda they call her Audrey, there. The gingery one. 
The lady was breathtaking in a rose-colored gown, cut low across her bosom, amass of hair Will thought was probably nearly all her own tired high. Heshifted his attention back to Tom Walsingham, whose progression toward theplayers was slow but inexorable. Waste of a fine old Saxon name. 
She rather looks like a Saxon Queen, doesn t she? Ah, Burbage said. Will you have wine?
You re leaving me to his tender mercies? 
He wants you. I m only in the way. Drag him for information if you may: he sgot his hooks in Chapman too, and has a taste for poets, I ve heard.
Chapman? Will blinked to clear the unlikely vision from his head. Oh, youmean his patronage.Burbage laughed and clapped Will on the shoulder as he moved away. Just don t mention Marley and you can t go far wrong. I m going to collect ourpayment from the steward.Will swallowed the last acid taste of the wine and pretended engagement withthe dance. Gloriana s grace was legend, her long oval hands raised high asshe let her partners move her. Even in her sixtieth year, she moved as if themass of her skirts and jewels and her gold-red jeweled tire weighed nothing.She dined alone by habit, Will knew, and imagined it was as much to concealthe unladylike appetite her exertions must give her as for fear of poison.
Master William Shakespeare?It was a smooth voice, a touch of Kent in it, and Will turned and met ThomasWalsingham s querying gaze. Will had to lift his chin; Tom had a hand on himat least in height and half that across the shoulders, and might have beenwearing heeled shoes for court. Master Walsingham.
An excellent performance. Walsingham lifted a glass; the wine it held wasclear dark yellow in torchlight. I m sorry we haven t met. I ve seen one ortwo of your plays from the galleries, and been impressed. Master Marley firstcommended you to mine attention, and after him George. You know Chapman
Very well, Will answered, glad he hadn t a glass of his own, lest he chokeon the contents. and you can t go far wrong. Oh, excellent advice, Richard.Excellent advice.
 Master Marley? Of a truth?Walsingham s lips seemed to vanish for a moment. Though he was never a oneto cast broad credit. 
No, Will said, and thought interesting again. I had understood you endedon bad terms. 
Aye, Walsingham answered, in that he ended badly. But tis not a topic Iwish to dwell on overmuch. That was a fine play, by a fine group of playersperformed.
I will convey your compliments
Convey more than that. Walsingham reached out, and Will almost flinchedfrom his calloused, elegant hand. Will studied it, Burbage s comments onrings fresh in his mind, but contrary to fashion Walsingham didn t affectany. Instead he slipped a paper into Will s doublet, smoothing the nap of thevelvet before drawing away. Convey that note to mine exchequer. He ll seeyour company rewarded for lightening the Queen s burden.
It is our joy and duty, and we are already well compensated, MasterWalsingham. The galliard ended; the dancers made courtesy to the musiciansand called for drink. Will joined the polite applause.
So I understand. Walsingham smiled; it rounded the angle of his cheek andturned him from handsome courtier into dashing rogue. Even forewarned, Willfelt himself charmed. But a man should be of a mind to make friends where he may, and players are fair friends to have. Sometimes. And summer is coming,and my house at Chislehurst is not too far from London for a play.
Ah, Will said. Yes, he said. Carefully made friends are a good thing tohave, if they return the care.Walsingham s eyes darkened. An excellent play. May you write many more, andbe as careful in your friends. Sometimes their care can have an unexpected 
source. Do contact me. Oh, here is Doctor Lopez. Do wish to counsel this fineplaymaker on his health, good Doctor?A moment of his time, if you can spare it, Lopez said in his accentedvoice. Walsingham, nodding, withdrew. Master Shakespeare, I wish tocongratulate you on the success of your work tonight.He did not mean the play. As Will turned to him, he was as certain of that ashe was of the mockery behind Lopez s arch expression. The Ambassador honors my poor efforts, he said. Lopez rubbed the tip of his nose. Honor puts no beef on the table, he said,and dropped a clinking purse in the rushes at Will s feet, where Will wouldneed to stoop to retrieve it. I ve a word from Burghley. The word is well done. 
Thank you, Doctor, Will said. Lopez patted him on the arm, a ruby ring worn over his glove glittering withthe motion. You re more biddable than the last one, he said, as he turned away. That can only bode well.Will s shoulders tightened; his arms hung numb. Five heartbeats later he tooka breath, and ducked down to retrieve the purse. However callously offered, ashilling was a shilling, and the purse had clinked like a great many of them.It had the aspect of a dance, he thought, as he stood and found himselffacing Essex. My lord, he said, and bowed low.
Take your ease, Essex answered. He was alone, for a wonder, with neithercourtiers nor the simpering Southampton in attendance.Will relaxed incrementally. What is my lord s pleasure?A word of warning, Essex said. Have a care in handling the coin of apoisoner, Master Shakespeare. You know that damned Portugall was Sir FrancisWalsingham s doctor when Sir Francis breathed his last, in agony.I have heard it so bandied, my lord, Will agreed.Hmph. Essex regarded Will down the length of his nose, expectantly, andWill cringed like a bumpkin. There was something to be said for having theface for comic parts. Moreover, said Essex, it s well-known that Sir Francis papers vanished from his chamber at his death, and Lopez was amongthe few with access to the same. 
And you so upset by it, my Lord, for you would have wrested control of hisagents after his death? I shall be entirely cautious, my lord.See you are. And now Essex in turn was withdrawing, after a short glanceover Will s shoulder. Lopez is a traitor, and I do not doubt he ll hang. Itwould be a shame to hang a poet with him. Good day, sirrah.Good day, my lord.Will counted three, and turned from Essex s receding back and into the orbitof Her Majesty, the Queen. Her gown was figured silk, white on white, hermantle thick with ermine against the January cold that even the press ofbodies couldn t drive from the hall. Sir Walter Raleigh in his black hung ather shoulder, a raven to Elizabeth s gerfalcon, all devilish beard and tiltedcap, eyes sharp as a mink s over his impressive nose, an air of pipe-tobaccoand dissolution on his shoulders in place of a cloak. Robert Devereaux, theEarl of Essex God is merciful was now nowhere in evidence.
 You Your Majesty. Will dropped a hasty bow, wondering if his face wouldtumble to the floor and shatter like a mask if all the blood really did drainfrom it. At your ease, Master Shakespeare, she said. Raleigh stayed a step behind and to her left. He caught Will s eye as Willstood, sure he was about to faint, and he winked. Her Majesty never saw it,but the slight gesture calmed Will enough to get a breath, and as the airfilled him the panic retreated. Your Majesty is very kind
Rarely. Her gray eyes crinkled at the corners, irises dark in the alabasterof her paint; it was the only trace of her smile. By her breath, her teethwere rotten, and Will pitied her that. And only when it suits me. Do youserve England, Will? 
With a will, where I may he said daringly, remembering that she hadlaughed at his dirtiest jokes. Raleigh s nose twitched. an it please YourMajesty.Clever lad, she said. You ll do well, if you play the games of court aswell as you played your art tonight. Of which art speaking, I understand wehave common friends. Surely, I could not claim equal to the title of friend to any who YourMajesty might grace with that station.She turned to Raleigh, amused. He s got a courtly tongue in him, at least.Sir Walter Your gracious Majesty. The pearls on his doublet glimmered like moonlightas he bowed under her attention. What think you of this one, stepping into the place he must fill?Walsingham likes him. That s never a good sign. But it was said wryly, oneblack eyebrow arched, and Raleigh s eyes held Will s as he spoke.So long as Robin of Essex doesn t like him as well. Tell me, young William,what factions do you favor in our petty dickering? A direct, brightquestion, her voice mild and interested, the turn of her neck like one of herswans within the elaborate serpentine of her ruff.Oh, that is one question that is many questions, Madam. The Earl of Southampton is my patron, Your Majesty, and Lord Strange the patron of mycompany. But my loyalty is given to my Prince, and she alone may command myheart. She seemed to wait expectantly, and he permitted himself a bold bitof a grin. That portion my good wife permits me the use of, in any case.Gloriana laughed, showing the powdered curve of her throat, and stopped asabruptly. Don t teach this one to smoke, Sir Walter. Tis a filthy habit.Master Shakespeare, good evening.Your Majesty. Sir Walter. Will bowed, watching jeweled skirts soar away. Afirm hand clapped him on the shoulder and he glanced up, into Raleigh sglittering presence. Sir Walter. Good to show her spunk, William. That wink again, before he too took hisleave. We ll see you at court again, I expect.Will stood shivering as they left him, and almost jumped out of his clickingcourt shoes when Burbage appeared beside him, holding a cup of wine. I see I danced away just in time. How was your pas de deux with Her Majesty?More a pas de trois, I think. A game was just played over me, Richard, and Ido not know the name of it. As long as you didn t lose, Burbage said, and thrust the cup into his hand.Will took it, fingers half insensate. Tom Walsingham Likes me?I thought he just made a threat on my Life. 
Intra-act: Chorus Two weeks later, the playhouses opened as scheduled, and a letter arrived atWill s lodging house, forwarded without comment by Annie from Stratford.
Mr. Will. ShakspereStratford-upon-AvonWarwickshire My dearest countryman & fellow:Please that this find you well, I have prevailed upon one Robin of my presentcompany to deliver unto you this Letter & my fondest remembrances, that allpasseth well with you & the fair Anne your wife & that you me recollectfondly as you serve our fair Prince. It is to me as my days creep by that,gone as I am from England, England is almost near enough to touch: a greatfrustration to an exile. But even as my spirit sometimes flags, I find I am come home, & am given tohope perhaps my necessary & permanent absence will not prove so onerous asfear d. I have an eye for you, my dear Will, & will be of assistance as I mayfind opportunity. I beg you trust me safe, if in politics, & well-occupiedwith many pleasures and problems.A Letter may reach me through unusual channels, although perhaps not privily:FW knows the path. I hope you will forward your Adonis, & whatever otherworks you think may interest me. I would send gold to afford the purchase ofbooks but it would not outlast the sunset as other than dross, & having beentaken once for coining I LL not will that adventure on you. So if you seek todo me this kindness I fear you shall have no recompense but mine unendingaffection. I am closer than you imagine.This 14th day of January 1593 (as I think it)I remain yrs affectionately & ingood hope of our eventual re-acquaintanceyour most distant friendPostscript:Yr Shrew was an outstanding success. I will be observing your future careerwith some interest. 
Act II, scene i
All: God forbid! Faust: God forbade it indeed; but Faustus hath done it.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Doctor Faustus Murchaud had reach on Kit, and two good eyes, and Kit was not used to fencingwith a surrounding audience hampering his movement. But Kit sidestepped asthe pale sunlight of Faerie flashed along the spirals decorating Murchaud srapier. Despite the unkempt grass tugging his boots, a little spatter ofdignified applause followed the gesture of his main gauche as it knocked hisopponent s foiled blade off line.Foiled, but still razor-sharp along the edge: the blade brushed Kit sshirtsleeve in passing, parting the linen as easily as the skin of a peach.Kit stepped in to take advantage of the break in Murchaud s guard, ducked athrust of the main gauche, and extended along the line of his blindeye lunged. Murchaud barely twisted aside, Kit s rapier stroking the brownleather jerkin over his muscled belly, and his riposte fell short as Kitskittered back, swearing breathlessly, sweat trickling between his shoulders.The onlookers shifted, a murmuring riot of colored costumes against the sweepof green lawn, the gardens of heartsease and forget-me-nots, the high goldenwalls of the palace.Kit forced his attention away from the audience as Murchaud advanced, teethwhite in the angle between his lips, lips coral pink against the black of hisbeard. Stop Looking at his smile, Kit you ruddy fool. Watch his chest, hiseyes hah! as if that will keep you from distraction! A thrust, a flurry ofparry, riposte, bind Murchaud s breath on his face as he pressed with all hisgreater weight and the strength of his arm. Kit locked his elbow, holdingagainst the press, went for Murchaud s belly with the main gauche and felthis hand knocked wide. Murchaud bent a knee, bulled and lifted, hilt ringingon hilt, shoving Kit s rapier high and wide. Kit scrambled aside, sucking hisbelly against his spine and out of the path of the blade, feeling through theshifts of Murchaud s weight for where the main gauche would be. Somewhere onhis blind side, and Kit s hand was out of line. He ducked backward, wove,dipped a knee as he parried another lunge and felt the edge part not justshirt but skin, the hotter trickle of blood joining the drip of sweat downhis forearms 
and froze at the needle prick of Murchaud s eighteen-inch dagger in thecurve of his jaw where the pulse ran close. A slow, thick thread of bloodcurved down his throat, delicately as the pad of a thumb dragged over skin,and he shivered. Murchaud smiled in earnest now, and Kit tilted his head awayfrom the knife and closed his eye as the applause swelled. Yield? 
Yield. Kit forced clenched fingers to unwind from the grip of his rapier.The blade rasped on Murchaud s and thumped pommel-first into the grass. Hewaited for the knifepoint to ease away from the red-hot dimple it wore.Instead, the blade caressed his throat, came to rest in the hollow of hiscollarbone, pressed just sharply enough to sting as Murchaud covered Kit smouth with a kiss as claiming as any bridegroom s.The applause for that was more than a polite ripple.It could have been an hour later or a dozen, although sunlight still streamedbetween the bedcurtains to stain Murchaud s pale skin tawny. Kit pillowed hishead on the man s ridged belly and sighed, idly picking at the clean wrap oflinen covering the scratch on his arm. Murchaud wound a few of the long fairstrands of Kit s hair around his fingers like a girl playing with herribbons. That was better. Wryness twisted Kit s mouth into something only a fool would call a smile.
What? The fencing, or the fencing?Thy swordsmanship is improving, Murchaud continued blithely. And the strength of thine arm.Exercise is the best remedy for a weak arm, I m told. Kit still tasted that public, thrilling kiss. Still heard the roar of approving laughter that had 
followed. Now, Murchaud s laughter trailed into thoughtfulness. We ll make a warrior of thee yet, Sir Christofer. How long hast been among us? Four days? Five?Time passes quickly with thee by my side. He d expected from his previousvisit that by the time a month passed in Faerie, the world of London would bethirty years gone. Not so: perhaps the difference changed with the whim ofthe Mebd, but the once or twice Kit had found an unattended moment in whichto prowl through the palace s golden corridors and peer into the DarklingGlass, it seemed only a few hours had passed for Will and Sir Francis. He hadsought the Prometheans behind his murder, as well, but the glass shied fromthem, as if he would pick up ice with an oiled hand.Kit didn t feel himself guarded, precisely. Or watched. But he was seldomleft alone, waking or sleeping. Of course Morgan can watch me if she wishes.And no doubt the Mebd can, as well.
Murchaud continued, Thou wilt need learn something of the factions, if thouart to be ours. I ll presume a certain comfort on thy part with politics,given thy career
fair enough. Murchaud s fingers tugged Kit s hair as Kit turned his headto kiss the Elf-knight s belly. There is thee and thy mother, Kit continued. By whom I read I have been claimed. But I know not yet what taskyou mean to set me to.
We ve uses for poets. Not unlike the uses to which thou hast set thyself, inthine old Queen s court.Commission thy poem, Kit answered. I could pen a sonnet on the arch ofev ry rib, passage of verse on thine eyes, and lay a very pastoral over fieldand fallow of thy flank and loin. I ll hang a golden tongue about thythroat Murchaud s sweat was bitter and sweet; a droplet of Kit s ownblood had dried on his breast, and Kit kissed it away.Murchaud pressed fingertips to the hollow of Kit s throat. It should have sealed by now.
Like any corpse, I bleed at the touch of my murdererThere is Faerie and there is Hell, Murchaud interrupted, with the air ofone reciting a catechism. They are allied under a contract drawn up longago, when the Christian, now Romish, church first came into its glory.Portions of that Romish church are under the sway of those who opposescience, poetry, freedom of thought, and liberty of speech. Those same menhave their fingers in the puppet Puritans tooI know this, Kit answered. The secret underbelly of the Prometheus Club.The claims and counterclaims as to who has honest right to the name are toocomplex for me to follow, but as I understand it, onceHush, Murchaud interrupted. Faerie pays a tithe to Hell for Hell swardenship. My mother, Morgan, wishes to see the tithe ended, and Faerie tostand on its own. The Elf-knight s calloused fingertips traced the curve ofKit s ear. They played languidly on even as Murchaud s next words froze Kit sbreath into stone. What didst thou intend, when I overheard thee to tellShakespeare that thou wert no Gaveston?Kit sat back out of the bedclothes, tugging his hair out of Murchaud s graspand squinting against the sunlight to meet his eyes. You watched me. In the Glass. Aye: we stayed to ward you, should someone take yourreappearance amiss.Kit swallowed the self-loathing that filled his mouth. You ve gottencareless, Marley. Careless and unbalanced, and it will have you dead twiceover if you don t find your feet among these stones. Sir Piers Gaveston,Kit said calmly, was the leman of Edward the Second. For whom Edward abandoned a loyal wife and peers who would have supported him, neglected hisKingdom, and paid with his freedom and eventually his life and Gaveston slife, now that I think on it. For all Edward was a selfish spoiled boy morethan he was a King, he died quite terribly for his sins. There s a storyabout an impalement 
I know it, Murchaud answered. But that does not play fair with myquestion, sweet Kit.I bethink myself, Kit said carefully, that in such case the beloved is as much at fault as the unfaithful lover. I knew a man a man enough like Edwardto share his name. Kit closed his eye so he wouldn t see the name Murchaud slips shaped, questioningly. Oxford? Kit continued, I cared for him. I did not much care for how he used his wife. I wrote a play to let him know it, and mayhap change his ways.
Success? None to speak of.Murchaud chuckled. Is now the wrong moment to tell you that I am also amarried man? Married? Kit shrugged, forcing his expression to blandness. Most men are. Most women as well. I had thought myself, one day He paused at Murchaud ssmile, recognizing amusement and anticipation. Where is your wife?She sits on Faerie s throne, the Elf-knight answered.The Mebd. Is your wife.
Tis less impressive when you consider my parentage, Murchaud said dryly,taking Kit by the wrist and drawing him down among the bedclothes. And things are different here.Yes, Kit said against the pillow. I ve noticed. Kit woke uneasy in waning light. The wound in the valley of his throat stung,and beneath the door he heard the footsteps of servants, a rattling scratch.He drew the sheets up to cover his shame and called a welcome once he rubbedenough grit from his eye to be assured Murchaud was no longer in the chamber.A brownie entered bearing a taper twice his own height. He was a wee man cladin tattered brown trousers, braces strapped over his teacup belly. Sir Christofer? And the whole castle knows to find me in the Prince-Consort s bed. Kit touched his lips, remembering a kiss; the aching hollowness that latelyemptied him when he was away from Morgan gnawed his belly. Awake. More or less. 
I ve brought hot water and your dinner clothes. The brownie gestured withhis taper, and other candles about the room flared to life. Kit wondered howsomeone so small would tote water, but steam rose from a silver ewer besidethe wash-basin, and Kit saw a black doublet and breeches and smallclotheslaid out on Murchaud s clothes chest.
 Thank you, Kit said. In London, he would have offered a tip. Here, he dbeen given to understand, gratuities would be perceived an insult.Anything else?Soap and some tooth powder?Seen to, the brownie replied with what might have been a grimace or a grin.You ve the three-quarters of an hour before dinner is laid.Where is Murchaud? With The candle flickered, and that was disapproval, even in thehalf-light. his royal wife.The door shut between them. Kit let the sheets fall aside to release their perfume of sweat and almond oil as he stood. Disapproval of me? Or ofMurchaud? Or of the Queen? He ached with the battering, but it was pleasantenough.Unlike what gnawed his belly. Kit, this is obsession. He cleaned himself at the basin, scrubbed his hair with the rose-scented soap, and wished he hadsomeone to pour the rinse water for him, but managed.The shirt was silk again, and wrought with pearls about the bands: hewouldn t have been permitted that in London, but here he was a knight. I wonder if Faerie has sumptuary Laws. The doublet was new. It wasn t black after all, he saw when he held it up to the light, but a deep undulled greenno mortal dye could match. The slashes were lined with silk of a paler green,and the embroidery and the buttons shone in some oil green peridots. There 
were clean white hose, a cap and gloves, the silver sword he d practiced withthat afternoon, its same plain, functional hilt adorned by a much finer beltand scabbard. And there were shoes with jeweled buckles, which gave himpause.
Well, I can t very well wear the one pair of riding boots every day foreternity. Even my father s nailing won t stand up to that, he said out loud, with a little bitterness behind it. John Marley had not been kindlydisposed to Kit s choice to leave Corpus Christi without taking holy orders.A priest in the family . . . There had been five other mouths to feed, and aman might hope his eldest son would be in a position to provide for hisdotage. A poet living on the largesse of other men was unlikely to managethat. Or respectability either.
You said you had a callingFather, I did. Which had been half the problem. Kit dressed carefully, combedhis damp hair, buttoned his buttons, laced his points. He wished he had amirror to check the effect, although he didn t mind that the shoes gave himan extra inch of height.He squared his shoulders, tucked his hair behind his ears, and wentdownstairs to meet his fate. The great hall bustled. Kit moved through Fae both less and more familiar,already missing the click of bootnails on marble floors and the protection offorged iron. He paused at the doorway, but the herald saw and announced him,and as he moved forward, looking for a place below the salt, his eye wasdrawn by a jaunty wave from the high table. Robin Goodfellow, the Puck, whosat beside what must by its chair and cushions be the Mebd s chair of estate,held open a position on his left. Kit strode toward him, conscious of howrecently he d made a spectacle of himself in this very hall, more consciousof the ripple of hushed conversation that followed. Murchaud sat at theQueen s right hand, his mother further right, and Kit s stomach clenched andtwisted with unkind recollection. But Morgan looked up at him and smiled as he walked before her. He returnedthe nod, and knew he blushed crimson when she stood to reach across the tableand caress the velvet of his sleeve. A lovely color on you, she said. Is the fit well? 
My lady, he answered, with a nod that mayhap concealed his desire to catchher black hair in both hands and scour his face with it. Your gift?You can t go about clad in castoffs, she said. We ll see about a wardrobe tomorrow. And outfitting your chambersMy lady is too kind. He searched for the marks of violence on her skin,near the deep narrow neckline of her gown. There might have been a bruise,powdered over, but he wasn t absolute. The looking left him sick, and hecould not look away.Your lady is not kind enough. Go, take your place.Will I See you tonight?Her smile was the flex of a mayfly s wings. Perhaps, she said, and frozehim with her dismissal. Murchaud said nothing, but acknowledged him with awink. He went to take his place between the fool and another Fae whose namehe did not know. Sir Kit. Master Robin. Ah. You remember my name better, thenI apologize, Kit said, and stood beside his chair rather than troublehimself to sit only to rise and sit again. I was overwrought.It is understandable. How fared you in the mortal lands?Miserably, Kit said, which was an answer. One cut short by the flare oftrumpets. The Mebd entered, and was made courtesy to, and took her chair. Shedid not seem to notice Kit, though her long sleeves and her mantle of purewhite silk brushed his leg as she passed. Kit seated himself as Robin did,and invisible footmen attended their chairs. 
I m bid to tell you, Puck said, you ll be called upon when the meal isdone. There s poetry in your future.Something new?Impress us, is the word.Kit bit his knuckle, thinking. I could manage a stanza or two of blank versebetween then and now. There was an oiled cloth on the table, and he sketcheda few letters in it with the hilt of his blade. He d had a thoughtbefore That most perfect creature under heaven, The moon full in the arms of restless night but the second line limped, and he wasn t sure this was a timefor pretty flattery and praising one lady over another. He smiled. Proserpineand Hades. Oh, can I get away with it?
Kit stole a glance at the Mebd and past her to his master and his mistress.Morgan saw him; he raised his brows in question. Her eyes sparkled as shetilted her head. Yes. They delight in being shocked. The question is, can Imanage more than a half-dozen Lines by the time the subtlety s presented?
He leaned toward the Puck as the meats were passed, and the Mebd made herselections. Why am I seated at the high table, Master Robin?Robin s bells jangled, a scent of peppermint arising. Because it amuses someone to see you here. Twig-fingers tapped the back of Kit s hand as thepoet broke his bread into tidbits. Your manners are dainty for someone whois not accustomed to eating with nobility.
Not unaccustomed to it, Kit answered. I ve done my share of dining abovemy stationAnd what is your station, Sir Poet?Kit stopped, a buttered morsel of bread to his lips. There was more to thequestion than the obvious: the glitter in the Puck s huge soft eyes, wide andwicked as a goat s, made that plain. It varies with the weather, he said at last, picking up a cup he had no taste for just to feel the wine swirl withinit. Cobbler, preacher, poet, spy. Which would you have me?The Puck chewed noisily, dipping greasy fingers in a bowl of rose-water aftersetting a leg of swan aside. He swallowed, enough of a mouthful that histhroat distended. Lover, killer, playmaker, thief
Never a thief. But all the others, if that s the one that stings.Only a vile playmaker in the end, Kit answered, with a shrug he himselfwasn t sure was acknowledgement.What turns a cobbler into preacher, Kit?Or a preacher into a Queen s Man?That too. Kit opened his mouth on a glib lie and shut it. He glanced over Robin sshoulder, where the Mebd sat, and beyond her, her husband, and beyond herblack Morgan le Fey. When I was thirteen, he said, my father beat hisapprentice so badly he was fined by the Guild. I thought I d rather ascholar s beatings than a prentice s. I entered King s School at fifteen.The words came quietly, and he was proud of that. I was too old. They tookme anyway. I went to Cambridge on a scholarship. My family were proud. Someyears later, I came to find that the vocation I thought I had was a lie, forthe Church s God was no God of mine. Or if it was true, then I was called bymistake. If God makes that sort of mistake. Kit stopped and sat back in his chair. The Puck slid a bit of roast meatbefore him. Kit lifted his dagger and poked at it, but did not eat.And then? And then it was live by my wits or live not at all. Tis easy to starve inLondon. And unlike the Church, the only thing Gloriana asks of her servantsis that they love her above breath and fortune. Why am I telling you this?The Puck laughed. Because you need a friend, Sir Kit.Kit looked up. He set his knife aside. Do I? Aye.Well, then I wot I do. 
"Eat, Puck said. You ll need strength when you tell your poetry. 
Act II, scene ii
Mercutio: Oh, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Romeo and Juliet The second letter arrived in cold, wet April a week or two before Will schristening-day, after the playhouses were reopened from a Lent that Will hadhoped and failed to spend in Stratford. It was in Kit s hand, or a cleverforgery, and written with some care: no words were scratched out or blotted,and the ink was black as jet on creamy parchment. The tone was much as thefirst letter. Gold to dross, Will thought, refolding the letter and examining the seal oncemore though he was growing late for his meeting with Lord Hunsdon. The sealwas of brittle green wax, imprinted with an image of a goose feather. Allcarefully chosen to lead Will to an inevitable conclusion.
Gold to dross. 
Will Shakespeare had been a country lad, where the reek of frankincense andsuperstition of Papism still clung. Even if he hadn t seen in manuscript afew cantos of Spenser s poem in praise of England s own Faerie Queene, hewould have known the signs as well as any man, although a rational a properlyProtestant mind might reject them.Kit s with the Faeries. Or he s mad: there s always that. But he somehowknows mine acts almost as soon as I perform them. And he repeats his pleathat I inform him, through Walsingham, of politics and players, and anythingelse that might befall.
Easily enough done, and no more risky than reporting to Walsingham himself.Which Will still intended. But 
I should burn this Letter. 
But it would be noticeable to carry it downstairs and slip it into the fire,and there was no hearth in Will s room. After some consideration and a few false starts, he lifted the ticking off the bed and tucked the letter betweenthe ropes and the frame, where it stuck quite nicely. Completely concealed,even with the ticking off: Will crawled under the frame to be sure. Then hegot his arms around the rustling ticking and wrestled it back into place,poking the flannel to settle the straw inside the bag. He sneezed at thedust, wiped watering eyes on his sleeve, and twitched the bedclothes smooth.Mid-April was still sharp enough that Will layered a leather jerkin over hisdoublet. He hurried through the streets, mindful of slush in the gutters, andcrossed London Bridge with the sun still high in the sky. There was noconcealment of this meeting: Will reported to the scowling gray Tower itself.He presented himself to the Yeoman Warder at the main gate, struggling tohide the uncertainty of his glances toward the prison while assuring theguards that he was expected. After showing his letter from the LordChamberlain, he was ushered through, and walked down the long, rule-straightlane within. The inside of the massive knobbed stone walls was no more comforting than the exterior had been, and he considered uneasily what themurders and covenants of ravens along the edges of the rooftops dined upon.Legend claimed that should the ravens leave the Tower, England s fall wouldnot be far behind. Will was not expecting the Lord Chamberlain and the Lord Treasurer to bewaiting for him, apparently at their leisure, a half-played game of chess seton a small cherrywood table between their chairs along with wine and glasses.The footman who opened the door did not accompany Will into the opulentlittle chamber. A hearth blazed, and a brazier as well the room dryly hot in deference to oldmen s bones. Will spared a glance for the figured leather on the walls as thedoor clicked shut behind him. Burghley and Hunsdon looked up in unison;Burghley turned a chesspiece, a white rook, in one crabbed hand.
My lords. Will bowed with a player s flourish.Master Shakespeare, Burghley said, flicking Will upright with irritablefingers. The hand that pinched the ivory castle indicated a third chair. 
Drag that over, won t you?Will obeyed, and sat where he was bid to be seated: a little back from thetable, well within the cone of warmth from the hearth. He tugged his mittensoff, an excuse to look down at his hands. My lords. From the summons, I hadexpected we should all be present for this interview.
Ah, yes. Burghley returned the rook to the little army of white pieceshaunting his side of the table. The only indication of Burghley s deafnesswas by how close he watched Will s lips, and a slight tinny loudness when hespoke. We will speak to Master Burbage individually. Master ShakespeareThe hesitation in his voice was all the warning Will needed. My lord, Will said. Not the Earl of Oxford? 
No. Hunsdon leaned forward and picked up his goblet. He refilled it fromthe bottle, then extended the cup as if not noticing the dignity he did Will.Will accepted it and sipped.It could be poisoned, he thought, too late, as heady fumes filled his senses.The wine was red and sharp, not sweet, but with a tannic richness that madehim bold. If your lordship would have pity
Shakespeare, Hunsdon said. Your master, Ferdinando Stanley, Lord Strange,is dead. It was as well that Will had finished the wine in the cup, for it tumbledfrom his nerveless fingers and bounced off a rich hand-knotted carpet,spilling a few red drops on the dark red wool. Dead. 
By poison, Burghley answered. Or, some say, sorcery. Ten days to die, interrible agonyWill. Hunsdon s voice, his given name. Will blinked and realized he was standing,his hands knotted on the relief that covered the gilded arms of his chair.My lords.Master Shakespeare, sit.Will sat. Good my lordsThere is more. Will leaned forward to hear Burghley s weary voice more clearly. Our Queenis threatened, Master Shakespeare. I have ordered the Irish aliens to presentthemselves and make explanation of their presence in England. And Essex hasaccused the Queen s own physician of treason and conspiring to poison herLopez, Will said. And then quoted sardonically, The vile Jew. Lies, Burghley said flatly. Essex s machinations. More and more, I believeEssex and Southampton dupes of the enemy. If anything other than the blackhalf of the Prometheus Club, it was a Papist plot. But Lopez has confessed.Confessed? Topcliffe? It was the name of the Queen s torturer, the man whohad broken Thomas Kyd, and Will spoke it softly.William Wade. Hunsdon breathed out softly through his nose. Clerk of the Privy Council. Instrumental in bringing low Mary, Queen of Scots, andexposing her treachery. He . . . showed Lopez the instruments.Ah. Will gulped, remembering the sear of a red-hot iron by his face.My son Robert attended the hearing, Burgley said. He and Essex have been dueling in the Queen s favor for Lopez for months, you understand. We had ahope of saving Lopez until Strange died. Eight times Essex pressed her tosign the writ, and eight times she refused. But now . . . Essex will prevail,and Lopez will die. Would that Gloriana were a man, and not turned by apretty man s face He stopped, as if hearing himself on the brink oftreason. Lopez has been a valued ally, and preserved Sir Francis when we hadthought all hope lost. But it may be that now we must sacrifice him.Like Kit, Will said. If he had intended the words to cut Burghley, they were futile. The old manonly nodded. After a fashion. Will coughed against his hand. How may I serve Her Majesty?He thought Burghley smiled behind his beard. We ll have Richard revive The Jew of Malta 
Is Kit not out of favor? 
Favor or not, we have no other play that may distract the masses and offer achannel to their wrath. Until you write one.
My lord?
Master Shakespeare. Give me a play about a Jew. Before there are riots inLondon. Essex s plot will see innocent persons lynched, and there is naughtwe can do to prevent it. Hunsdon covered his mouth with his hand. I am not a Jew-lover, but it is not they who must be blamed for this outrage.Burghley tapped the edge of the chessboard in exasperation. Put your damnedhand down, Carey, if you want me to understand what you say.
My lord, Will said. I have never known a Jew. 
I have one for you, Burghley answered. I must warn you. Like Marley s and Will noticed no reluctance in Burghley s naming of the forbidden poet sname your Zionist may not be charming: the groundlings I think would notunderstand it, were he. But neither must his enemies be.Lord Strange dead.Murdered. And Lopez to hang for it.
"As my lord wishes, Will said, and bent to pick his fallen goblet off thefloor. 
Act II, scene iii
Love is not full of pity (as men say)But deaf and cruel, where he means to prey.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Hero and Leander Summer bled to autumn, autumn to winter, winter to the first cold trickle ofspring and then through summer until the cycle repeated itself. The seasonsin Faerie did not proceed quite as Kit was used to them, but rather each onesmoothly into the next without fits and starts, each day a sort of idealizedimage of what a day in summer, or autumn, or winter should be. He concealedhis iron-nailed boots in the bottom of his clothespress in the spaciousquarters he was given, and he soon found himself moving through the court, atfirst as a curiosity and then as a fixture. And while he saw the Mebd oftenenough at court functions, he was not again summoned before her, or given tounderstand any purpose in his presence at her court.Murchaud kept him at arms practice outside, in the slick scattered leaves ofthe beech wood behind the palace and then in courtyard snow; then in theGreat Hall and the armory when that snow drifted over their knees. Kit filledthe time between as best he could. He was not accustomed to idleness, and hechafed, and paced, and read and wrote when he had the patience, though allhis words seemed hollow and he woke alone most mornings. Some of thosemornings, the shape of Murchaud s or Morgan s body lay already cold in hisbed, an ache filling his belly and a hopelessness behind it. He never losthimself again, as he had after his visit to Sir Francis, but the threat of ithung over him always like black wings. He took to courting Morgan with apracticed distance that seemed to please her very well, while the Elf-knightsand ladies treated him as some exotic pet. Like Elizabeth s wizened little devil monkey on its chain.
One cold February morning, Kit lay against his pillows and watched a dry snowcoil and blow beyond the diamond-paned windows. He turned on his side, blew ajet-black hair and days barren of scent from the other pillow. The coverletof silk and down on his bare skin, the fur-trimmed tapestries on the bed, thetransparent diamond panes themselves were luxuries lost on him as he stoodand went to the window. He didn t notice the cold, and only half noticed thatthe glass did not lay his reflection over the snow. He was leaner and harder,for all of Faerie s rich food. Murchaud drove him hard. Kit s breath frosted the glass. You should have known when you swore off Lovethat you would only tempt fate to bind you in her wicked chains.Still he reached out and idly drew a lance-pierced heart in the mistedwindow, amused by the obvious symbolism, then glanced over his shoulder as ifsomeone might have seen him. When he raised a guilty hand to wipe it clear,he saw the flurry was tapering away, and saw as well a silhouette wrapped ina figured cloak making her way across the drifts below. Ebony locks rustledunbound across her shoulders; something whiter than the snow fluttered in hermilk-white hand. His flinch caught Morgan s eye; she looked up. Even fromthis distance he could see her smile and the movement of her hair across tapestry brocade.He imagined what he looked like framed naked in the window, lust stirring ashe recollected the scent of her, and stepped to one side, his face burning.She LL be here in a moment, he thought, and considered for an instant meetingher naked and shameless at the door. She d laughIf his blushes wouldn t set him on fire. Kit, he admonished. For a brazen Libertine, an adulterer, a sodomite, anatheist, a fornicator, rakehell, heretic, godless playmaker and debaucher ofinnocents, you re a sorry state of affairs. Self-mockery turned his mouthawry as he found a clean shirt, the yoke wrought with whitework, and thegreen breeches and pale gray woolen stockings that matched a green and silvervelvet doublet. Morgan s favorite colors. He judged it would take her aquarter hour or so to come inside, shed her cloak, and make her way throughthe palace, but he was still running a hurried comb across his hair when a 
tap rattled the door.He opened it a moment later, surprised to find not Morgan waiting beyond thedoor, but a broad-shouldered, black-bearded man: the Mebd s bard Cairbre,snow still clotting the tops of his boots. I happened to chance upon yourmistress in the Great Hall, the bard said abruptly. As I was on my way tomy rooms, she asked me to bid you come to hers.Kit straightened the lacings on his doublet, pulled his swordbelt from therack, and stepped into the corridor. Thank you, Master Harper.
Think nothing of it. The bard s cheek crinkled beside his eye, his lopsidedsmile disappearing into his beard. When are you going to show me yourpoetry?Kit s fingers slipped on slick black leather and he looked up from adjustingthe rapier carriage at his left hip. A year ago, had I known your interest.I had thoughtA raised eyebrow to go with that angled grin. A poet likes a poet s company,Sir Kit. And it seems to me that you have lovers aplenty, but perhaps coulduse a friend or two. In any case, your lady awaits. The bard stepped back,meltwater marking his footsteps on the rose and gold flagstones. Stood I in your boots, I should hurry.When Kit looked back, Cairbre was still staring after, a bemused expressionshadowing his face.A few minutes later, Kit stopped in the open doorway of Morgan s room andraised a hand as if to knock on the doorjamb, then paused when he saw hersettled on a bench, her skirts hiked above the knee in heavy folds as shestruggled with fur-lined boots. Her bedroom window stood open, and a cool,moist breeze blew through it, carrying up a scent at odds with the midsummercolors of her window box of violet-gold heartsease. My lady.
Kit. Your assistance, sir? She extended a leg, and he knelt before her,taking the soft leather heel cap into the palm of his right hand and slidingthe fingers of his left between the furred edge and the silk of her hose. Theboot slipped into his hand, dripping melting snow between his fingers, and heturned her leg to kiss above the ankle bone, nubs of knit silk catchingsoftly on dry lips.She cleared her throat, and he smiled and removed her other boot. There was apracticed trick to standing with a sword at one s belt; he managed it neatlyenough. She drew a fistful of skirt into the light to examine the waterstains along the hem. She showed him a little more leg than she had to whenshe swung the skirts into place and stood.
You summoned me, he said, following her to the window. The vista was not sodifferent from his, although overlooking the lawn and not the beech wood, andfrom a higher vantage. But the breeze that flowed through the open panes wasa spring breeze, not a winter one, and her window box riotous in bloom.
I ve a letter for you, she said, stroking a pansy with one fingertip as ifoblivious to his consternation. I intercepted it before your friend the Puckcould get his hands on it. You and your friend have things yet to learn aboutkeeping your confidences from the notice of the Queen.She wouldn t look up. He caught the damp wool of her sleeve and turned hertoward him. My lady. A letter? Have you read it? It was more emotion than he d managed in months.
Don t flutter so She lifted her fingers to the collar of his shirt and letthem trail up his cheek. Her eyes shifted again gray to green, this time, anddrifting into hazel as she closed his left eye with a touch of her fingertipsand kissed him softly. Your secrets are safe with me. Despite his effort to stay stern, a smile moved under her kiss. She drew herfingers down his face, and when he opened his eye his breath knotted in hischest, a ragged silken scarf. He let his hand slide down her sleeve, graspedher wrist, raised her fingers to his mouth, lowered them quickly when thegesture brought a memory of tearing cloth. Don t tease me. 
No, she said, studying his expression as she stepped away, their hands fora moment making a falling bridge between them. It would be unkind to tease,would it not? Like taunting a tame falcon in a mews.A little prick with the dagger of her tongue, and a twist to make the bloodflow. It stopped him, when he might have heeled her across the room again.He d had a sharp tongue of his own once, he recalled, but he couldn t seem tofind it after her kisses. Lady, but give me a purpose, and I will be afalcon on the wing, answering only to your glove. A man is not a toy
No? But she smiled, and came back with a folded letter in her hand. Theseal looked untouched, but he knew well the ways around that. It told himmore that the creases were crisp and sharp, a splintered edge still showingwhere the sheet had cracked. The hand was Will s untidy abomination thescrawl of a man who wrote frequently, and hastily and it bore no name oraddress beyond C. M.
 Thank you, he said, and tucked it into the pocket in his sleeve, ignoringMorgan s arch expression.She tapped a knuckle against her lips and turned back to her window garden,pinching dead pansies away. Mint and melissa grew between the blossoms; herfingernails met like snips, filling the room with lemony aromas. You wish a purpose, Sir Kit? Poetry and pleasing your lady suffice not?
A man gets used to living by his wits. I was never merely a poet, madam.She pinched another pansy a just-opening bud, this time and brushed itagainst his cheek. There are roles for you to play, she said, tucking thestem into a pink on the breast of the doublet. But best perhaps if you playthem innocent, Queen s Man. I have your love?
Oh, a little, he lied. Love is ever increasing or ever decreasing, theysay. So better a little love grow great than a great love grow little.
Or be lost. He startled at the softness in her voice as she knotted her hands in her skirts and lifted them to step back. For what mortal flesh can bear the true heat of an immortal love? There s pain there. With the thought came the urge to go to her. He pressedhis palms against his thighs instead. You expect me to be courted by yourenemies. 
Ah, she said. The boy is clever. And that green looks well on thee: we llmake an Elf-knight of thee yet.
When mine ears come to a point, or horns sprout on my forehead. Then,perhaps.
Horns, sweet Kit? Or antlers? But she smiled and blew a kiss. A task. Verywell. When thou dost write thy William in return, see thou if canst encouragehim to weave a few tales of his country youth into his plays.
Arthur and Guenevere? Kit asked, letting a little of the irony filling hismouth soak the words.
 By the white hart, never! Morgan laughed and shook her hair over hershoulder. We ll have enough of that from Spenser, I warrant. Although chanceand legend alter us: I was as fair as Anne and Arthur, once upon a time. She raised a fistful of hair black as sorcery and shook it in the light.
Gloriana does like to play on the Faeries, and it strengthens us to bespoken of so I think it should please Master Shakespeare s Queen and thine aswell. 
Madam. A little task. But something. Your wish is 
Oh, she interrupted, giving him an airy wave at odds with her earthy grin.
And a play for Beltane, I think. Something we can see performed for HerMajesty the Mebd.
Beltane He tasted it. Short notice, but he d had shorter. Ten weeks. Have you a subject?
Intrigue. She straightened the blossom on his breast. And passion. Mayhapone of those great lost loves of which we spoke. Drystan and Yseult.Something ill-starred would suit us both, and Her Majesty. But mind that thoulookst wistful and sigh and fret while thou rt composing, and see who chooses 
to speak with thee. And on what matters.My lady. Drystan and Yseult. No, Orpheus, I think. But he was smiling asshe took his elbow and led him to her door, her stockinged feet whiskingagainst the flagstones like a cat s white paws. A stalking horse.I ve played that role before.Dearest & most-esteemed Leander: Your Letter does indeed find me very well, if exceeding busy. I fear I havenot had occasion to converse with my wife since our Last encounter but Ishall pass your felicitations when I may. The subject is complex, but sufficeto say I have hopes for rapprochement.I am attending your request for books & broadsides: they will folLow underseparate cover. You will be amused to read that, following hard on thediscovery of a poisoning plot against the Queen of which you will no doubthave heard, plays about Jews are once again popular in London, & we arebecoming reacquainted with some names that Languished in danger of Loss.I hope these humble words find you well. In any case, thinking of you I ammoved to remember Sir Francis & a certain incident with a Lemon bush. I wonder if my predecessor had such a sour experience of his own.April y 29th, year of our Lord 1594Your true and honest friend Wm. . . . incident with a Lemon bush. Kit set the letter down on a marble-toppedtable below the window, and smiled. Clever William. How I miss thee, andwrangling Late into the night on scansion and wordplay and Line.Lighting a taper at the hearth, Kit remembered Cairbre s invitation. Poets are so often thought solitary. But we need the society of our fellows as muchas any tradesman.
The taper lit a clever lamp, which burned a blue spirit flame, and this Kitbore to the table beside Will s letter. It would cost him the seal, but thatlittle mattered. What mattered were the pale words, written painstakingly ininvisible lemon juice, that slowly caramelized into visibility as he toastedthe letter a few inches above the flame, holding his breath lest it flickerand the edge of the paper catch light.When the words burned dark enough to read, Kit laid the letter in the lightfrom the window and leaned forward to blow out the flame. He tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear and closed his eye for a moment,then reluctant, frowning bent forward.And read. And blasphemed.And read it once again. 
Act II, scene iv
Beatrice: Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, andLet not him speak neither.WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Much Ado About NothingMy beloved AdonisI read with disquiet your words & the implication that unsavory individualshave taken an interest in your activities. In pursuance, I would consider ita great kindness if you should contact Mary Poley in Winding Lane. She is theabandoned wife of one Robert Poley, with whom you are acquainted, but more tothe point she was the sister of the Late Dr. Thomas Watson, the poet, who wasLong a friend to me & her husband is greatly unfelicitous to her, & to herson. You need have no fear that she will expose you to him, and she may be agreat source of intelligence as to his actions.
Will tilted the letter into the light of the candle which he had used toscorch the concealed words from between lines more innocuous and manifest. The heated lemon juice was only pale brown against the cream-colored paper,but Kit s precise hand was easy to discern.
Poley will not see to their maintenance & so, in Tricky Tom s memory & out ofmine own friendship with the Lady, I have been of what assistance I could toher in the past, & so I believe she should be grateful for a kind word ortwo, even from a stranger who mentioned my name as the name of a friend. Shemay be of assistance in warding yourself from that same Robert, her husband;Mistress Poley is a good woman, & much concerned with the future prospects ofher son a likely Lad.Will s nose wrinkled in amusement. Her son. Kit. Are you insinuating the ladis your bastard? And then he frowned, and nibbled the edge of an ink-stainedthumbnail, uncertain why the thought made him so uneasy.
My mistress has asked that I bid thee, my beloved friend & only begetter ofwhatever joy is afforded me, remember the pastoral fancies of thy callowyears & find ways to set them into verse. I am minded of county ballads & oldtales I imagine you too are conversant with, of Nimue, & the Irish & Welshstories & those of Yorkshire & Scotland: Finvarra & Oonagh & their kin.
You want me to tell fairy tales to the Queen, sweet Kit? He sounds lonely.You should sound lonely, exiled from home and friendships, and worried aboutthe ones you ve Left behind.
Will closed his eyes. When he opened them, he read more quickly, and withoutpause.
Have a care for Poley, Will. If he & his have realized that you are myreplacement, you may find yourself with dangerous enemies: have a care not tobe associated too plainly with Hunsdon, Burghley, Oxford & their friends. Iwill dare declare Robert Poley & Thomas Walsingham scions of the enemy, & askyou be wary of them.It is of import that you acquaint yourself with the politics, if you have notalready done so: Essex s group do support the Queen, although they are moreinterested in their own advancement than the stability of the crown. Raleighis a little better: I can Like the man for his ideals, at Least, which areintellectual & inquisitive, but he is a popinjay. (Those are not sentimentsto be repeated, sweet Will, Lest you withal blacken my name further than mineenemies have already.)More dangerous are Poley & Baines (& I now think Thomas Walsingham), who havemade themselves so seeming indispensable that their word be taken even overmine, & I have proven my worth to Gloriana in great extremis.I read with great delight the pages of yr. Merchant you included with thebooks, & have returned some suggestions along with mine own current project.Also, I am quite engaged with your character of Beatrice she reflects yourAnnie, does she not? but feel Hero could be stronger or mayhap more delicateof constitution; her speeches now show nowt but woman scorned, & women (evenscorned) are no force to be trifled with. You may wish if you can so contriveto seek Her Majesty s approval. Gloriana fancies herself something of a poet, 
& was of infinite service making that infamous she-wolf Isabella more abreathing woman than the Dragon of Legendry. Further
It went on for a page and a half, line-by-line comments on the play, endingwryly,
have enclosed some notes for the play or more Like masque my mistress hascommissioned of me, something of an orgy & something of a revel, & I amfeared only half-suited to my poor talents. I wish you would examine themwith some haste, & return post to me through the usual channels.I think on thee & London daily. With all Love & affection, your dear friendLeander. Will read the letter over again, permitting himself a few more smiles. Verywell then, if Her Majesty will sully her hand with playmaking, I will offerher mine own poor words to dirty herself on. He stopped, and frowned, andlooked up at the darkened window. And then he fetched quills the stained onefor the irongall, and the white one for the invisible ink and sat down at thetable and composed himself to write.
Beloved companion of mine art
Will stopped, brushing the nub of vane that lingered on his quill against hisupper lip. He glanced at the stack of pages beside his elbow, the ink onKit s manuscript so black it gleamed, and frowned.
Have a care not to be associated too plainly with Hunsdon, Burghley, Oxford &Kit, how do I write to tell thee that Lord Hunsdon has claimed Burbage, Kempand I withal into an playing company, now that Strange is dead? That we arebecome the Lord Chamberlain s Men? 
He ran a hand through his hair, streaking it for once with lemon juiceinstead of ink. And then he pulled a fresh sheet of paper toward himself, andwrote Dearest Annie instead. Three days later, Will and Burbage trudged through a cloying summer rain tothe Spread Eagle, a tavern near the bearbaiting pits that could be forgiven acertain lack of charm for the virtue of its pies, although for safety s sakeWill wouldn t drink anything weaker than ale. A filthy floor and walls darkwith smoke and grease did nothing to brighten its face, but Will hadforgotten to eat through the afternoon, and his stomach grumbled painfullywhen the wench another attraction of the Eagle slid his supper under hisnose. Burbage looked up at the sound and laughed, pushing bread through bloodyjuices, then stuffing the soaked sops into his mouth. You ll waste away to aghost, he said. Will broke the pie open and scooped aromatic meat and onions to his mouth.Gravy trickled into his beard; he wiped it on the back of his hand. Oxford s help isn t help, he said in a low voice. If I suspected he were competent,I d believe he meant to impede rather than assist. At least Jew and Merchant are showing a success, for all I m hard-put to believe we staged them soswiftly as we did. Has there been word of Lopez?Burbage, chewing thoughtfully, only turned his head from side to side. He ll hang, for all Burghley can do. We may be lucky enough that our work will fendoff riots and worse, however. And the hunt is on for Papists. I marked adozen recusants in stocks today. Tis a time to keep your hand in yoursleeve, methinks.
Mayhap. Will busied himself with pie and ale, unwilling to meet Burbage seye. Rain still rattled the shutters, and all London smelled of damp. Allsummer, the rain had barely lifted long enough for a man to wring the waterfrom his cloak before descending again. I ve a play in mind that might catchHer Majesty s fancy. A tale of two warring houses. Another tragedy.
We could use a comedy for the Theatre. Now that the plague has liftedthat we ve lifted the plagueaye, well, yes. People want happy things. Can you write me a comedy by All
Saint s Day, Will?I wot. 
A shadow fell across the table as a stocky figure, cloak dripping rain,passed between Will and Burbage and the light. William Shakespeare. A sonorous voice spoke in educated tones. You re going bald on top, Will.The heat of a well-used brain, Will replied. I see you have experiencedthe like. Not I, Burbage interjected. I keep mine too well greased with ale to ruband burn. Sit down, George.Since you ve invited The poet George Chapman unwound his cloak from underhis beard. Will shuffled the bench away from the trestle, and Chapman satheavily. I ve a letter from Spenser. Chapman slapped the table to draw thewench s attention. He s back in County Cork, would you believe it? Master ofthe Queen s Justice, in Ireland. Sad days when the greatest poet in ageneration must politic for his breadWill choked on piecrust and reached for his ale, spilling half of it acrosshis lap when Chapman thumped him between the shoulders. Burbage glared, lipscompressed, though Will thought he had recovered nicely. He pulled a kerchieffrom his sleeve and dabbed at his breeches. He s completed his Faerie Queene? 
A canto or two. The girl came over; Chapman refused ale or wine and orderedinstead small beer and stew. Will wondered if his famous temperance wasdistaste for drunkenness, some Puritan bent, or merely the caution of a manwith no head for liquor. Will you grace us with another play this summer,Will? 
One or two. Will wrung his sopping kerchief onto the boards and spread itacross the trestle to dry. A tragedy first, and Dick Burbage wants a comedyto warm a heart or two. I may write him half a dozen this year, if he staysunwary. I ve been reading the Italians, and my lord Southampton wishes me tocome spend some weeks in residence with him before the summer s out, andwrite him poetry
May God ha mercy on this house, Chapman said.A plague upon you, then, Will answered with rare good humor, consideringhis breeches were sticking to his hose. And yourself, George? What have youbeen working at?Master Marley s Hero and Leander, Chapman replied. I still mean to finish it. Don t flinch like a girl, Master Burbage. For all his excesses and atawdry end, our Kit deserves to be remembered for his gifts as well. And withhis Jew in production again, I can see no better time to press the issue. Kitwould have wanted to be recollected. Will shrugged. Isn t that what poets crave?Chapman s stew arrived. He busied himself for a moment buttering bread withabsolute attention, and then looked up first at Burbage, and then turning hisbroad contemplative face to study Will. No, William. He set the bread down on the boards beside his dinner. I think you ve something more to prove thanskill, to select an example. I think you are a man who is afraid to be alone.After your death, if the ages forget your name, so be it . . . so long as weknow you today, and tomorrow, and touch on your wit.Will swallowed ale to wet his throat. That may be, George. At least I ve awit to touch on, yes?
At least, Chapman answered, and turned his concentration on his board,bench creaking. I ll show you what I ve got of Hero if you d like itExceedingly.Done, then, Burbage said, suddenly rising. Will, if you would walk withme? You had wished to speak to my father about buying shares in theChamberlain s Men Will stood, leaving the crumbs of his dinner on the trestle. Richard, I haveintentions to visit a woman tonight. Perhaps tomorrow? Burbage nodded, andWill continued, George, I shall see you at church.Indeed you will. Or Friday at the Hogshead. Or are we meeting at theMermaid, on Bread Street? 
On Bread Street. That s where all the rogues and scoundrels have gone.In your company I ll find them.Will paused, hearing the smile in the older poet s voice. He scooped theale-soaked rag from the end of the table and without turning threw it over his shoulder. He didn t wait to find out if it wrapped itself aroundChapman s head as satisfactorily as the wet thwack of cloth hitting fleshsuggested; instead he broke for the door, trusting Chapman s dignity to betoo great for a really rollicking pursuit.Will s first impression of Mary Poley was of a bright, sudden eye, halfoccluded by a tangled spiral of brown-black hair, gleaming through the crackin a door she gripped so tightly her knuckles went white along the edge. Who is it? Her sodden skirts shifted: she leaned a knee with her weight behindit on the door, in case he tried to push through.
William Shakespeare, he said. The playmaker. Are you Mistress Poley?I am. She didn t relax her grip on the door, and that jet-shiny eye ran uphim from boot to beard and back down without meeting his gaze. Are yelooking for a washingwoman?Her tones were educated not surprising, given her family. Will lowered hisvoice. He d expected more genteel poverty, somehow. I m looking for MasterKit Marley s friend.That hand flew to her mouth and she stepped back involuntarily. Will didn twaste a gesture; he pressed the flat of his hand against the timbers andshoved the door open, careful not to strike Mistress Poley in the face. Heslipped through sideways and pushed it shut behind, standing back against thewall as she cringed away.
Mistress PoleyShh! A jerk of a gesture over her shoulder. My boy s asleep. Finally. Hehas terrors Poor lad. Will lowered his voice. Mistress What d ye know of Kit Marley? And why d ye trouble my house? House, shesaid, drawing all fourteen hands of herself up like a stretched-taut string,as if the rotten, spotless little chamber with its two sad pallets on thefloor and its peeling plaster were a manse.Kit Marley was Will stopped, and frowned at the little woman tremblingwith rage, a banty hen defending the nest. She d be perfect for Burbage, hethought. No wonder Kit Liked her. And then she shoved a hand through herunkempt hair, tilted her head back to glare at him, and sniffed.Will sat down on the floor, his back against the door. my friend. And hecared for you, so I know he would have wished mine assistance to you, if youwill so kindly accept it. He reached into his pocket and tossed a littlefelt bag clinking on the bare boards between her feet. She glanced down, butdidn t step back or stoop to pick up the coin.Will drew a long breath through his nose, closed his eyes, and finished,still mindfully soft. And your husband had a hand in killing him, and I minterested in learning why.She glanced over her shoulder: the small form curled on one of the palletsstill lay unmoving, and she turned her wary, wild-animal expression back onWill. She probed the bag with her toe barefoot, Will saw and seemed toconsider for a second before she stooped down like some wise little monkeyand made the coins vanish beneath her apron into the stained folds of herskirt. On a darker day, she said, crouching and resting her back againstthe wall, but not sitting, I might give ye that Kit was killed for my sins. She balled fists reddened with scrubbing against her eyes, whipcord muscleflexing across skinny forearms.
But it wasn t Robert wielding the dagger. Will suddenly felt very tired, asif the space of a few feet across the floor between himself and MistressPoley were a rushing river that must be swum. Do you see your husband often,Mistress? 
She pulled her hands down. Never an I can cross the street in time. But there might be yet a thing or two I may aid you with, Master Shakespeare.She nodded, a sage oscillation of her head, and then she grinned. Willblinked in the dazzle of her smile as she squared her shoulders and roseagainst the wall without setting a hand on the floor, realizing that she wasno older than he. Not that you re quite the beardless boy any more. Aye,Will Shakespeare, then. A friend of Kit Marley s is a friend of mine. 
Act II, scene v
Barabas: Some Jews are wicked, as all Christians are.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, The Jew of Malta Kit s eye never shifted from the unrippled surface of the Darkling Glass, hisfingertips hooked under the lip of the carved flower petals marking theframe. So long as his hand rested among the cold, sculptured blossoms, heheard the words of the players clearly: Burbage s metered, resonant voicedeclaiming, He jests at scars that never felt a woundBurbage and Kemp, and Will, and the rest of the company moved about the shaded stage before an empty house, on an early autumn afternoon. Sunlightglared on the packed earth of the yard, outlining a not-quite-perfect circlewith the bite of the stage taken from it, its margins defined by the galleryroofs. Kit leaned closer, tracing the action behind the mirror, where smallforms moved sharp and crisp in the cold, polished blackness of the glass.But it was cold. Cold as a scene viewed through a rippled casement. Kit drewhis brown woolen cloak tighter, tugging the hood up to hide his hair and theblack band of the eyepatch crossing his face. He settled his sword at hisbelt with his left hand, hiding it under a fall of cloth, glanced over hisshoulder, and finding himself unobserved thought very carefully about a darkcorner of the Theatre s second gallery, in the private boxes above and behindthe stage. It came into view, a familiar concealed corner behind a pillar anda bench where lovers might steal a kiss
Or where a cloaked man might linger and in his own person overhear the voiceof Richard Burbage speaking beautiful words: By a name, I know not how totell thee who I am: My name, dear Saint, is hateful to my self, because it isan enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the wordA warm breeze brought Kit the scent of the streets and the distant barking ofa dog, and the contrast to Faerie s cool air and birdsong came home with apang. He sweated in his cloak, and saw that the players sweated as much intheir costumes, and thought, how much I miss this only a few moments beforehe realized that he could not, in fact, step back to Faerie as simply as he dstepped away.I LL need to find a Looking glass. He wasn t worried: he thought he mighthave two or three days before the pain set in, and if he couldn t visitWill because Will would be watched there were other errands Kit could busyhimself upon.Once night fell.In the meanwhile, he crouched against the wall in a garishly painted box atJames Burbage s Theatre, first to be so named, and concealed his face, andwatched men who had been friends rehearse a play. Several of his own poorscribblings had made their mark upon these boards those sanded scorches werefrom an overturned firepot during a miscarriage of Faustus, some yearssince and by this current rehearsal, Kit judged that Will Shakespeare hadmade a fair mark of his own. The play progressed. The shadows slid, and Kit slid with them, his eyestinging and a smile on his lips. He sighed and settled down on the floorcross-legged, peering around a bench, his left arm going numb from elbow towrist while he leaned his chin on his arm. He didn t dare blow his nose, andso sniffled quietly and uncomfortably into the rough wool of his cloak.And then the truth of what he was seeing sank in, and he sat back against thewall, rapier sticking out to the side like a stiff, unwieldy tale. Two warring houses and their children Lost coming to their senses too Late,uniting when the future they might have defended is Lost to them. NotCatholics and Protestants, but Capulets and Montagues. Kit bit down on his finger to keep from laughing out loud.
I d almost forgotten. His family is Catholic.Injustice and undue accusations your simpering Hero and her slander, yourstern Beatrice and your clever Benedick united over all their ownprotestations You LL work our trickery even on the Queen, won t you? And 
Burghley and the rest can go to Hell with their persecutions and theirfactions and Kit s grin turned downward and he tapped a thumb on his lip,only half aware of the excited babble of the players on the stage below.Kit sat up straighter and then scrunched into the darkness as a tall,beskirted figure, her gray-streaked hair almost the same mousy shade asKit s bound up on her head and her dress sagging at the bindings as if it hadbeen worn for hard travel. She scanned the galleries imperiously; he caught abreath in his teeth and held it, didn t let it slip until her eye was past.One last voice Will s rose above the abruptly stilling clamor from the stage.He must have his back to the yard. But Kit didn t drop his eyes from AnnieShakespeare s face to see Will turn. Didn t look away from the Amazon s formas she set her heel and laid each palm softly on the curve of a hip. Tiltingher head, the smile in her eyes never touching her lips.Will must be looking by now, by the utter silence in the stage and yard. Bythe way Annie angled her chin up, to command a glance across the packed earthand cinders and up the five-foot lift of the stage. She drew a breath Kit sawher shoulders settle as her bosom rose and opened her mouth and never got aword into the air, as a whooping Will Shakespeare piled off the stage andswept her off her feet and spun her up in the air.And that s as good a distraction as I m Like to get, Kit thought, and slippedaway down the stair into the drawing twilight, whistling to himself when hiself-booted foot met the dusty cobbles of the road.Some hours later, footsore and sweltering, he stepped back into the doorwayof a shuttered cookshop across the alley from a tavern he d stay away from ifhe had any sense at all: the Groaning Sergeant, Mistress Mathews sole domain. He leaned into the shadows, trusting the cloak to hide the outline ofhis body against the brown wood of the door, lifting the pommel of his swordto tip the scabbard straight so it wouldn t tap the wall.He sighed. Francis could help me. If I had the wit to go to his house fromFaerie, and speak to him straightaway. I LL never find my way in now.But then I wouldn t have seen the play.
Men came and went. Kit stretched against the wall as the hours drifted by,keeping himself awake through force of will and force of habit. Traffic wassteady; the Sergeant s clientele stayed awake late. When the lights withinflickered out longer after curfew than the law, speaking strictly,allowed and the custom left, he did permit himself to slide down against thedoor frame and doze. But no more than doze; even if no enemy found him, itwould profit him little to be taken and jailed as a vagrant, a masterlessman. Toward morning, he crept from his vantage and forced the cellar on a housewhich had been boarded up for the summer, abandoned to the threat of plagueas the residents guested with some relative or country friend. He stole ameager supper from a few forgotten pots of preserves, and slept. Curfew foundhim again lurking in the shadows with a clear view of the Sergeant.Kit s patience was rewarded sometime in the blessedly cool hours beforematins, as he shifted the cloak and his sweat-lank hair off his neck. Thesmells of morning baking filled the air, and his stomach grumbled. Tis been too Long since you went hungry, Marley. You re soft.
But then a figure emerged from the alleyway beside the Sergeant and with anunconcerned glance at the apparent derelict in the doorway opposite slippedinside. A tall man, hair platinum in the pre-dawn, hands broad even for hisframe. 
Richard Baines. 
Kit unwound his fingers from the hilt of his rapier. He checked the sky,cocking an ear for church bells, and decided discretion might serve betterthan boldness. At least clouds were gathering: a not-unexpected stroke ofluck, given the chill wetness of the summer, but it would make his cloak lessunlikely and Baines easier to shadow. 
Kit emerged from the doorway, tipping his rapier straight again so theoutline wouldn t show, and staggered around the corner to the alley. Itdidn t take as much effort to move drunkenly as he would have preferred: twonights propped in a doorway left his neck and back complaining, the musclesof his thighs stiff as if they d been nights in the saddle.Thunder crackled; Kit skulked behind empty barrels under a second-storyoverhang. He kicked a dead starling aside and settled himself to wait, but afew moments later the sky pissed rain like a drunken Jove. He tugged the hoodof his cloak higher, wet wool slicing his limited vision in half. Inside thecookshop, pots clattered, onions browned. Christ wept. Never trust to Luck.In a quarter hour, Baines cloakless, ears hunched into his collar left theSergeant. Poley walked alongside, better equipped for the rain in a grayoiled cloak and high boots. Kit swung in behind them, fifty feet or more.Baines shoulders, clad in a brown leather jerkin that grew slowly darkerwith the rain, bobbed through a crowd, and Kit for once was glad of the otherman s height.The men wended north. The grit between his soles and the cobbles turned tomud, but Kit s feet stayed snug in Faerie boots and he never slipped. Poleyand Baines led him down alleys and through mires more wallow than highway. Abloated rat corpse swept down the gutter. Pedestrians ducked into taverns anddoorways, but Baines and Poley continued. And Kit followed. Baines neverlooked back. Poley did, but Kit was careful to vary his distance and hiswalk, and one shrouded, sodden figure looked much like another. He got lucky:they took the Bridge rather than a wherry south across the Thames.The two men stepped down another side street and into an intersection. Kitrecognized their destination: a well-favored establishment known as theElephant, a Southwark tavern whose sign peeled artistically rather than fromsimple neglect.Kit checked his step as they continued around the building to where, he knew,a ramshackle stairway led to a warm and comfortably appointed room. Hestepped under an overhang and leaned into the corner by the garden wall,gasping like a hooked fish. His stomach clenched on emptiness, but he forcedhimself to straighten and walk silently through the rain.His hand itched on his swordhilt. Not his left hand, to keep the blade tuckedunder his cloak, but his right, ready to draw the blade whickering into theair and cast that cloak aside, to run Baines and Poley down, shouting. To runthem through before they could climb those stairsWhere s Nick Skeres? he thought, picking his way over litter and startling aferal pig nosing through garbage. It fled in a clatter of trotters, and Kitheld his breath lest the sound should bring investigators. But the rainprobably covered it.Where s Frazier? The name brought a twist of coldness into his belly, andkept him from thinking about who might be already waiting in that room. Hereleased the rapier s hilt and thrust the lank strands of hair out of hiseye. They stuck to his cheeks and forehead; he stifled a sneeze and swore.Morgan will put me in a hot bath again. It was her cure for everything,insane as it sounded, but it hadn t killed him yet.Baines and Poley had just reached the landing as Kit glided around the cornerand slipped beneath the whitewashed frame of the stair. They did not shut thedoor. Kit looked up at the timbers and sighed, knowing from experience thatthe landing and much of the stair were visible through that entryway.
PerhapsI can t make the climb in a cloak. The sword would be enough trouble, but hewasn t leaving that behind. He circled through puddles, using a few wanflickers of lightning to get an idea of the strength of the crossbracingholding the stairs, wishing he had a bit of leather to bind his hair. Itdrifted again into his eye and mouth as he lifted his face. He drank in theunclean savor of London rain, blinked a particle of soot away. A pang ofhunger left him dizzy for a moment; he sighed and took hold of the thickest 
timber. Quickly, Kit, or you LL miss what you ve come to hear. You don t know who s in that room. ALL you have is a very nasty suspicion indeed.
And one that could mean a great deal of danger to Will, especially if hisfriend s secret plan to undermine the ill-feeling between Protestants andPapists came to light.Kit dropped his cloak in the driest corner and ran each hand up oppositesides of the rough-hewn timber, glad the edges had not been planed to cornersand the bark was only haphazardly smoothed away. He grabbed as high as hecould, locked fist around wrist, and half hopped, half pulled himself intothe air. He wrapped his legs around the pillar, the rough surface burningskin through clothes so much for these hose and breathed. One. He reached as high as he could, coiled his arms around the pillar, anddragged himself a few inches, cursing rain and splinters. Something stabbedhis thigh, working deeper as he shimmied up. He kept his grip and pressed thescarred side of his face against the timber.Another flicker, and a halfhearted growl of thunder. Kit struck his head on acrossbrace and flinched, but held on. The stars he saw were brighter than thelightning. A slow hot trickle winding through his hair was soon lost in allthe swift, cold trickles; he hoped the thump would be as lost in the sound ofthe storm. The voices he strained to hear almost vanished under the patteringof droplets; Kit chased them, hoisting himself onto that crossbrace andstraddling it. His arms and legs trembled. The crossbrace dug into his back,and the splinter burned in his thigh.Good work, Marley. And how get you down? He wiped his hair out of his faceagain and saw dilute blood on his fingers, though the bump on his head seemedsuperficial.He closed his eye and listened through the rain: first to the commonplaces ofintelligencers in the tones of Baines and of Poley, reports of Catholics andPuritans Kit dismissed as no longer relevant to his service. Until
. . . no, I haven t seen Nick today, but he intended to attend. He must havebeen delayed at some trouble, my lord. I can tell you until he gets here thatyour Shakespeare s been well behaved, Poley said in his sharp, sardonictones. He spent the night in his room with his wife. Had supper sent up, andthe candle went out shortly after. Not a peep: he seems apt to take theQueen s penny and write his plays as he s told.And then the third voice. Precise, a little pinched. As pompous as hispeascod doublets: the voice of Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford. Kitcovered his face with his forearm, blocking the incessant drip. Have yourmen see he stays under control, Master Poley. I d not waste anotherplaymaker.
Though so long as he seems biddable, there should be no danger; LordBurghley relies on me to guide his production, and there have been noincidents such as those that provoked us to deal so harshly with MasterMarley.Kit almost lost his grip on the beam.
Have you aught else to report? Anything of Thomas Walsingham?Baines voice, the first part lost under the rumble of the thunder and thesudden agony of Kit s throat constricting. You broke it off, Kit. You wereyoung. You Learned. You never
meant a thing to him.Edward.
 . . . Thomas Walsingham s trust is secure. I ve made evidence that Marleywas involved with enemies of the Queen, and Thomas has accepted MasterPoley s judgement. With some tearing of the hair. I gather they were bosomfriends. Kit straightened his arms against the beam overhead. Cold water dripped ontohis forehead and ran down his arms as he let his head loll back. It mingledwith slow heat leaking down his cheek, dripped burning against the back of 
his throat. He tasted salt and didn t lower a hand to wipe it dry.Edward, he mouthed. Oh, unhappy Marley. He d blamed poor Thomas for hismurder all unfairly, and it was fickle Edward all along.Baines said, Walsingham suspects nothing, my lord.
Excellent. What news from the Continent? A band of heavier rain swept the alley, and Kit couldn t bear in any case tolisten longer. The pang that wracked his belly was the final consideration:he couldn t be sure if it was hunger, or the doom that would drive him backto Faerie, but he didn t dare stay wedged under the stair. He slung a legover the crossbrace and locked his ankles around the timber again, thinking,At Least going down will be easier than coming up. Except his hand slipped on slimy wood as he shifted his hip off thecrossbrace, and he grabbed wildly for the timber and got a slick handful ofrain-soaked bark that peeled free.He wasn t sure how he remembered not to shout as he skidded two feet, asmearwith whitewash and crumbs of wood, that splinter lodged so deeply now hethought he d die of it, his eyepatch tearing loose a knot of hair as it wentinto the gulf underneath. His sword stayed blessedly fast in its scabbard,though, and for a long moment Kit hugged the timber and just breathed long,slow rattling breaths that hurt more coming out than going in.Somehow he made it to the ground and stood against the timber, shaking morewith his realization about Oxford than with the terror of the climb. He knew the length of such reports to the minute, and Poley and Baines would beemerging soon. What s another betrayal? I already knew what he was
At Least I ve confirmation Edward II stung him. Although perhaps more than Iintended. And then a bright flare of hope, quickly doused. It wasn t Tom. And so what if it wasn t? The thought that must concern me is whether Edwardis our only traitor.
Kit pulled himself away from the timber and bent to retrieve his cloak. Hecouldn t find his eyepatch; the rainwater felt odd trickling over thedrooping eyelid and the scar on his blind side. But at least with the cloaktoo sodden to wear, it was unlikely anyone would look past the whitewashdaubing his form, the blood and mess and the long-healed wound to recognize adead man s profile.He needed Morgan. He needed to get another message to Francis, that hiscousin was innocent and Oxford the man not to be trusted. We We. Kit, there is no we any more. You serve a different Queen. He would have laughed if he d dared: first the sinking horror of betrayal andthen relief that left him giddy. Edward, not Thomas. Why is it so much betterto be betrayed by one former Lover than another?Because it is better to have a vile impression of someone once cared forreinforced, than to have one s heart shown irreparably flawed.
He picked his way out into the steadier traffic of the street, too weary andpained to keep to the shadows though passersby were offering his bloody,whitewashed, rain-streaked visage curious stares and wide berths. There was arain barrel up on bricks a half block further on, and he thought he mightwash his face. Kit kept his eye on his shoes, cautious of the slick cobbles.He wouldn t have looked up at all if a hurrying figure hadn t drawn back astartled step and gasped.
M Marley?God s blood. Kit looked into the eyes of a narrow little man with a narrowlittle face. He was well dressed and well wrapped against the rain, and heskittered back three steps and bared his teeth like a trapped rat as Kitadvanced, reaching across his body for the rapier.
Nicholas Skeres, Kit muttered between the draggled locks of his hair. Hetasted lime and blood and soot, and spit them out upon the road. Thou murdering bastard. I ll see thee hang. 
Skeres eyes widened so the white showed in a ring. He gave a scream like astartled girl and shuffled backward, tripped on a stone, and sat down hard inthe slops. Kit stay thy handAs thou didst stay Ingrim s? Another step forward, the naked blade in Kit shand pointed at Skeres left eye, only a few short steps distant. The damageis done. You re recognized. You may as well get the pleasure of his blood
Passersby were halting, drawing back, staring and muttering.
Tis Master Marley s ghost. A woman s shocked voice: one he knew not, buthe d been well enough known. The murdered playmakerFrom some window open to the rain, a drift of music followed. Kit turned hishead to regard the semicircle ranged on his blind side. A half-dozen men andwomen huddled in the rain, frozen with fear or fascination. He ran a cold eyeover them and they drew back. He was all over whitewash and blood, and heknew what they must see: a tattered figure smeared with the lime of thegrave, the blood of his fatal wound rolling from the socket of his missingeye, leveling a naked blade at a sobbing killer.It was too much for a player s imagination. And a few reports of a dramaticrevenant wouldn t risk the sort of intelligent questions that a dead manreturning from the grave to slaughter his own murderer might. Skeres claiminga visit from Kit s ghost could be drunken fancy.Or Hell a ghost, for all that.Kit had been careless and greedy, and he wouldn t have Will or Francis or atrue innocent like Burghley s changeling cousin Bull caught in the net ofthat carelessness. Kit smiled through the blood and tilted his head to look his prey in the eye.
You ll die screaming, Nick Skeres, he whispered. The man flinched down intothe gutter, a fresh reek of urine hanging on the rain-wet air, and Kitwhirled on the ball of his foot. Silent in his nail-less boots, carrying hisnaked blade, he ran into the storm and made himself gone. 
Act II, scene vi
Pedro: I shall see thee ere I die, Look pale with Love. Benedick: With anger,with sickness, or with hunger, my Lord, not with Love: prove that ever ILoose more blood with Love then I will get again with drinking, pick out mineeyes with a Ballad-maker s pen, and hang me up at the door of a brothel housefor the sign of blind Cupid.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Much Ado About Nothing"Thou didst send for me, and I am here. Annie lay on his bed, her shoeslined side by side beneath it, her hair unpinned and spread like a river onhis pillow, spilling over the hand and arm she propped her head upon. I stink with travel, Will. Wouldst call up water?Will, fussing with the lamp, smiled. Her terseness had the welcome sound ofhome. I m glad thou didst come.He stepped out the door and down the stairs, found the landlord sten-year-old boy, Jack, dozing in the common room. Warm water for my wife.Will dropped half a silver penny on Jack s lap. And see if there s any ofthe pig leftHe s only a little older than Hamnet. Jack vanished into the kitchen so fast he blurred. Will clumped back up the stairs, dizzy with the effects of a longday s work in the heat. Water is imminent. And thy supper, too, if thoulikst. How are Hamnet and the girls?
Growing. Susanna s tall as a willow. They re with thy sister Joan. Comehome, Will.He left the door unlatched and plumped down on the boards beside the bed inthe flickering lamplight, the window thrown open despite the stench and soundof the streets. Thou knowst I can t. He reached up without looking, caughther skirts, and tugged until her legs slid over the edge of the bed and herfeet dropped into his lap. I m good at this, Annie. And The door swungopen at John s tap. Will moved Anne s legs aside and rose to relieve the boyof his bucket and the cold pork and bread.Will latched the door and set the food on the table, shoulders aching as hehefted the bucket. Anne peeled her stocking down, her leg raised in the air,her skirts in disarray and a wanton gleam in her eye. Wash my feet for me,Will. Her bare foot ran up his calf, tickling the back of his knee.
Annie. He set the bucket down and sat on the bed beside her, a careful sixinches away. Dost want thy supper?
Tis not supper I m hungry for. She curled against his back, pressing hersoft bosom against his shoulder, her hair across his shoulder like a veil.She smelled of dust and travel, of sweat and great distances, and of sachetlavender.
 I won t risk thy life for another babe, Annie.
Tis not a babe I crave, sweet William. I m too old to catch.Oh, Annie. He turned and put his hands through her hair, and closed hereyes with a kiss. Not so old as that, I warrant. They say a love match nevercomes out well, but after all I went to winning thee, Wife, would I riskthee? Another birth like the twins would finish thee, and thou wert youngerthen It wasn t so bad. There was blood through the ticking, Anne.There s someone else. Flatly, a dead inflection that squeezed his heartlike a fist. A player s dalliances. No one who mattersA husband s prerogative, in the absence of his wife. She tugged her skirtsout from under his leg and squatted beside the bucket, unlacing her bodiceand pushing aside her smock as if the bitterness in her voice were the tonesof idle conversation. He watched her wash her arms and neck, the shadowsunder the well-nursed softness of her breasts. The lamplight streaked herhair with an unfair quantity of gray. I m well provided for. Where does themoney come from, Will? 
I m in favor at the court. And living over a tavern.He looked around the Spartan room, seeing it through her eyes. I m not here often, he said at last. I should see to better lodging.Thou canst write plays in Stratford. Thou canst see thy children grow. I llcontent myself with stable-handsHe turned to her, startled, and saw her rock back on her heels and smile.If a husband may seek comfort elsewhere, HusbandMouse. Thou wouldst not. She sighed and stood, her hands linked palm to palm before her thighs. If thou lt not risk me, should I risk myself? I die of idleness, Will.Three children and a cottage are not enough housewifery for thee?She kilted her skirts up, standing first on one leg and then the other towash the grime from her feet. Will watched her toes flex, the arch of eachfoot grip the floor. I ll clean my hair tomorrow, she decided, and steppedaround the bucket, leaving footprints like jewels on the boards. Her hands onher hips again, challenging, and the curve of her clever neckNot so different than she d been when they d conspired to marry over familyobjections, all those years ago. He coughed into his hand.If thou wilt not tumble me, she said as she came to him, wilt at least come to thy bed and comfort me with thine arms?He blew out the lamp and did as she asked, and pretended not to hear herweep. Until the small hours, when the noise from the street below grewslighter and she moved against him, mumbling into the dark. I want a business, Will. If thou hast playmaking, then give me something otherthan stitchery and child-chasing to fill the hours.What wouldst thou? He felt her smile against his shoulder, and knew he was lost. My lordhusband. I could make thee a wealthy man A long pause, and shimmeringwryness. I want to buy land.Which she could do only in his name and person. With the income I send? And mine own portion.Her held breath stilled against his cheek, he considered. Annie he said,and still heard no hiss of breath through her lips. Send me what needst mymark, he said. Mean old biddy.Stripling, she answered, and kissed his cheek above the beard, and he wassorry that was all. 
Act II, scene vii
Can kingly Lions fawn on creeping Ants?CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Edward II "Sweet Kit. Murchaud shook his head, black curls uncoiling across thesilver-shot gray silk taffeta of his doublet. He reclined beside the fire, anoctavo volume propped on his knee.Kit looked up from the papers spread on his worktable and smiled through thecandlelight, wary at Murchaud s tone.You must not weary yourself on the affairs of mortals, my love. It willbring sorrow.Kit blotted his quill and laid it across the pen rest. Methodically, hesanded black words, setting the letter aside unfolded when he stood. A command, Your Highness?Murchaud set his book aside and stretched on the divan, gesturing Kit closer,but Kit stood his ground.Nay, my lord.Kit. Nay, my lord. He scraped a bootheel across the flags and frowned, turningto look into the flames of the cross-bricked hearth. Where has Morgan been?What mean you?I mean, Kit said, watching ash crumble at the edges of a cave among theembers that glowed cherry red as a dragon s eye, she has not summoned me in How Long has it been? He shrugged, running his tongue across the cleftin his upper lip and then frowning as he nibbled his mustache. some time. Kit heard the Elf-knight stand, his almost-silent footsteps as he closed thedistance on Kit s blind side. She has a cottage where she flees the court.It lies behind yonder beech wood. I will see that she knows of your sorrow.There s worse to come. What mean you?The hesitation was long enough for Kit s gut to clench. I m leaving in fivedays. The Mebd sends me on diplomacy.Where? I cannot say. But it will be hard for you; Morgan must keep her distancenow, and you must seem alone while I am gone. It must seem she has tired ofyou. You ve played this game before. She said she warned you.Kit looked up. That I might be needed for skills beyond poetry. Am I naughtbut a Queen s toy, Murchaud?The Elf-knight smiled. Is that so terrible a thing to be? You courtedPapists for your former Mistress. There are factions in Faerie that are notso fond of your new one, or the Queen. You ll be attractive to them.The ugliness of the intelligencer s lot, Kit said. Win a man s trust. Become his friend. Whisper words of love in his ear as you slip in the knife.Catholicism is as excellent a religion as any, I suppose, so I have no reasonto prefer Protestants to Catholics. Nor this Fae to that Fae, Murchaud.No, Murchaud answered, a gentle hand on his elbow. But thou didst serve a Queen those Papists would have seen murdered, didst not?Kit turned back to the fire. I did. Murchaud bent close amid a scent of new-mown grass. And now you serveanother, whose enemies are also manifold. Shall you serve her less well?That other service, for all its blackness, I chose. Kit sighed and nodded, and Murchaud draped an arm around his shoulders. ThePrince s tone grew intimate. You mourn your other life? You miss smoky,brutal London and its pox-riddled stews, its painted Ganymedes, and itsstarving pickpockets, soon to be hanged?Should I not? Ah, Kit. Warmth, yes, and pity. You ll outlive it. Outlive all your lovesand hates. Tis easier to lose it now, all of a piece, than by shreds andtatters. 
. . . outlive it? He turned and looked, despite himself, and caughtMurchaud s expression as the Elf-knight reached to steady him. Outlive the mortal world? 
Faerie does not move as the iron world, and you ll not age here. How longdid you think you had lingered here? Earnest eyes, and dark brows drawntogether.
Hast been a year and more in England two, three summers here Kit swallowed. His voice trailed off at the smile in Murchaud s eyes. How long?
We mark by the tithe, Murchaud answered. The teind we pay to Hell fortheir protection. Every sevenyear we draw lots, or a criminal may be chosento go, or a changeling stolen or, rarely, someone will volunteer. Which lastpays the debt not for seven years, but for seven times seven He shook his head. Tribute to our overlords. Kit shivered. Murchaud hadn t answered the question. Kit tried to think back,to count summers and winters, flowerings and fallings. He looked down at hisright hand, turned it to examine the tendons strung across the back, thecalluses ridging his palm. How Long?He had no answer. When s the tithe, then?
Hallow s eve. Always. Murchaud shook his head.
 Hallows eve here or in the mortal world? 
Time here is an illusion, Murchaud answered. In the mortal world: Hallow s eve, fifteen ninety-eight.
Four years hence.
Not so very long. Do not pine so for your lost life, Sir Kit. Set it aside,and do what you can to make yourself a stronger place in this court.
You suggest I could be sent, if the Mebd does not value me? Although yourmother claimed my service? Kit Marley in Hell it has a certain symmetry.
The Mebd values you, Murchaud says. But she trusts her sister, my mother,not at all. Wert wise to make as many friends in court here as thou couldst,and let thine old friends glide past. The river of time will bear them totheir end more quickly than you imagine.
I Kit swallowed. Soon enough, then, I shall be beyond that. Had I noloyalty, what would I be worth to you?
So be it, Murchaud said. Bloody thyself on the bars of thy cage, but knowthou canst not straddle the flood between that world and this forever. 
I did not choose this world. 
No. This world chose you. Live in it, or it will cut you deep, my love. Youcannot go home again.
Have I leave to help my friends?
I will not forbid it, Murchaud answered. But by the love you bear me, paymore mind to courting your Queen.Kit nodded, watching the flames. He didn t tell me how Long I ve been here.How much time could I have Lost? The answer brought cold, sinking in his belly. In a Faerie Court, Marley? Youcould Lose your whole Life in a nightHe frowned, and didn t think of the letter to Walsingham on his desk, withits icy, alien words about Edward de Vere. As you wish. He turned his back on the fire and walked to the cupboard, taking his time in selecting hisclothes.
 Where are you going?Kit looked up, fingers stilling on the ruched sleeve of a padded doublet. Heturned over his shoulder, enough to see Murchaud clearly. I must dress if I am to dine with the Queen.
Sit at the low table, Murchaud told him. We shall pretend at a fallingout. I cannot come to you tonight. Or any night until I return from mytravel. 
How long ? But then the Elf-knight kissed him, long hands cradling Kit sface as if he cupped a rose in his palms, and Kit forgot to pursue thequestion, after. If after had any meaning here, at all. 
Morgan s rooms, on the third level of the palace, opened onto the galleryover the glass-roofed Great Hall. Murchaud s were a level lower, in a sidehall near the Mebd s chambers. But Kit s chamber was in the east wing, and tocome to the main level he descended a spiral stair rather than the GreatStair, as he had on his first night. From there, he passed through a corridorto the atrium in all its tapestried magnificence.He drew up before towering ebony doors. Knights in armor, as unmoving assuits on stands, guarded the portal on either side. He ignored them for amoment and studied the dark, coffered carving: intricate spirals andknotworks, fancifully interleaved. And what is it you ve been seeking thesepast seasons? A melancholy existence in exile? How . . . romantic.
Murchaud had threaded the stem of a pansy through the pearl-sewn embroideryon Kit s doublet; its golden-eyed, plum-colored face nodded against themallard s-head green of the velvet the color Murchaud had insisted he wear.
No knight should do battle without a favor from his Lover. Green and violetare the Mebd s colors, he had said. If ever you Learned to court it in themortal realm, use that now, and know you walk a Line even finer than mineown. 
Kit licked his lips into a smile for the bravado of it and stepped forward.The doors swung open smoothly, and he entered the great, galleried hall withits thousand torches burning with a golden, unholy light. The room was silentbut for the faint, plucked twang of an untuned string: the bard Cairbrestraightened over his lute and looked up at the swing of the door. He wasalone in the Great Hall. Kit was early.So much for bravado. He laughed at himself and walked between the paralleltrestles stretching the length of the hall. No fires burned at the hearths,and the high table sat on its dais swathed in silk that picked up thedamasked colors of the marble tiles under Kit s boots. Good even, MasterHarper.
And to you, Sir Christofer. The bard made as if to stand, reaching out toset his instrument aside, and Kit gestured him back onto his stool. Come out of your self-exile after all?There s only so long a man can take to his bed.Cairbre s eyes flickered to his breast the blossom? and the bard frowned. As you say. Will you grace us with a poem tonight?It wasn t a question Kit knew how to answer. He folded his right arm over hisleft and shrugged, silent until Cairbre took pity and tilted his chin toindicate the little stage, its assortment of harpsichord, gitar, lute, andarchaic-looking instruments that Kit barely recognized. Do you play?
Viola a little, though I am sadly out of practice.Every gentleman should know an instrument. Cairbre did stand then, hispatch-worked cloak of multicolored tatters falling about him as he bent topull a cased instrument from a cloth-draped stand. The bells on his epauletsrang sweetly as he laid it on the stool. I have a viola here He chuckled,and indicated Kit s boutonniere with a flick of his fingers. To match the one at your breast.Kit laughed. I d only embarrass myselfNonsense. Cairbre s calloused thumbs stroked the clasps on the leathercase, expertly flicking them open. After the masque you gave us forBeltane Masques. Silly things. What s that to do with music? Cairbre shrugged broad shoulders, tucking a strand of hair behind an earpointed like a leaf. His merry eyes fixed on Kit s face, and he smiledthrough a tidy black beard. What has anything to do with music? We fools andpoets must hang together ah. Master Puck! Speak of the Devil.Kit turned. Robin Goodfellow ducked under the high table and hopped down fromthe dais, twirling a bauble in time to the bobbing of his ears. Devils for dinner? Not tonight, but mayhap on another. Do you like yours roasted, or 
baked? 
My devils, or my soul?Why, Sit Kit, the Puck said. Do you have a soul? I d think you half feyalready, and as soul-less as any of us.Soulless? Kit glanced over his shoulder at Cairbre, who opened the case andslowly folded back the layers of velvet and silk swaddling the viola.Soulless, aye, he answered, unconcerned. As all Fae are. Tis the source of our power: Heaven has no hold over us, and Hell only the power we grantit. Our immortality is of the flesh. While your sort a dismissive gesture bloody yourselves over who has the right to interpret the will ofthat one, and worry at his will choosing those who govern you. A curt gesture of his chin upward; Fae, he couldn t say the Name.If Heaven has no hold on you, why do you fear God s name? Instead, Kit said:And who governs you?Those that can. Go ahead and pick it up, Sir Christofer. Cairbre steppedaway from the case, swinging his tattered cloak over his arm.Kit stroked the cherry-dark neck. I m really not But his fingers slippedaround the wood and lifted the beautiful instrument from its crimson bed. The varnish glowed in the torchlight, a rich auburn a master would have despairedof capturing in oils. I ve never touched something like that, he breathed,as if it were alive in his hands and might spread wings and spiral up intothe vast galleried chamber, lost.It should be in tune. Kit looked from Cairbre to Robin whose ears waggled in amusement and raisedan eyebrow, but he took the rosined bow when Cairbre held it out, inhalingthe dusty-sweet pine scent until he fought a sneeze. He closed his eye,settled the viola, raised the bowand fluffed the third note. I warned you.Lessons, Cairbre decided, and took the bow away. Come. You ll give us apoem tonight, won t you?Yes, Kit answered. I ll give you a poem.He expected they d wait for Murchaud s departure, whoever they might be, butperhaps not too much longer. But that first night, as he sat sharing atrencher with Robin Goodfellow below the cloth of estate, he was bemused bythe strangeness that filled him. In another setting he might have called thefeeling fey: back to what I was, when I was little more than a boy and fullof myself and my secrets.
Puck sat at Kit s right, on his blind side, and saw he ate, though hisappetite forsook him in Murchaud s absence. Halfway through the meal, Kitrealized the little elf had deserted his own place at the high table to staywith him. Kit imagined he looked strange as a swan among magpies beside the lesser Fae.The Daoine Sidhe the Tuatha de Danaan as they were called claimed descent ofthe Old Gods of hill and dale, of moor and copse and ocean. A Church scholarmight have said the blood in their veins was that of demons, not deities. Kithad long past given up his illusions that God kept his house in a church.Their sea-changing eyes and leaf-tipped ears marked them as something otherthan human, and their wincing aversion to the Name of the Divine might beevidence. But then, what god would abide the Name of his supplanter?But they did, in broad, look human. The elder, stranger Fae did not. Though they sometimes dined at the Mebd stable, served delicacies by brownies and sprites, and though many of themserved in her palace, they were not Tuatha de Danaan, not Daoine Sidhe. Andthey were as strange now as ever they had been on Kit s first lonely walkinto the throne room that lurked behind the second closed pair of doors.Across the table rested a lovely maid-in-waiting whose forked tongue brushedthe scent from each morsel she tasted before she lifted it to her mouth. On his left, a creature more wizened than even Robin crouched on the edge of thetable and ate between his knees. Kit stifled a chuckle, thinking what his own 
mother would have said about boots on the table, and turned to murmursomething in Robin s ear. A polite hiss from the scaly young lady across thetable interrupted.Sir Christofer? Thread-fine snakes writhed like windblown curls about her temples. Her eyeswere as flat and reflective as steel, the pupils horizontal bars. Mistress Amaranth. It might have been a smile. Her lips were red and full, a cupid sbow disturbing behind the glitter of scales like powdered gold rubbed on herskin. Her hand darted with a swiftness that should not have surprised him,brushing the flower on his doublet before he could jerk back. Does it not shame you to wear the love-in-idleness?There is more here than I understand. Remembering Cairbre s comment, and howMorgan and Murchaud had both adorned him with the blossoms.
Love-in-idleness? Heartsease, she said, while Puck pretended not to hear. The pansy orviola. He pulled his bread apart in tidbits, setting the balance of it beside thetrencher while he buttered a morsel, covering his confusion withconcentration on the knife. It seemed dry as paste; he would never havechoked it down without wine. It pleases my lady, Mistress Amaranth.The lamia s hair hissed again. He thought it was a chuckle. Then she is cruel, is she? I am not surprised at that.Not so cruel as that. Cruel enough, she said, gesturing for a footman to lay a bloody slice ofroast upon her plate.Kind as any woman, he answered. Amaranth s cold eyes widened; the Pucksnorted. Kit toasted Amaranth, wondering what moved him to defend Morgan forall her late absence from the hall, and his bed. But his gaze traveled pastthe serpent, up to the dais and to Murchaud sitting near Cairbre, at whatwould have been the Mebd s right hand if the Mebd were there.Even across that distance, the look Murchaud returned pressed Kit back asphysically as a thumb in the notch of his collarbone. He reached for hiswine, feeling as if he choked. And now I truly am alone. Until he returns. Oruntil Morgan claims me. In deep deception, and in the hands of the enemy.
He held the Elf-knight s withering glance until it seemed the whole room musthave noticed. Until conversation flagged around him and Amaranth herselfturned to follow the course of his one-eyed stare, then leaned aside as ifshe would not break the strung tension.Murchaud looked down first, turning to laugh nastily at some commentwhispered by the Mebd s advisor, stag-horned old Peaseblossom. Kit watched amoment longer, then dropped his eye to his dinner and haggled off a bit ofroast as if he could bear to put it in his mouth.
What s love-in-idleness? Kit murmured, bringing his lips close to Puck stwitching ear.What you wear on your bosom, the Puck answered dryly. That thing on yoursleeve is your heart.When Kit stood to give his poem on Cairbre s signal he chose something thatspoke of the pastoral delights of summertime and never a chance of sorrow.But when he returned to his rooms after dinner, he worried an iron nail loosefrom his old riding boots, and slipped it into the sleeve pocket of hisdoublet, and felt just a little better for it.
Sweet Romeo: I apologize for the vagaries of my correspondence. My new masters it seems donot approve entirely that I maintain my friendships from service taken beforebut in this cause I am defiant. That I am your true friend do not doubt. Ithank you for the word of little Mary & her nestling, that they are well.I will watch over you as my ability permits, & your Letters (& those of FW)relating the situation in London fall most welcomely into my grateful hands.There is some change in my circumstances, not serious of yet but prone to 

developments, in which case you might say I am at mine old works again, &there are revelations that may suspend correspondence.These circumstances include the following: that I have been unfair in myjudgement of TW, & rather those charges should have been Levied at thatabominable bastard in the peascod doublet he no doubt imagines conceals hispaunch, you will know of whom I refer. Also, it is with sorrow that I mustrelate that he who I have considered your greatest ally (again you will know)is gravely ill. I have not managed a visit, or more than a word & a note, butI believe that the poison administered these four years since is at workagain, & I do not think my dear friend will Last through the winter in theLack of Doctor Lopez s care. This places you in graver danger than I canexpress. It is imperative that Peascod-doubLet not Learn we know of hisduplicity.Her Majesty, as you know though it were sedition to speak it, grows inmelancholy with the passing of each old friend & each treasured counselor. Icannot imagine that to Lose mine old master will Lie easy on her, for alltheir difficuLties after the death of Mary Queen of Scots, & you must know itwill make her more open to Essex & his machinations: the patron they have sought for you, Southampton, is useful as a Link to Essex. There arerumors but I am sure the conclusion Lies within your powers.FW s illness means also we must find another path of correspondence. Will youhave a Looking glass placed in your chambers? Steel-backed is best for thesepurposes though flawed at reflecting, & Less dear than silver.I pine without your company.
Post script: Amusing to put the speech on Queen Mab in the poor Lad s mouth,then have him stabbed under his friend s arm. I wish Tricky Tom Watson werealive to see: he so would Laugh. It reminds me of the time Will Bradley wouldhave had my head if Tom hadn t got his blade between us, as I am sure youintended it to. Poor William should have known better than to start a quarrelwith a poet; we travel, Like starveling dogs, in packs. It saddens me tothink now that all three of us who fought that night are dead.Your loyalty warms me in a colder world than my words or yours could express,but you must have caution in these things, for all it flatters me to beremembered. Dearest Mercutio,London continues much of the same. Recusants and moneylenders pilloried inthe north square, RB after me to pen more plays though I have given him fourthis year already. And I have spoken with FW, who is yes gravely ill andfailing. He says he also had word from you that his cousin is genuine, andthe peer you dub Peascod-doublet more truly the villain. I should tell youthat TW spoke with me concerning you and I and the craft of playmending sometime back. I gave him nothing then. In the Light of new intelligence, is ityour estimation that he may be trusted?I asked RB to consider that slanders leveled against your name may sourcethemselves in EDV. He thinks rather they come from Gloriana, though why shemight wish your name blackened I know not.MP and her son are well indeed, and under my care.A story is making the rounds at the Mermaid that a half-dozen sober Londonerswitnessed the blood-soaked ghost of Kit Marley on a Cheapside street in therain this summer, prophesying doom on those who murdered him. The betterversions of the story have Lightning dancing around the ghost s shouldersLike a cloak, a naked sword in its hand, and a whining Robert Poley cringingat its feet. 
Of course, no one believes it. Where would you find six sober Londoners allat once? There are a few stories the sober Londoners tell of EDV as well. I asked RB of the Spanish choirboy he s rumored to have imported, and RB assured me itwas basest slander. The choirboy was Italian. Horatio something.I suppose that s one way to stick it to the Papists.Your true Romeo. 
Act II, scene viii
Orlando: My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise. Rosalind: Break an hour s promise in Love! He that will divide a minute into a thousandparts, and break but a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the affairsof Love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapped him o the shoulder,but I LL warrant him heart-whole.
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It Will stepped down from a hired coach weary, bruised to the bone, sorelyafflicted with chilblains, and nibbled by fleas. He d fallen uneasily halfasleep with his fingers protruding from under a carriage robe clutched to hischin. He worked them now, trying to bring sensation to cold-chapped skin.The coachman liberated his luggage and slid it down beside the wheels; theground was too frozen for the trunk to be damaged by mud. The tired baysnorted. Will skirted the horse nervously, and caught one end handle on thetrunk to drag it toward the cottage with its close-thatched roof. He closedhis eyes, smelling kindled fire and baking bread, and stopped himself a halfgesture before he rapped on his own front door.Instead he breathed deep, then pulled the latch-cord and shouldered thegreen-painted portal open, letting his trunk bump over the threshold.
Annie? She straightened and turned to him, aproned and dressed in good gray woolen,leather shoes on her stockinged feet against the winter chill of therush-strewn floor, her befloured hands spread wide. Will. She stepped closer. Will kicked the door shut and bumped it with his heel tomake certain of the latch. Leaving his trunk half blocking the threshold, hemet her halfway between the door and the table and caught her wrists, holdingher whitened hands back when he kissed her mouth. She giggled like a girl. Hewiped flour off his cheek when he stepped away.
I ve a rental house for you to look atAnnie, let a man get his boots off, he protested, and she laughed again.I m famous, wife. Romeo and Juliet. Dost care? I ll read your plays, she said stolidly, turning to wash her hands, when 
they bring you home again.He came and poured the water for her so she would not beflour the ewer, andwatched her hands tumble over each other like courting birds. The bread smells wonderful. 
Wonderful enough to wake the children, do you suppose? She glanced at himsideways, drying her hands on her apron.Still slugabed? He smiled, looking up at the loft. Did you tell them I wascoming?I She stopped. I didn t want to disappoint them.Ah. The sour taste was no more than a night spent in the Davenant s Innbefore resuming his coach seat to finish this journey. He nudged his trunkout of the doorway, pushing up a thin ridge of rush stems. Annie s eyes wereon him, kinder than he had any right to. Do you think I can get Hamnet downhere over my shoulder before he wakes, the way I used to?He s bigger than you remember Will! Be careful. . . .But he was already halfway up the ladder, and turned to press a silencingfinger to his lips. At least let me try.Annie laced her fingers behind her backside, half turned her head, and smiledand sighed as if they were a single gesture. But she held her tongue, andWill resumed his climb. Soft morning sunlight from a casement under the eave filled the loft, the aircold enough that Will s breath steamed in coils. Will cat-footed to bedsteadsranged side by side along the left-hand wall; the wider held a pair ofsweetly snoring lumps and the narrower only one. He paused, a few steps awayfrom the children, and breathed their rich, sleeping scent. It made himlightheaded, as if he were breathing in the pale gold winter sunshine, filledup until he inflated, buoyed, floating forward to unearth his son from quilts 
and comforters and the featherbed covering the rustling straw-filled tick.Hamnet slept with his thumb in his mouth, knees drawn up, hips tuckedforward, body turned fully at the waist so that his opposite shoulder was incontact with the featherbed. Golden eyelashes fluttered against the boy srosy cheeks as Will moved to block the square of sunlight dappling his face,dust motes flitting between them like atomies.Will crouched, dislodging Hamnet s thumb gently, and with both hands pickedup his sleeping son. He flopped the boy s slack warm arms around his neck andcradled him close. He squatted on the edge of the girls bed, then, andleaned Hamnet s still-towheaded curls against his shoulder as he tugged thecoverlet down. Susanna lay with her arms widespread as if embracing the morning, Judith sbrown head resting on the soft part of her shoulder. The younger girl coiledaround a pillow possessively, her braid snaking across her sister s breast.Susanna s eyes flicked open when the light brushed her face, but Judithcuddled closer to her pillow and mumbled. And then Susanna s hazel eyes wentwide, and as Will saw her draw breath to shriek in delight he put his fingerto his lips. She choked on it, clapped her hand over her mouth, and giggled.Will pointed to the ladder and to Judith, and Susanna nodded and reached toshake her sister awake. He actually got Hamnet halfway down to Anne s stifled laughter before the boysquirmed awake and blinked sleepily through the tangled blond curls. And thenHamnet did squeal, and cling, while the girls laughed over the edge of theloft. Will propped his feet on the bench before the fire while Susanna showedJudith how to sew the braids of ivy into swags to hang over the windows andthe door, and Hamnet stole fallen leaves with which to tease Anne s calicocat. The cat, fat with winter mousing, purred and flattened her whiskerssmugly, but she couldn t be bothered to extend a claw after the leaves.Will, watching, covered his mouth and smiled into his sleeve. Still wearywith the brutal coach ride, he must have dozed before the fire, because aknock on the door startled him awake. That will be your brother Edmund,Anne said, crossing in a sweep of skirts. He s come to take Hamnet to fetch the Yule log
Uncle Edmund! The boy bounced up even as Will dropped his feet on thefloor. His youngest brother a mere twice seven years shook snow off his cloak and hefted an axe. Ready to go out and slog through the snow with themen, puppy Will! 
Ted. Will stood, a broad grin stretching his cheeks. You ve grown.You re home. Edmund looked him up and down. He was already almost Will sheight, and his shoulders half filled the doorway. Well, get your boots on,then. Hamnet bounced on his toes. Will looked at Annie. Annie didn t quite nod thatwould have been too much like permission but she smiled. Bring more ivy ifyou find it, or bay, she said. Christmas eve supper shall be at yourfather s house; the girls and I will meet you. I promised to help cook.The sun turned the western horizon to flame-colored taffeta while the three of them Hamnet, Edmund, and Will leaned into the traces and sledged anenormous log through ankle-deep snow. Or, in fairness, Will and Edmundsledged. Hamnet ran rings around them, the winter sunlight glimmering on hishair now a hare, now a hound, now Uncle Edmund, look! a lumbering bear.Edmund looked, and laughed, and Will looked at Edmund and understood, with amoment of bitterness he didn t deserve, who was raising his son. Will coveredthe hurt with a player s smile, and caught Edmund s eye before he duckedunder the traces to chase his bear-cub down the lane, growling like a hound.They floundered through a snowdrift and into a deserted pasturage, Will halfa step behind the boy. Run, bear cub! The hounds are on you!Hamnet turned at bay against a hurdle, and Will drew up. I m Sackerson, the boy growled. The strongest bear in Britain! I ll eat up any hound that comes 
after me! Will laughed and crouched down, hands spread, watching his boy coil to leapat him. That Hamnet would trust Will to catch him cracked his grin to showhis teeth in more than mockery of a hunting dog s snarl.
Hounds are smarter than bears He gasped as something took him, as if thesnowy grass under his feet were yanked like a carpet, and he found himselfflat on his back with Hamnet crouched over him, small fists clenched on theneck of his jerkin, roaring triumphantly. Lad Will coughed. Off! Hamnet jumped back, and suddenly Edmund s hands were on him, the Yule logabandoned in the lane, a worried brother brushing snow from his collar andhair, pulling him to his feet. What happened?
Fell, Will said, and shoved his right hand into the slit in his jerkin andthe pocket beneath so Edmund wouldn t see it shake. He wouldn t say more infront of Hamnet, but Edmund s lips pursed and he kept a hand on Will s elbowuntil they were back in the lane, and did the lion s share of the drawing.Another half-hour s labor brought them through the festive streets ofStratford to the front door of Will s childhood home. Edmund pushed the dooropen to the parlor where the great bed stood, halloing unnecessarily as thewhole family Joan; her husband, Will; Gilbert; Richard and guests turned withapplause. The rich smell of brawn roasting and bread baking, of mince pie andfruit pie and plum porridge, was almost as sustaining as food itself. Therewould be no cold pottage in the Shakespeare house tonight. In the hall, wherethe hearth roared in readiness for their burden, some of the guests wereplaying at snapdragon, picking raisins from a bowl of flaming brandy. Willsaw one man dressed in almost Puritan severity quench scorched fingers in hismouth. Will dropped the traces and kicked snow from his boots against the thresholdbefore stepping over onto rushes scattering the blue limestone floor. He andEdmund dragged the log in with Hamnet s interference. Then Will left it tohis brother s labor, turning away from the precipitous stair on the left andinto the hall, with its walls hung in holly and painted cloth. He could hearHamnet and Edmund untying the Yule log, and he realized suddenly that they dforgotten the ivy or bay and then his father s arms were around him, JohnShakespeare stumping forward on a bentwood cane and wrapping his oldest sonin palsied arms, leaning as much as embracing, clinging to his boy gone toLondon and mouthing words about Will come home in velvet and silk taffetalike a fine gentleman. His father s words were slurred, one running into theother, and Will knew from the stern, proud look on his mother Mary s facethat he was not to remark on it. The cousins close and distant huddled in a room hot with their bodies and the leaping flames of the hearth, among them men and women Will had never seen.
Bring it in, bring it in, John Shakespeare said. The feast is upon us.Mary waited for her husband to step back before she came forward and lookedup at Will. Her eyes were blue: she had the aristocratic cheekbones and thehigh brow she d willed to all her children, the living and the dead. Will sawher noticing the snow and the earth staining his cloak and the knees of hisbreeches, but she met his eyes and held out a tankard of mulled cider, andonly smiled. Welcome home, Will.
Mother, he said, and took the wine, searching the crowd for Annie andSusanna. Judith would be with the younger children. God bless you.Her kiss was roses and homecoming, and he let it drive the memory of balancelost and a lurch into a snowdrift away.
How is Father? An undertone, mumbled around his cider.Not much worse, she said, and shrugged. And you?My plays have been performed before the Queen, he answered, as he hadimagined himself answering, and accepted her gasp and smile and delightedoutcry as his due.Annie found him before he finished the cider, and drew him through a lowtimbered archway into the crowded hall by a warm arm around his waist. The 
brawn is almost ready, she said. He breathed deep: cloves and crackling and the rich aroma of roasting pork.Annie, he said. Something happened todayNot to Hamnet? She crouched by the fire in the big bricked hearth, tuckingher skirts in close as she ladled dripping over the roast. She wore neitherbumroll nor farthingale, but a broad country skirt under her apron, and Willbit his tongue at the way those skirts draped between her haunches. Threechildren, and stillI fell, he said. I think Fell? She set the battered copper ladle aside and stood, turned, frowning.She took his wrists and drew his hands forward, glowering down at them broadknuckles, long fingers, the last digit of the middle finger on the right onecalloused on the inner edge and warped sideways from the pressure of thequill. The right onetrembled. Oh, Will.Years yet, he said. I swear I ll come home to youBroken and old so I can nurse thee through thy dotage? What good will you beto me then? Her voice low, the bitterness hidden under the commonplace toneof wife to husband. Pray it pass Hamnet byAnnie, hush you. IThere s a priest here tonight, she said suddenly, interrupting. For Christ s birth. After the neighbors leave, there will be a midnight Mass.A priest. She meant a Catholic priest. A Catholic Mass. A hanging affair.Will swallowed dryness. Annie, you must not tell me such things
Will You were raised to it. He knew. He met her pale eyes and shook his head, tasting salt and sour like areminder. Anne. Wife. I m a Queen s Man now. Do you know what that is?She shook her head. No. He drew a stool out from the table and sat, gesturingher to the bench. Hast ever seen a Tyburn hanging, Annie?She blanched. No. Not seen, perhaps. But heard.
It is as well. If I have my will, he thought, you never shall see one.Especially mine. I ll take Judith and Hamnet home after supper, he said. You and Susanna may stay.She did not argue. 
Act II, scene ix
Fourscore is but a girl s age, Love is sweet:My veins are withered, and my sinews dry,Why do I think of Love now I should die?CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Dido, Queen of CarthageIn the ten days or fortnight it took for Kit to sort out the social order ofthe low tables, he learned many things that had escaped his notice when hesat by Murchaud s side. The talk was freer, although his Kit s presence wasgreeted with sidelong glances at first. But when Murchaud left court, andMorgan was not seen, and Kit traded his green and violet and silver for theblack velvet he truthfully preferred, the conversation flowed more free.Especially as he was seen in the company of the Mebd s Bard and her Puck, orsitting alone.He couldn t bear the silence of his rooms, and spent long hours walking inthe beech wood or along the strand, practicing music poorly with Cairbre orreading in the library. Kit had Latin, Greek, fair French, and slight German,yet he found them inadequate to the books and scrolls and stories there. Thelamia Amaranth found him puzzling over books in strange languages, and withher dapple-scaled tail coiled between chair legs and occasionally,unsettlingly, brushing his calf, she set about to teach him the backwardwritings of Hebrews (which informed Kit of the names of three of the fivesymbols Baines and his friends had burned into his flesh: mem, he, and lamel)and Mohammadans, and the brush-sketched characters of far Cathay. Althoughher smile was cool and she would not answer questions about herself, Kitthought she courted him.He permitted it, expecting her purpose to be revealed hesitantly, but beforetoo long. Wrong again: her silence and amusement remained, counterpointed byher flickering tongue.And so he continued, restless and although often in company alone. His thoughts were clearer now that he had a goal, but the passive means ofaccomplishing it and his lack of success as bait flustered him. More unsettling, it wasn t any easier to keep track of the days when he wasfocused on it. He went so far as to carve notches in a candle, and stoppedwhen he began to realize that the number of notches changed. As his head cleared further, though, the craving in his belly grew. He had totalk to Morgan. Jilted lover or no.
Of course, a jilted Lover might be expected to wish to speak to her. If nottoo often. And I am tired of being treated as a pet.
He frowned, thinking that he would not trust himself with matters of import,as mooncalf as he had been. 
Hell, I can ask her about love-in-idleness, too. And why Amaranth said shewas cruel. 
Kit dressed as Will would have it like a cobbler s son: a shirt of cambric, aleather jerkin, and brown wool breeches. He slipped the iron bootnail fromthe pocket of the doublet he had been wearing and was about to drop it into alacquer box on the stand beside his bed when he hesitated. He could almostfancy the sound of a cobbler s hammer, familiar from childhood, and smiledfor a moment at the memory of his father with a mouth full of tacks just likethis one. It might have been the scent of leather, or the way the lightcaught on the worn surface of the nail, but he suddenly couldn t bear to setit aside. He slipped it into his purse and let it clink against coins he dhad no occasion to spend. Here is the palace, and the court. But there is noFaerie city. No tradesman, no farmlands, no ports for ships trading the wideand wandering sea . . .How strange. And then Kit smiled, because there was a lyric in it. He stompedinto his boots, and left his cloak and his sword behind. Should anyone ask,he was only going for a ramble.How far to Morgan s cottage, he could not estimate. Murchaud had said throughthe beech wood, but Kit s explorations had not found a farther edge. They had 
taught him that the wood changed from day to day; on one the brook might bendbeside an enormous gray boulder like a menhir, caked with moss and lichen; onanother it would run straight and tossing over rocks through the spraddledroots of a rogue oak, rough-barked and errant among the smooth-boled beeches,vast enough to build an Ark. Then again, there might be no brook at all, andthe wood might sweep up the flanks of rolling hills, spacious and silent andlit like a green cathedral.Kit followed a graveled trail through the palace s sprawling gardens. Itbecame a sort of bridle path at the verge of the wood. He paused there for amoment to settle the leather bottle of water on his hip and get his bearings.Then Morgan s house, he thought, and set his foot upon the path.Today it was late summer under the trees, the day bright and serene, shadeand a light breeze welcome in the morning s heat. He regretted the jerkin,but knew he d want it if the sun set while he was in the wood. He didn t object to sleeping rough and hungry for a night, but he wasn t overfond ofshivering in a pile of leaves until morning.The trail tended east, gladdening Kit s heart, and it passed over thebrook there was a brook today, brown water dappled by sunshine on a well-maintained footbridge. Kit was wise enough to step off the trail andleave prints down the muddy bank, crouching on gravel to cup water to hismouth. He drank deep to spare what he carried, smiling at the hop and splashof infant frogs the same bronze as the silt.
Hurm, croaked the troll under the bridge as Kit hopped to the first of fourrocks on the way to the far bank. Harm. Good morning, Master Troll. Kit s hand would have dropped to his swordhiltif he had been wearing one.Good morning, Sir Poet.You know me. I know your eyepatch, the troll answered. I know your errand.Its eyes blinked like cloud-filtered moons from the gloom under the bridge sarch. Kit saw a knobbed and swollen nose, slimy skin reflecting the yellowglow of those eyes, and the splayed fingers of one weird hand balancing thething s crouch. He couldn t make out enough of its body to get an idea of itssize. The space under the bridge was darker than it ought to be and there wasno silhouette cast against the light on the other side, so he saw onlysplinters of warty hide, the hump of a shoulder illuminated in the thin bandsof sunlight that fell between planks.Mine errand? Always on the Queen s business, aye.One Queen or another. Kit didn t like his footing on the stone, whichrocked under his boots. He stepped into the stream, calf-deep, a cold gout ofwater soaking his leg to the thigh. How may I assist you, Master Troll?From the sound, Kit would say that the troll sucked snaggled teeth as itthought that over. Well. Tis a troll bridge, in it? So logic says you haveto pay the trollI went around. That you did, that you did. The troll coughed, an unpleasant fishy sound.But you drank my water, and you scared my frogsKit sighed. He was in no mood to haggle, and losing light. A piece ofsilver? And what does a troll need with silver, Sir Poet?What does a poet need with a bridge?Useful things, bridges The troll brightened. You can pay me with a song.A song. Mine own?What use is a poet, else?Do you intend to keep it, if I give it you?Keep and pass along, the troll answered, lowering its glowing eyes andcurving its hand as if it studied the cracked yellow pegs of its fingernails.As anyone might a song. If anyone would listen to a troll sing. But if you 
mean, will I take it from you no, that s a price worth more than a fording.And everything in Faerie has a price.I m learning that. Kit turned in the water to put his blind side to thebank, which was only marginally less discomforting than facing it to thetroll. He might not hear the rustle of leaves over the splash of the brook,if anyone snuck close. A love song, or a lament? Or something warlike, Iknow a few of those. The troll sighed, and Kit saw his shadowed outline settle on its haunches.
Harm, hurm. A love song, he said in a dreaming voice. There s little enough of love under bridges.But plenty of frogs. Kit winced as the words left his mouth. Too clever byhalf, Master Marley. Or Sir Christofer. Whoever you are today.
Ah, yes, the troll answered. A surfeit of frogs. Froggy frogs, froggyfrogs. He followed it up with a froggy-sounding laugh; Kit glimpsedsomething like the white swell of a pouched throat. Sing me a song, toad andprince.
I know the song for you. Kit drew a breath and steadied it, and didn t singso much as chant Come Live with me and be my LoveIt was a simple song on the surface, an uncomplicated pastoral, but politicalon the bottom of it. Who was, after all, the famous shepherd who sheared hisflock so close as to dine off golden plates?Reciting it made Kit feel he was getting away with heresy.The troll listened in silence, his hands with their old-man s knuckles andold-man s claws twined one about the other, and he chirruped once or twice inamphibian emotion. A few moments followed with only the wind in the trees andthe water over the rocks, and then the troll said, A right sunlit song. A sound like ripping cloth followed.Kit stepped back, feeling his way over slick stones. You re welcome. 
No fear, no fear, croaked the troll. He thrust a hand out from under the bridge, something brightly dripping knotted in the gnarl of it. For yourcloak. For the song.Kit hesitated, but the troll stayed motionless, although its yellow-greenmottles pinked in the sun. For my cloak?
Can t be a bard without a cloak, the troll said, and shook the bit ofcloth. Take it. Take it for your song.Kit picked his way forward, following a sand bar scattered with stones. Hestopped as far back as he could, and made an arch of his body to reach towardthe troll. His hands closed on wet brocade, and the troll jerked its scaldedhand out of the sun. Hurm, harm. On your way then, bardling. I ll see youagain ere your cloak is complete. And I say that knowing: trolls have thecurse of prophecy.It withdrew under its bridge. Kit scrambled to the far bank, turned back, andbowed in wet boots once he attained its height. Rest ye merry, MasterTroll. There was no answer, but he fancied he heard a muted chant taken up in acroaking voice before he was quite out of sight of the bridge. Come Live with me and be my Love, hurm, And we will all the pleasures prove, harm, Thatvalleys, groves, hills, and fields, hurm
Three or ten hours later, he was forced to admit he was lost. Or, if notlost for he had never left the bridle trail, or what-you-may-call-it, andthought he glimpsed the spires of the palace once or twice, when the treesgrew thin at the top of a rise at the very least he was sorely misplaced. Hesat on a mossy trunk and drank water and inhaled the clean musty scent of theforest. The troll s scrap he spread on his knee to finish drying, and heconsidered it as he considered his options. With the water wrung out, thebrocade was as satiny red as rose petals, woven of some fiber Kit couldn tidentify. He rested his chin on his hand and scratched idly under hiseyepatch, watching the light. 
What filtered through the widely spaced pewter boles of the beech trees wasgrowing golden, although the breeze was still balmy. He didn t think he dfind Morgan s cabin before sunset, and if he slept here, he d have the fallentrunk and the hollow under it to break the wind. A hungry night, but crunch
 Kit s head came up, and otherwise he froze motionless against the trunk. A footfall, perhaps something as simple as a wild pig or a stag. Another crunch, and then a third. Hooves, he decided, the sound too crisp for abooted foot. He held his breath, hoping to see a stag or a hind and notwishing to disconcert a boar, if that was what minced toward him through lastyear s leaves.Well. Not a stag, exactly, but the stag-headed adventurer whose poise andcasual grip on his sword had so arrested Kit s attention on his very firstnight in Faerie. He dressed richly, an animal s smooth throat rising from thecollar of his doublet, some Gyptian god made English.The stag drew up, a brief rustle accompanying his cessation of motion. Hisfinely etched head went back as if he considered flight, warm sunlightgilding the velvet of new antlers. Sir Christofer, he said, and just as Kitwas about to swing to his feet and remark on the unlikelihood of such anencounter, the stag pawed the earth and snorted. I ve been seeking you.
Seeking me?Aye, Sir Christofer. Who else would be in the forest at this hour, savebogeys and creeping things?I Kit peeled the damp scrap of brocade from his breeches and tucked it intoa sleeve am embarrassed to say.The stag tossed his horns. And I am Geoffrey. A pleasure to make your moreformal acquaintance.Geoffrey. Kit stood and stretched his shoulders. Seeking me to what end?Conversation. Were you bound for Queen Morgan s cottage?Yes. And you found the way obscured. Unsurprising. Geoffrey strode along thebridle path, and Kit fell into step beside him, crunching through leaves inthe half-light. There s a glamourie on it: you cannot find the way unlessyou know the way.Ah. Fret not, Geoffrey continued, tilting his antlers. I will show you.Thank you. To what do I owe this kindness?My desire for a moment to talk.Long practice kept Kit from checking his step. At Last. Surely aconversation could be had at less price
Tis no price at all. Strange and stranger, to see a man s words fall fromthe lips of a hart. A token of friendship.Friendship?Oh, aye. Follow meThe stag left the path, leapt down a bank and pushed through a stand oflaurel, Kit on his heels only stumbling once among the litter and sticks.Never step off the path, Geoffrey said. Never look back he glanced overhis shoulder at Kit, long neck twisting like a ribbon "and never trust the guardian. A toss of his head back, westerly, toward the palace and thetroll s bridge. Unless you want to accomplish something. In which case youmust risk, and intrigue, and sneak.And betray?Betrayals are a tricky thing in Faerie. You don t wear Morgan s mark ofshame any longer. Does that mean you re free?The heartsease? Half consciously, Kit brushed the breast of his jerkin withhis left hand, feeling cool, supple leather. Why should I be ashamed of it?Geoffrey stopped so suddenly that Kit almost slid into him. Because of what it signifies.Curse it to Hell and beyond! Kit stepped back stubbornly, folding his arms.Somebody is going to tell me what it signifies, or there is going to be 
blood. Blood. Geoffrey said the word tastingly. Of course. Mortal man. We re all fools Fools? Hast been so long since a true mortal walked among us. Tis changelings andhalf-Fae, and well. It makes me wonder what the Mebd saw in advance of us, tosteal a mortal away. Your obvious talents aside, no offense intended,etcetera. Kit, amused: Of course. And why Morgan would so lightly set you aside. He gestured Kit to followwith one expansive hoof. The beeches thinned, and yellow strands of grassbegan to thread between the leaves and roots.Why would a mortal man be important to the Fae?We can t fight a war without one, Geoffrey answered, holding a branchaside. A geas as old as the Fae. As for the heartsease. Its other name islove-in-idleness, did you know?I ve heard. The branch was whippy and fine: Kit almost lost his grip on itafter Geoffrey handed it across. Roses for passion and lilies for love andfor death. Amaranth he smiled is undying love, eternity. And crocus isgladness, and pansy is thoughts but I do not think I m so made mock of for abadge of thinking. So what, for the love of Hell, does a pansy signify?Bondage, Geoffrey answered without turning. There s your mistress house,poet. We will talk again.Kit turned to look through the gloom and the red twilight at a rose-twinedcottage beyond a garden and a fieldstone wall. He turned back, to bid thestag thanks or something, but Geoffrey had vanished in a silence as utter asthat of the dark wood behind him. Edakrusen o christos, Kit muttered, because there was no Fae close enoughto hear him. He placed one hand between the curling edges of lichen andvaulted the wall, rough stone gritting his palm and the turf denting underhis feet. A white gravel trail led him between beds of roses, red and white,and under an arch of blossoms damasked both. The beds below the roses were planted with mint, melissa, verbena, rosemary, lavender, and what seemed athousand other sweet and savory herbs. The scent filled Kit s head, almostdizzying, and he absently ran his hand across the bulge in his purse.The cottage was as earthed under with brambles as any in a fairy tale, andKit smiled appreciation of the image. It didn t look like the abode of aqueen: the doorposts were skinned trunks, the door itself painted vermilionin a half-dozen coats that peeled as shaggy as the lichens. Lamplight gleamedthrough one small window, not yet shuttered against the night, and Kit sbreath ached in his breast as a shadow moved behind it. I can feel her, he realized. Like a hand twisted in his collar, drawing himforward, and although his strides stayed as crisp as if he knew what heintended, he shivered. He glanced over his shoulder, wondering if the stagwatched after, but the wood was dark and silent. Bondage. His shoulder ached in a memory, blow of a silver dagger hard across itsridge, and he tasted an also-remembered trickle of lukewarm mint, and for amoment he wished he had, after all, brought his sword. Oh, he thought.Bondage. Yes, I see. More than her knight, her servant, her Lover. More. OrLess. Her slave.
 Hello the house! Until the door swung open. Good even, my ladyKit, she said, gray-green eyes dark as moss in the twilight. Her hair layunbound upon her shoulders, tumbling to her waist, its darkness shot withsilver threads like a moonlit river. She wore only a low-cut smock withblackwork around the neckline and petticoat-bodies over it; a working woman shome garb, her skirts kilted up to show a length of calf and a bare, cleanfoot, high-arched and more calloused than a lady s foot ought be. 
She tilted her head, and he looked down, studying her feet. His handtightened on the nail in his purse; it parted the cloth and pricked his hand,but he didn t let go.What brings you to my door, Sir Kit? An arch smile, and her hand on hiscollar her physical hand, twisting the cloth and bringing him inside. Hemoved as led, helpless under her touch, and thought of a stud horse renderedpassive by the twist of a twitch on his lip.Kit opened his mouth, would have spoken accused her but the taste of bloodyiron choked him. A vividly tactile memory of powerlessness: the savage wrenchof his dislocated shoulder, gory drool slicking his chin and choking histhroat with the effort of screaming and breathing through a mouth full ofbarbed metal, thinking If I could talk, I could explain my way out of thisThere hadn t been any talking. Not for a long time.
And it was still better than what Essex s faction did to poor Thomas Kyd.
What greater cruelty to a playmaker than shatter his hand?
Stop his tongue, show him his dignity and his sovereignty and his voice aseasily rent from him as a girl s Lavinia in Titus: raped, dismembered,siLenced. She could have been a poet too, for all the benefit it got her.
Kit bit down on his tongue, knotted his fist on that nail, the pain shocking,before the memory went further.ah, but I Lived. And there was satisfaction in that. What have you Like talking through a mouth full of blood. God help me. God have mercy . . .What have you done to me? Claimed you, she said, and shut and latched the door, taking her time,giving him a moment to notice the airy interior of her cottage, themud-chinked walls hung with tapestries and baubles and herbs. Roses grewthrough the gaps under the eaves to tangle across the loft where a highwindow gave them light: a perfumed, nodding mass of flowers. Her loomdominated the single room, her wide uncanopied bed against the far wall, amassive iron cauldron crouched upon the hearth.Iron, he said, and let his bloody hand fall to his side, spattering a fewdrops on the rush-strewn slates rammed into the earthen floor.Aye, she said. I m afraid a little steel won t protect you from Morgan leFey. And I did no more to you than any lady might. I left you your freedom ofspeech and deed, which is more than the Mebd would have granted.She took up his bleeding hand and studied it; he hadn t the strength to dragit away, and sagged against the wall beside the door, the stentorian echo ofhis own breath filling his ears. Freedom of deed? When I come to yourbidding like a mannerly stud to the breeding paddockHave I interfered in your comings and goings? She raised his fingers to hermouth and kissed the blood away. He turned his head as if he could burrowinto the rough wool of the tapestry behind him. Her mouth claimed hisfingertips.He moaned. She let his hand fall, then, and whispered, Have I forbidden you London, forall tis foolery that takes you there? Have I forbidden you to amuse yourselfas you wish, or made you pace at my heels like a cur? Do I grant you dignity?Arrogance and errantry, and how like a man not to understand what he s given,and when his mistress is permissive, and how much more pleasant his stationthan it could be. At least a dog understands kindness.He pressed his back against the wall, stomach-sick, eyes burning. Even whenshe stepped back, it was not distance enough. A cur, is it? Shall I bark atyour door, madam? What dignity includes a slave s collar and chains, a markof shame? She turned away and moved toward her loom. He couldn t watch her: it was asort of agony to be in her presence, and searing pride alone kept him fromprostrating himself before her. His fingers stung, still dripping blood. Thecoolness of her voice cut through his fury. I see the first approach hascome, then. Who brought the flower to your attention? 
The wall was hard behind the tapestry. He blinked and straightened away fromit. Geoffrey the Stag. Wait no. Puck and Cairbre, and the lamia Amaranth.Excellent. A rustle as she moved. He wished the taste of blood in his mouth were real; he wanted to spit. Look at me. He looked. She stood as proud as a lioness, her long neck a predatory archunder her hair. He could have wept with his need to bury his face in it, buthe thought she would have smiled to see his tears.You re mine, she said, coming closer. Don t fight me, Kit: I ve outlivedkings and outwitted princes, and bent the noblest of knights to my will. Inthe end, they all did as I bid, or they died: I was a goddess before I becameas you see me now. Although her fingers cool on his throat even Lancelot never fought me as you do.
Lancelot? A froggy croak, clogged as the troll s.You re worth three of him, she answered with a storied smile. Except onthe battlefield. Where he was unstoppable. But that s the sort of swordsman Ineed least in this new world. Why me?Because the Mebd wanted you, and I could get you for her. And get you from her. He tried to speak, coughed instead. She stepped back, blessedly, and hebattled the words until they came. Geoffrey said the Faerie host cannotfight without a mortal man.
Tis true. We have no reality apart from thy folk. And thy folk have nomagic apart from us.And that s what you need me for?Yes. That and the pleasure of your company. A wink turned his stomach and tightened his groin. You re angry with me. You think what I ve done to youis a sort of rape.Isn t it? Rather, she answered. But, then, so little of a woman s lot is what shewills, I cannot see it as much different from a husband s treatment of awife. That is not a responsibility I will bear, strictly by merit of my sex. The spikes that had worn at his tongue and palate had been barely knobs, really.They had wanted him able to talk, afterward: the sort of bridle used forunruly wives, and not the sort reserved for heretics and blasphemers. Which had been meant to be a humiliation, too.
No, I don t think you can be blamed for how men treat their wives anddaughters. But. A pause as she laid a hand on his shoulder. You mightconsider how much greater a dignity I grant you than my lord granted me. You,my sweet Christofer, have always your lady s leave to speak your mind. Howmany women have so much privilege?
You ll assess me the acts of a man a thousand years dust?If I bear Eve s sins, you may as well have Lot s. No matter. You ll do as Ibid, though I d rather you do it willing.Willing Cold terror, suddenly. Worse because he knew that when she touchedhim, if he whimpered it would not be with disgust, or fear, as long as herhands were on him. Her movements were like a dance: nearer, further. An increase and a decreaseof pressure. Laughing behind the deadly earnest of her gaze. If you fightme, Kit, I ll break you. I ve seen your scars. I have some idea of what itwould take. His gut ached at the memory of her touch, the vagueness and blind lust withwhich she had afflicted his thoughts.He fought his voice level. And if I offer you my service willing in yourcoming battle, does that earn me your favor enough to beg the answer to aquestion?A shake of her skirts unkilted them; her petticoat fell to brush the floor.She sighed. You may always question me. I consider it a fair payment for 
your inability to refuse. And I prefer a spirited mount to a brokenheartednag.
What if I wish He couldn t bring himself to say it.She knew. The sovereignty of thy person? Tis more than a wife gets, but Ihave the bond I need of thee. She winked. Although I might miss awell-warmed bed now and again. I can drag that magic off thee.She snapped her fingers. He felt as if something a snapping branch, crackingice broke to make the sound.
 Lady. He relaxed as much as he dared, feeling suddenly light. Hestraightened away from the wall. Tell me of Bard s cloaks. 
Bard s cloaks? The cloaks of bards? What of them? 
Is there virtue in them? 
Aye, yes, she said. The magic of goodwill, a protection woven of thepleasure they have given those they give pleasure to. Has someone offered tostart you one?
A troll, he said, and shrugged when she glowered at him. One more questionan it please you?
Aye? She shook her skirts again, unhappy with how they had settled, duckingher black head so the rivers of her hair washed over her. Kit watched her move, and breathed a sigh to see only a lovely, dark woman,somewhat older than himself. Who do we intend to do battle with? She looked up and smiled. Elizabeth s enemies are mine own. Although wefight them differently. The Prometheus Club.
Oh, bloody Hell. Morgan, you should have just said so. 
Act II, scene x
Would they make peace? terrible hell make warUpon their spotted souls for this offence!WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, The Life and Death of Richard II 7th June anno Domini fifteen hundred & ninety fiveWinding LaneLondon My beloved friendIn the fervent hope & intention that this small note may pass to theedirectly I will speak plain, for I feel what I must impart is of too muchmoment to conceal under circumlocutions. We shall have to trust the privy inkin which these Lines are written, between the stanzas of my Latestmanuscript. If I am too forward in thine estimation, then shalt thou burnthis missive when thou hast read. I shall be as brief as I may: news in London is bad, & will unease thee. TheQueen s physician is finally dead, hanged at Tyburn Last week I was inattendance for thy FW, who miraculously still holds fast to Life & breathalthough I know not how. A terrible thing, & I believe & FW & Lord Burghleywith me that it has much taken the heart from Her Majesty, for she was everfond of Dr Lopez. In his Last words, he swore his allegiance to HRM & toChrist, & died as thou mightst imagine, in exceeding pain. I will not saymore; it is too close a memory for me of my mother s cousins, who were hanged& drawn on suspicion of treason some years past.Thy Letters tell me Poley watcheth me, & indeed I watch Poley, through theauspices of Poet Watson s sister who is as good a woman as thou hastindicated & in much improved circumstance now, along with Robin her boy. Fretnot, gentle Christofer: I am as cautious as ever thou couldst wish. Butshe although Robert her husband will not see her, Robert s friends willsometime pass her such nuggets & scrapings as they may says also that he &Dick Baines have been said to be much pleased by this torture & execution &they have made many midnight comings & goings. More, they receive succor intheir treasonous efforts from overseas, a Spaniard she thinks & I think aswell keeps them supplied with coin. I have had this information to FW, butOxford speaks well of Poley to the Queen, & so no action is taken. I suspectalmost that Oxford has some secret hold on Her Majesty, for she is overkindto one who has not her best interests in heart. With what thou hast taught meI see how he doctors the plays that are meant to make Her Majesty strong, &his hand weakens every good Line I put down, although I correct much of itmore subtly than he knows. & still she Loves him better than any butBurghley
Burghley, who is growing ill & aged, & his son takes more & more his placeat the Queen s right hand. Raleigh is out of favor again, & Essex has becomeopenly hostile. He grows bold & conceals not his disdain for the Queen & thewoman who Loved him. It is his hand no doubt behind the conspiracy to convict& murder for I cannot call it a lawful execution Lopez, & his success & theQueen s despair at it have made him drunk with power. & I have Learned beyonda doubt that Poley is Essex s man. Mary says Poley bragged in a tavern thathe got money from Southampton. Which means Essex. Which means
I do not need to draw the obvious conclusions for thee, when Southamptonstill in the guise of my patron & friend has asked for a play, a triflingthing. Thou wilt be unsurprised to Learn that the topic of this play isRichard the second, & there is no way I can refuse without making it evidentthat I know more than I should. & that way Lies a scuffle in a dark alley & aknife in the eye. More & more I feel I tread forgive the casualblasphemy like our Lord Jesus Christ on tossing waves that might hurl me atmy heavenly Father s Least whim to the snapping jaws of the deep.More, & worse. I told thee of gold from Spain: with that gold comes itsbearer, a Spaniard or a Portuguese, not so dark as Lopez hair almost auburnin the sun, as if he had some English, French, or Dutch blood. Perhaps a Jew 
as well? I did not hear his name, but he attended the execution with Baines,& was almost as tall, with a knife-blade nose & very thin Lips behind aclose-trimmed beard. Most strange of all, he wore rings on every finger, andfrom what I glimpsed of them I should say they were wrought of twisted iron.He is, I mean, Promethean.Mary has discovered his name: Xalbador de Parma, and heard as well in anunguarded moment one of Poley s associates, a recusant named Catesby who Iknow, for he spends time at the Mermaid, call him Fray.& still worse & more interesting concealed in the crowd & my hood at thehanging, I made shift to follow those men back into the city. There is faminein London, Kit, & in the countryside as well. I saw the foreigner speak withBaines; he went into a tavern, & Baines Like an errand-boy went off to do hisbidding. What his bidding was I can guess, for there were vagabonds & chieflyapprentices rioting in London by noontide over the price of food, cheese &ale smeared on the streets, two suspected Jews & a Moor & some goodwives &tradesmen who might have Looked too prosperous dragged through the street,pummeled or killed for the error of being abroad.Rumor has it culprits have been taken & are sure to be hanged at the Tower.Lads of 14, & I have no doubt that Baines who instigated shall not hang withthem. I shall not attend. Lopez s torture was all I could stomach, & I feelno need to watch the ravens feast. The riots mean the closing of the playhouses, & the Privy Council influencedby the Puritans who thou thinkst & I think influenced by the Enemy haveordered them torn down, although it has not happened yet. In some disgust, Icontemplate spending the summer with Annie in Stratford, away from the stink& the plague that stalks London again. The drought is no better there,though, & the cattle sick with murrain. Bad omens, & the auguries poor as theQueen approaches her three score & three.It is almost as if the hand of God himself is bent against us, but I know itmust only be such changes & expectations in the minds of men as thee & me,ourselves, do wreak with our plain poesy. At Least Lord Hunsdon is well, &he & the Lord Chamberlain s Men, we his players, remain in good odor withGloriana. So I can shield her a little, & perhaps set a word or two againstEssex s murmurings & seditions, for plays go on at court even as theplayhouses are shuttered.FW informs me that our next act must be to forge evidence against Baines andPoley, if we cannot come by it honestly and says to comfort me that there isno honor in it, but that we do it for the Queen.I know through FW what Essex does not: for all her refusal to name an heir,the Queen favors James of Scotland & she does court him with secret Letters,privily instructing him in her arts of governance. Of course this cannot bemade public, as Her Majesty s position grows precarious & her wiles arenot ah, thou hast me penning sedition again what they once were.I fear some attack from our enemies. Something for which this abominable messwith poor Lopez is only the overture.Lest I trouble thee unrelievedly, Let me say in closing that I am well, &writing strongly, as thou mayst see, & Anne has written to inform me that shewill be buying me the biggest house in Warwickshire before I know I am agentleman.yr WmPost script: I will set this by the mirror with a candle, as thou hastinstructed, & write again when I have spoken with FW or Burghley.Post post script: please forgive the awkwardness of my hand. I hope that thoucanst unriddle it, as I am prone of Late to monk s cramp, whose painfulacquaintance I am sure thou, as a poet, hast made.
The tremors still subsided when Will put his fingers to a task. Such asflipping a silver shilling older than Annie. Mayhap as old as JohnShakespeare: turning it in his fingers, over and over again, Will could justsee the shadow of a hawk-nosed face when the light fell against it right. The 
shadow of Henry the Eighth, father of Elizabeth, founder of the EnglishProtestant Church. And author of all my troubles, Will thought, laying the coin on the tablebeside the inkwell. He spread his pages across the desk and recut a quill,nicking his finger on the knife when his right hand trembled. He thrust theknife into the tabletop and his left middle finger between his lips. Damn it to Hell 
Now there s a scene from Faustus, an amused voice said from the corner. Writing our plays in blood now, are we? That should be some sorcery.Will pulled his bloody finger from his mouth and raised his eyes to themirror. Kit lounged beside the fireplace, one elbow on the mantel, his lefthand steering the hilt of a rapier. You could have announced yourself.I was waiting for you to set down the knife, Kit said dryly. Hestraightened and came forward, producing a kerchief from his sleeve. So youwouldn t cut yourself. Let me see.Will held out his left hand, picking up his pen with the right one to concealits tremors. Tis just a scratch.Not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door? But deep enough, Will.Ah, you ve missed the tendons and the bone. Good. It shouldn t bleed longerthan half an hour. Morgan would say to wash it with soapLye soap?Aye, and it might be wise. She saved my face from taint that way. Is therewater in the ewer? Some. Bemused, Will suffered himself to be led to his bedroom and fussedover. He gasped when Kit scrubbed the wound, then pressed the edges of thecut tight and bound his first and middle fingers together with the kerchiefto hold them closed and sop the oozing blood. Who is Morgan?Deftly, Kit tightened the bulky bandage. He gave Will s hand a squeeze andlet it go. My mistress in Faerie. A sorceress. That will bleed less if youhold it up.
Morgan?
Yes. The sidelong glance. Kit s face was pale, and Will thought if hetouched his friend s cheek it would be cool. That Morgana. Will, about yourletter The bandage pressed the pain back to a dull, warning throb. Will gesturedwidely with his bloodied hand, and went in search of a rag. I ve wine hock. Can you stay a little?
I d meant to. Are you expecting company? The stress on that word broughtWill to alertness. He led Kit back into the sitting room. Company? Burbage, you mean? Or MaryPoley ?
If they come, I can step through the looking glass. Give me that rag. I llmop the blood. You pour the hock. Tell me what Mary says of Fray Xalbador deParma. That stress again, and Will puzzled it as he poured left-handed, despite hisbandages. He got the harsh Rhennish white strained into the cups withoutspilling it and found bread and an end of cheese, which he set on the tablebeside the upright knife. I ve sugar for the wine
I ve gotten out of the habit, Kit answered, tasting. And this is sweet enough without assistance.You know the name of the Spaniard.We were acquainted. He pretends to many things but I had asked about Mary.Kit twisted the knife free of the boards and cut cheese dyed with carrotjuice, broke bread, handed the first bit to Will. More on the Spaniard whenthe wine is drunk. Everything she told me was in the letter. She ll come again when she can.The bread was hard to swallow. Will dipped it in his wine to soften it, muchto Kit s amusement. I see. And little Robin? 
Sleeping better.Kit rubbed bread between his fingertips. He rolled the crumbs against thetabletop.Will picked the shilling off the boards and turned it in his right hand. Art jealous? Or is it that I m jealous, and I pass it on to thee?
Jealous? Kit looked up. He pushed the crust of bread away, and cupped bothhands loosely around his wine, leaning back on his stool as if the scent ofLondon the reek of the gutters twining the perfume from the gardens pleasedhim.
 Of MaryWhy should I be jealous?Robin s your son, isn t he?Kit s eye went wide, his face seeming to elongate as eyebrows rose and hisjaw sank. What gave you that idea?
Tis as good a reason as any for Poley to hate you. Beyond the politicalmotives, which seem inadequate. Adequate for murder. Inadequate for Loathing. I won t think less of you. . . .Nor should you, Kit answered, reaching for his cup. Given the somewhat hasty circumstances of your own marriage.Will laughed, knowing he d touched a nerve to draw that response. Touch . Is he yours?Why does it matter? I would not impugn the lady s honor. A man can have carefor a dead friend s sister It matters, Will said, because a man can also have a care for the children of a dead friend. Kit balanced the knife across the palm of his hand. Damn, Will. I don tknow. What does that mean, you don t know?Kit reversed the knife in his hand like a juggler; Will jumped as he drovethe blade neatly into the same gouge Will had left earlier, and a full inchdeeper. By Christ s sore buggered arse, Will. It means the possibility doesexist. I shouldn t think I d need to draw you a plan. Given yours come in litters. The glare as Kit shoved himself to his feet left Will speechless and stung.He stood more slowly, holding out his bandaged hand, the right one tightenedon the coin. Kit Will swallowed, a task that was growing uncomfortable. I apologize.
Damn you. But the edge dropped from Kit s tone, and he settled onto hisstool again, resting his forehead on the back of his hand. Thy pardon, Will.I am overwrought.Will nodded, and sat as well, reaching out right-handed to grab Kit s wrist,hoping his hand would not shake. The boy will want apprenticing soon. Hadyou a desire to see him in some trade or another?
God. Kit s voice was shaky. He clapped his left hand over Will s right andsqueezed. Anything but a player, a moneylender, or an intelligencer.Not to follow in his father s footsteps, then?Whatever those footsteps be.The silence grew taut between them. Will drew his hand back and dropped itinto his lap. Right. Cobblery it is.When he finished laughing, Kit emptied his cup and pushed it aside. Xalbador de Parma. Fray Xalbador de Parma.A Promethean. I had discerned that. More than that. His voice seemed to dry in his throat. Will pushed his ownbarely touched cup of hock across the table, and Kit took it with a gratefulnod. A Mage, they call him, plural Magi. As if he had anything in commonwith great spirits such as Dee or Bruno. Fray Xalbador is also an Inquisitor,one of their infiltrators in the Catholic church. Will wished suddenly he had not given his wine away, remembering Kit s voiceon another occasion, in the dark kitchen of Francis Langley s house. Still, 
an Inquisitor. I m tempted to count it some species of honor. Oh. It bodes not well. Kit shoved the cup back at Will with still some wine init. You must see to it that Francis gives Thomas Walsingham the name. Orbetter, see to it yourself. I m sure your status is enough, these days, thathe would grant you an interview if you sent him a note.You sense a move against the Queen?I can see no reason otherwise de Parma would be in England. You ll want topour wine, if you ve finished that.More wine? But Will stood, and collected Kit s cup as well, and againfiltered the dregs through cheesecloth to produce something potable. Here. Sit, and Will sat. What is it? The reason Elizabeth protects Oxford. And what will make your task all theharder, though Essex has o erplayed his hand.Will studied Kit s face, its deadly earnest placidity except for a sort ofvalley worn between the eyes. I listen. You know Edward de Vere was raised as William Cecil, Baron Burghley s wardafter the sixteenth Earl of Oxford died. At the Queen s request.I do. This does not leave this room. I understand. Kit drank off his wine at a draft, and plucked the dagger from the tabletopto clean his nails. Oxford is Elizabeth s bastard son. 
Act II, scene xi
Mortimer: Madam, whither walks your majesty so fast? Isabella: Unto the forest, gentle Mortimer, To Live in grief and baleful discontent; For now myLord the King regards me not, But dotes upon the Love of Gaveston. He clapshis cheeks and hangs about his neck, Smiles in his face, and whispers in hisears; And, when I come, he frowns, as who should say, go whither thou wilt,seeing I have Gaveston.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Edward II Kit tugged his hood higher. "Latch the door after I leave.Will folded his arms. "I fail to see what errand could be of so much importthat you must risk yourself in the street."Some things, Kit said, a man must simply do. I ll return by dawn. I swearit. 
I ll be at the Mermaid if you want me, then, Will said, shaking his head instagy frustration.Kit walked through London with a feeling in his breast like freedom, his lefthand easy on the hilt of a silver rapier forged as hard and resilient assteel. Carts clattered in the twilight, whorish girls and boys called fromdoorways, and men and women hustled home from market or out to taverns fortheir dinners. A commonplace scene, London in the sunset, and one at oddswith the determination that coiled in Kit. He kept his eyes downcast and lethis hair fall in front of his face, concealing as best he could his eyepatch.
A sunny day for staging a vengeance tragedy, Marley.Tis not vengeance, he told himself. Tis preclusion.Two hours walking and half the Faerie gold in his purse bought him thelocation of Richard Baines home: a house rather than a lodging, on AddleStreet. He d done well for himself. Kit skulked through an alley almost too narrow for his shoulders to passwithout scraping the wall on either side. The house had a little garden: hehoisted himself to peer over the wall, but every window was darkened. Damn. At the Sergeant, do you suppose? A bell tolled nine of the clock, and he lethimself drop on the outside of the wall.
Wherever Baines is, Fray Xalbador will not be far behind.
Kit stroked the hilt of his sword again, thinking perhaps he should try hishand at finding Oxford, instead. A dead man may accomplish many things a Liveone might balk at. But he wanted Baines blood, that was the truth, andwanted the false Inquisitor s more.He could scale the wall and lie in wait, since it seemed not even a servantwas at home. Or he could go in search, aimlessly pacing. His feet decided forhim. He walked through the much-thinned crowds, amused at how littleapprehension he felt at strolling London s streets in the darkness. Dead men Lay their burdens down. But it was a lie, and he knew it.With an intelligencer s assessment of risk and reward, Kit knew that FrayXalbador was worth Kit s own lifeblood to put an end to. More than worth.Might as well trade Faerie gold for a good English sovereign. But as much as Kit would have liked to hunt Robert Poley to his death at the GroaningSergeant, Kit knew his life wasn t worth Poley s. His secret wasn t evenworth Poley s life.Surprised at a familiar voice, Kit stopped, looked up, stepped away from thesquare of light cast by an open door. A slow baritone, with something of theluff and fill of thoughtful sails behind it.
Chapman, he murmured. And indeed, his wandering footsteps no doubt primedby Will s words on where to find him had led him into Cheapside and ontoBread Street. As he looked up he saw George Chapman s portly girthsilhouetted against the open door of the Mermaid.Laughter followed Chapman s unheard bon mot. Kit drew into the shadows,hoping Chapman didn t think him a cutpurse or lurcher lying in wait. He neednot have feared: Chapman never saw him, but set out whistling down thestreet, swinging a stout stick and holding a half-shuttered lantern. 
Kit glanced longingly at the sharp-cut panel of lamplight on the cobbles, andswore. He could hear Will s laughter now, too, and someone else Tom Nashe? avoice cut clean by the closing door. He turned on his heel and followedChapman. At Least I can see him safe home. Arrant fool, walking throughLondon alone after curfew. 
But Chapman moved east, and Kit followed at a little more distance, nowcurious more than worried as his old friend let that stick tap lightly on thecut stone kerb. Dark houses loomed: a crack of stars were visible onlydirectly overhead, and only a few lights gleamed through the slits inshutters, stars of a different sort. The rats grew bolder after dark, andtwice Kit heard the squealing of their private wars.Chapman was walking to Westminster Palace, a goodly night s jaunt. Thelantern was a godsend: its light both steered Kit and blinded Chapman, so Kitneed fear neither recognition nor the loss of his quarry in the dark. He fellback a little as they passed Blackfriars: there were carriages in thestreets, parties of walkers, and groups of armed men to keep the Queen speace. King s Street was quieter, once they passed through the gates, andthere was little traffic beyond Charing Cross.Kit turned once at a footstep behind him, wary of a sense of being watched,but he saw only a few figures. Another lantern-decked carriage rattled overthe cobbles, forcing one pedestrian against the wall. Probably just Morganwatching me through her damned Glass. Matched bays drew the coach atwo-in-hand and the gelding on the near side had one white sock on a hindfoot, which flashed in the lanternlight along with the footman s livery.Oh, that s just too much of a coincidence. Kit stepped up his pace, eyestrained forward. But of course it wasn t a coincidence at all. He had been following Chapman. And Chapman had been enroute from supper and conversationwith his friends and fellow playmakers to meet his patron.His patron, who had been Kit s patron as well. And friend. And more. ThomasWalsingham.The June night was warm, the air humid enough that it felt as if Kit walkedthrough veils of silk that clung and slipped. He followed the slowingcarriage as he had followed Morgan, one footstep and then another. But thiswas thoughtful rather than blind obedience. The meaning comes in thesilences. Momentum comes from the instant before the foot Leaves the ground.
The white-footed gelding stamped as his mate jostled him, tugging the rein asthe coachman drew them in. Kit heard the creak of leather, the rattle ofiron-shod rims on stone. Someone hallooed Chapman; a lantern flickered.Kit laid one hand on the wall and watched from the shadows, as if turned tostone. Or salt, he thought, as the coach door opened. I could wish that. A pillar of salt, to melt in the endless London rain and flow down the Thamesto the ocean. Like a river of tears Oh, stop it, Marley. That s not even an original image. And still he could have wept at the contrast between what he felt, now, suddenly, that had beenso long stepped upon and the desperate, thoughtless, compliant passion thathad marked his loves in Faerie. Loves? How couldst even thou have mistaken that for love, Kit Marley?More to be ashamed, for he knew what love was.It was the thing that held him now, a breathless kind of clarity that kepthim in the shadows, waiting for one last glimpse of the man whose life andhome he had shared before The footman moved to assist a tall, ginger-haired woman in a flat-frontedFrench gown down the iron step. Kit s breath lay like pooled lead in hischest as she lifted her skirts and set her pattened feet upon the cobbleswith a clack. Audrey Walsingham. She stepped away, gliding toward Chapman,who leaned on his cudgel as if it were a cane and swept a thoroughlycreditable bow. The carriage door stayed open, the footman at attention. Kit heard Chapman smurmur, Mistress Walsingham s tinkling laugh as he steadied her toward the 
palace. Leave, Kit thought, and came a half step closer to the carriagelights.Long legs in silk hose, a well-turned calf strong from time spent onhorseback. The hair was dark by lamplight as he grasped the rail and stood,settling his doublet with a shrug of muscled shoulders, but Kit knew it wouldgleam with copper highlights in the sun. The footman stood aside as ThomasWalsingham descended, swinging the door shut with a casual gesture thatbrought Kit s heart into his throat. He stepped forward again, and halted hismotion in midair. What art thou imagining thou mightst do here, Marley?Apologize for thinking Tom conspired with thy killers? Explain that Frazierand Poley Lied, and thou thyself never practiced against the Queen? Throwthyself at his feet and kiss the stones between his shoes? Beg him to takethee home to Chislehurst and swive until thou bleedst, stay from Faerie anddie in his arms Like a selkie kept from the sea, while the lovely Audreycossets and possets thee?
It had a certain appeal, like Dido leaping into the flames, like Cleopatra upto her elbows in a basket writhing with asps. Kit set his foot in the printhe had lifted it from, and stayed in the shadows, his right hand closing onthe collar of his doublet as to tug it open and cool his throat.Such a small motion to so betray him.Tom must have caught the gesture from the corner of his eye. He turned like asplendid stallion, nostrils flaring, six inches of steel flashing in thecarriage light as his right hand gripped and half drew his sword. Who goes?A low voice, not loud enough to turn the heads of Chapman and Audrey, butenough to bring the footman around to flank his master. Kit smiled inrecognition of the caution. Yes, Tom. Get the Lady in the gates along withher escort. You stay and handle the trouble, and she none the wiser. Besides,the palace is close enough to rouse to a cry of murder in the street. Butthat could be embarrassing if it were a false alarm, couldn t it?
He glanced over his shoulder as Tom and his man came a few steps closer. Thecoachman kept a tight rein on the stamping bays, but he turned to look, andKit knew there was a loaded pistol in a box behind his seat. The way wasdeserted on either side, except for the figure who had dodged thecarriage some distance away and hurrying forward with running footsteps andChapman and Audrey, who would be out of casual earshot by now. A cross streetlay a few steps away: Kit could turn, fly, and be gone before Tom glimpsedhis face 
An excellent plan.
What is thy name, villain?
If I had ever been able to walk from that voice.
 Not a villain. Kit took two short steps forward, to the edge of thelanternlight, and tugged his hood back with his thumbs. The gesture revealedhis sword, and showed his hands well away from it, and Tom s grip on his ownhilt slackened. And then Walsingham s jaw dropped, and the knuckles grew white again.
Rather a gentleman, Tom.By his expression, the footman didn t know Kit. One small mercy. Tom s jawworked, but no sound emerged.Kit couldn t spare a glance for the figure now running toward them. Tom, youmust know. Frazier lied to you. I never did what he said
How do you know what he said?Kit jerked his chin at the candlelit windows of the palace. Tom s face grewso pale Kit could see by lanternlight. And Will Shakespeare drew up ten feetaway, wobbling with the force of his stop, his arms widespread for balance asif he had suddenly realized he was about to run between two armed men.
Master Walsingham, he said softly.Tom shot him a level, almost mocking look. Kit knew it, and breathed a littleeasier. The playmaker Shakespeare. I take it you knew about this? 
Will nodded. Tom took his hand off his sword and turned to the footman. Jenkins, see that Master Chapman and my wife understand that I will bedelayed. Perhaps as much as an hour.Sir. Audible relief filled the man s voice as he took himself away frommatters he did not understand and vanished in pursuit of his mistress.Now, Tom said. Into the carriage, for lack of a tavern. Pity, for I amvery much in need of a drink, but I can t stand talking in the street with aplayer and a dead man.Kit tried not to notice how Tom s eyes lingered on his face. He turned hishead to hide the scarred side, but could not stop a shiver when Tom took hiselbow and almost lifted him into the coach. Will slipped on the step, but Tomsteadied him too, and Will shrugged and smiled his apology.Kit flinched at the misstep. He prodded the ache in his chest, and knew.Murchaud was right. I can t stay here.They took their seats and Tom rapped on the coach roof. Wheels rattled on thecobblestones, the carriage swaying on its straps. Where are we going? Will asked. There and back again, Tom answered. Twice, if we need more time.Kit laughed. You haven t changed.You have. Ingrim told me the Queen ordered your death. Through Burghley.Poley showed him a writ, and had him burn it.Would Ingrim know a forgery? Kit rubbed his eyepatch.Tom shrugged, leaning forward to speak over the creak and clatter of thecoach. He should. There s testimony, tooDo you believe it?When Her Majesty more or less forbade anyone to examine your death, andpardoned your killers, what else could I do? Tell me you re no agent ofSpain, or the Romans. Or James of Scotland. Tell me where you ve been. TheContinent? It has been kind to thee. Thou hast not aged a day. Tell me thouart loyal, in thine own voice, Kit, and I ll believe it.I was loyal to the Queen, and the Queen gave me my life, he answered. And then she returned to me mine oath. And now I am A free man. beholden to another. But faithful in my dealings with England, I vow.Tom glanced at Will, who had withdrawn into a corner. He watched withoutspeaking, making himself small. And how does Master Shakespeare come intothe ciphering?I followed Kit, he said, folding his arms over each other as if he werecold. Kit felt him shiver, where their shoulders brushed. He trailed Chapmanfrom the Mermaid. A searing glance told Kit that he would have someexplaining to do for his carelessness. I had stepped outside to catch Georgeand remind him of somewhat, andTom smiled, and Kit knew he was deciding to let his actual question gounanswered. Kit cleared his throat. Tom, I can trust you?As a brother, he said, and squeezed Kit s leg above the knee. Kit watchedhis face, and saw no flicker of deception.Very well, Kit said. This will take longer than a coach ride. How much hasSir Francis told you?In the half-light of the swinging lanterns, Tom s face grew grim. Not enough, apparently.Kit nodded. He s dying, Tom. For certain. And Burghley too. He lowered his voice. And Her Majesty grows tired.Her Majesty has reason.They are old, Kit said, knowing that the words carried every trace oftreason that his enemies could have wished. The coach s jolting seemed readyto drive his spine through his skull, but he kept on, though Tom sat back asif to increase the distance between them. There s a reason your Ingrim put aknife in mine eye. Duped by Skeres and Poley, or conspiring with them,there s time enough for that later. There s a reason Oxford and Essex moveagainst the Queen. The old Queen must have an heir. 
Will s elbow banged against the side of the coach. They are old. And we are young. Comparatively speaking.Fellows! Tom s shock was evident. Listen. 
And somehow, Tom did.Kit drew a breath, but Will cut him short, surprising Kit with the depth ofhis understanding. When Burghley and Sir Francis are gone, their successorscan be thee and me, Master Walsingham. And Robert Cecil, and Thomas Carey sson George. Or they can be our enemies. Men like Poley and his masters.
Baines. And the Spaniard.What of the Queen? And the Tom stopped himself before he said theunfavored word, succession. Kit shrugged. In any case, you must step into Sir Francis shoes. And quickly.Tom turned his face into the light. It illuminated his silhouette, limninglips and nose and brow in gold. He s barely now begun to warm to me again,Kit. We did not speak o ermuch after yourmurder. Mend it soon, Will said. Or not at all. That bad? We must sire our own conspiracy.Kit could see Tom tasting the word. Conspiracy. He realized with shock that threads of silver wound Tom s hair. Kit, and what of thee?Kit closed his eyes on pain, knowing the answer. Knowing what it had to be,as soon as Will had effortlessly picked up the thread of his thought, andexplained it. Known from the way Will had tailed him so deftly thatKit Kit had barely even known he was watched, and how Tom had put Audrey andChapman out of harm s way without taking time to think. I am dead in this world. Everything I could do, they can do better.Sweet Christ, I Love these men. Better to remember them young and fierceThan Like Sir Francis. Tom, your man Frazier was duped?Tom s lips twitched. He nodded once, his eyes focused on Kit s scar.I am commanded elsewhere, Kit said. You LL outlive it. Outlive all yourLoves and hates, and when your mortal span is past Thou wilt not see me again. Nor shalt thou, Will, I warrant. But I leave my Queen in capablehands. Kit Two voices as one, and the tone of them warmed him even as he shook his head.I am commanded elsewhere, he repeated. And so tonight I shall give youeverything I know.Kit laid the palm of his right hand on Will s mirror and pressed forwardagainst a sensation as if jellied mercury flowed to admit him. He glancedover his shoulder at Will and at Tom Walsingham standing beside him, fixingthe two men s faces in his memory. They had kissed and clipped him asbrothers, and that embrace was a sort of hollowness resting on his skin. Dead men must trust the Living to get on with their business, I suppose.
I ll write, Will said. I don t think I shall reply. Kit looked away before Will s expression couldchange. Tom, give my love to your wife. He pushed through the mirror. Heemerged in the corridor between the curtains that flanked the Darkling Glass,tendrils of crystal loathe to resign their grips.No sooner had his boot touched the tiles than he bowed his head, startled,and dropped a knee, his silver scabbard-tip clinking and skipping. The Mebdstood over him: he had almost stepped into her arms. A scent of roses andlilacs like a breeze from a June garden surrounded him; he lifted theembroidered hem of her robe to his lips, heavy cloth draping his fingers.Your Majesty. 
Sweet Sir Kit. He heard the smile in her voice and clenched his teeth in anticipation of a hammerblow of emotion. Her hand touched his shoulder and healmost fell forward, realizing as he put a hasty hand to the floor that hehad been braced against a raw spasm of desire.It never came.
 Mayst rise.He did as she bid, keeping his eyes on the woven net of wheat-gold braidsthat lay across her shoulders, pearls knotted at the interstices. She tiltedhis chin up with flowerlike fingers, forcing him to meet her eyes. Needst not fear our games this night, Sir Poet. She released him and stepped back,her fingers curling in summoning as she walked on. We ve been most wicked to thee, my husband, my sister, and me.
I ve known wickeder. The pressure of violet eyes in her passionless oval face was almost enough toforce him against the wall. Thou dost wonder at thy place in our court.I do. She smiled, and reached into her sleeve. When our royal sister Elizabethdies, things will change.Your Highness? He stepped back as she drew out a long fluid scarf oftransparent silk and twined it between her fingers. It shifted color in thelight, shimmers of violet, green, and gold chasing its surface.And there will be a war. If not that day, soon after.I am a poet, Your Highness. Not a soldier.She smiled at him, and reaching out, wound the scarf around his throat threetimes, letting the silk brush his face, softer than petals. For thy cloak,she said. Give me a song.What sort of a song?An old song.She started forward again, and he paced her, reciting the oldest song heknew 
. . . Young oxen newly yoked are beaten more,Than oxen which have drawn the plow before.And rough jades mouths with stubborn bits are torn,But managed horses heads are lightly borne,Unwilling Lovers, Love doth more torment,Then such as in their bondage feel content.Lo! I confess, I am thy captive I,And hold my conquered hands for thee to tie
No, the Mebd whispered, interrupting him with a hand on his wrist andseeming for a moment a woman given to softness rather than a cold and mockingQueen. Not that. An English song, for thou art an Englishman.Thomas the Rhymer? he suggested waggishly, wondering if she would let himpress the advantage. A gamble, but they that never gamble have no wit.Perhaps not that either. It s no mere seven years thou wilt serve. But she smiled, an honest smile, and tilted her head so her braids moved in disarrayover her neck. I know it. He nibbled his mustache. I ve made my farewells, Your Highness.I m ready to set it behind me.Thou shalt find it easier. And Morgan has released thee from what bondageshe held thee in He blushed. It influenced my decision.Of course. Free, and myself, he said. But never free to leave. No. Her sorrow was not for him. Never that. They walked on in silence. She led him through tall, many-paned glass doorsand into a garden that smelled as she did of lilacs and roses.Mortals can be enchanted, she said, gravel rustling beneath her slippersand turning under the brush of her train, but they cannot truly be bound theway the Fae can be bound by their names, by iron. Every knot in my hair is a 
life I possess, Sir Kit, a Faerie entangled to my will forevermore. I couldnot bind thee so. Nor canst thou be released by the gift of a suit ofclothes, or a new pair of shoes. So thy folk require more careful handling.Tis better to let them grieve at their own rate, and leave at their ownrate, too. She smiled, and recited a scrap of song of her own. "Ellum do grieve, Oak he do hate, WilLow do walk if yew travels Late. Dost know that one? No Ah, well. Thou wilt learn it, no doubt. Do you toss like an elm, or breaklike an oak, Sir Kit? She stopped and bent to smell a rose.This war that you expect, Your HighnessAye?
how will it be fought?Oh, her smile was lovely. Even through vision unclouded by fey magic andglamourie. With song, Sir Poet. With song. 
Act II, scene xii
Jessica: I am sorry thou wilt Leave my father so:Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil.WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, The Merchant of Venice Will stood against the painted cloth covering the wall of Sir FrancisWalsingham s bedroom, flanked by Richard Burbage s fair hair on one side andThomas Walsingham s tall frame on the other. They leaned shoulder toshoulder, unspeaking, feet and lower backs aching, listening to the haltingrhythm of a dying man s breath, watching his daughter bathe his brow withcool water and fret his spindled hands. Lopez was dead, and even if anothercould have been trusted to keep the secret of his identity, Sir Francis wouldnot have accepted the ministrations of strange physicians.Tom Walsingham shifted, his shoulder brushing Will s doublet. Will met hisglance, but neither spoke, and they turned away again after a moment ofconsideration. Tom s guarded eyes reminded Will of the expression in themirror. They kept their vigil though the clock struck midnight and its hands begantheir long dark sweep through the downhill hours of the night. Sir Franciswhined low on one intaken breath; his next expiration held a damaged clatterthat Will knew better than he liked. Not long now, Burbage murmured, andTom shook his head no but it wasn t a denial. Thus began the seventh of September, 1595: the sixty-third anniversary ofQueen Elizabeth s birth.One oil lamp guttered. The other had burned out by the time the bell struckthree of the clock, leaving a thin white coil of smoke ascending from thewick. Will stepped away from the wall, across the rush matting. He didn tunderstand how Sir Francis daughter Frances bore it; the stench ofputrefaction rising from the dying man s very pores and on his breath wasenough to raise Will s gorge from across the room.There was oil in a cupboard. Wordlessly, with exquisite care, he filled theextinguished lamp and trimmed the wick, relighting it before snuffing thesecond and repeating the process. He set the light left-handed on the standbeside the bed, acknowledging Frances grateful glance with a smile. We should send a messenger to Lord Burghley, he said to Burbage and Tom as hereturned to his post by the wall. And a messenger to the Queen. He will notlast the 
The Queen will not come. A wheeze, a broken gasp followed by Francescommand to Lie back. Will turned in place and looked back to the bed with its coverlet drawn highand its curtains closed on two sides to keep the draft away. Sir Francis. The old man was up on one elbow, waving his nursemaid irritably aside, painfurrowing his face. His voice fragmented. Master Shakespeare. MasterBurbage ah. Tom. Waste no time on the Queen. She wouldn t come. Unless sheforgave me.
Cousin, lie down, said Tom, crossing the rush mat heedlessly.Frances moved out of his path in a graceful sweep of skirts and leanedagainst the window ledge to throw open the shutters, breathing gratefully ofthe rank Southwark night. Over the reek of the bear gardens, Will imagined hesmelled fruiting lemons and apples ripening to the frost that would leavethem sweet enough to be plucked. He brushed comforting fingers acrossFrances arm and moved forward. Burbage hung back beside her, his nostrilsflaring in a drinker s roseate nose.Tom crouched beside the bed, heedless of the reek, and Will stood over hisshoulder. Cousin, Tom said. Sir Francis coughed. Will flinched: the sound had torn flesh in it. Tomreached out and gripped Sir Francis hand.
 Cousin, Sir Francis wheezed. There s papers. Under a false bottom in myclothespress. Thou wilt need them.What are they? 
There are men who will work for the love of their Prince. And there are those who must be cajoled, brutalized, or bribed.Your men, Thomas said, understanding.Filthy linen, Sir Francis answered. Yes. Tis yours.Sir Francis Her Majesty would not come to your deathbed? Will felt the vibration of his own voice, but did not at first understand that he hadspoken.It took him longer to recognize the wet, desperate sound that escaped SirFrancis throat as laughter; it was like the sounds a man might make beingbroken on the rack. Serve your Prince, Sir Francis choked, waving Willcloser. Breathing shallowly, Will bent forward, extending a hand. FrancisWalsingham s yellowed nails dented the flesh of his wrist as the spymasterfell back against the bed. Do not expect thanks of her. Not if you serve herwell. Will flinched. Blood and something thick and yellow crusted the corners ofSir Francis mouth. A thin trickle of watery red dripped from his nose, as ifthe effort of holding his head up had burst a vessel somewhere, one withbarely any blood left in it. Sir Francis. For all its feebleness, Sir Francis voice brushed Will s aside as casuallyas a hand lifting a curtain. You were young. When the Queen s Men I builtfor Gloriana toured Stratford, and they took you on. Will thought the soundof the dying man s laugh would make him vomit. Dick Burbage shuffled forward as if through mud. Sir Francis didn t release Will swrist, and Will stayed bent over the crouching Tom, wondering if Sir Franciscould feel the tremor starting now in his biceps, shivering down his arm tohis hand.
 Sir Francis. Didst know what we had here, Dick?Wordlessly, Burbage shook his head.Ah. Walsingham slipped lower in the bed. Now we do. Tom dabbed his cousin s upper lip, rubbing thin blood into his beard. SirFrancis hand slid from Will s wrist and lay slack and open on the coverlet,as if waiting to receive.Let me be, Tom. Sir Francis closed his eyes. Let me be. Tom stood easily and backed up, looking up as he took a second step away fromthe bed. And then kept moving, stumbling, his left arm catching Will acrossthe chest and bearing him away as Will too raised his eyes.A warm wind scented with tobacco smoke blew the bedcurtains back. Theyrippled heavily, the lamps guttering in their chimneys. The sound that fellfrom Will s parted lips was almost a quack. The angel s wings, white and strong as a swan s, filled the room from floorto ceiling, even folded tight. Tom s shove turned into a clutch; Will lookedup at a serene, unsmiling alabaster face, blue eyes dark as the ocean sternunder a mannered wheat-gold mane.Those candent wings rose not from robes, but a black silk-velvet doubletgleaming with ruby buttons, slashed in flame-colored taffeta and showing agentleman s cobweb lawn collar at the neck: nothing so lordlike unwieldy as aruff. The rapier at his hip wore a matching ruby in itspommel pigeon s-blood, and big as a pigeon s egg. The angel s neck was longand fine, his elegant chin unshadowed by beard. His curls hung in oiled arraybehind his shoulders, one snagged disobedient on his collar. His lips werepalest pink as dog rose, matching the blush in his cheeks. A heavy chain ofoffice lay across his shoulders, a golden circlet crossed his noble brow, buthis head was crowned in twining, writhing shadows like silhouettes tormentedby flames, and so Will realized he wasn t exactLy an angel.:Be not afraid: the Devil said in the voice of a harpsichord, and reacheddown to stroke Sir Francis matted iron-color curls. Then he raised those indigo eyes. They examined Tom s face for a moment, then flicked to the sideand studied Will more carefully. :Master Shakespeare the playmaker: 
Will nodded. Tom gripped his arm tightly enough to leave a perfect handprintthrough the cloth of Will s padded murrey doublet. I am. Will? Burbage stepped forward. From the corner of his eye, Will glimpsedFrances a half step behind him. Both stared at him and Tom as if they hadgrown donkey s heads. Who are you talking to?The Prince of Darkness took no notice of the player, except to wait withelegant, amused politeness until Burbage had finished speaking. :I haveenjoyed your Titus Andronicus. And your A Midsummer Night s Dream:
 I haven t written a play by that name. Your Highness? Grace? That can t beright. Get thee behind me, Satan God help me, if you hear me. Who wouldhave thought the Devil so polite?:You shall. As good a play as Master Marley s Faustus, which I saw in Exeter.I understand I gave poor Master Alleyn quite a fright: He smiled, showingeven white teeth. :No matter. We will meet again:Tom s death grip, impossibly, tightened. Will clamped his lips shut on asqueak. Burbage froze, hands outstretched as if he confronted a madman; Willwondered what Burbage saw. The Devil looked down at Sir Francis breathless corpse and dipped his hands into the dead man softly as if tickling troutfrom a stream. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, with an expression of pureconcentration, and a moment later he smiled. :Master Shakespeare. MasterWalsingham. Good day :A bit of a bow as he withdrew something small and fragile, gleaming likeopal, from Sir Francis breast. The Devil caught Will s eye one last time,winked, and turned away.Frances washed her father s body with sponges and warm water, the valet andthe gardener assisting. White linen lay at her feet, neatly folded, for thewinding sheets. Will sat forward on a bench in the corner, his elbows on hisknees, and rested his face in his hands. Richard. Thou sawst nothing?Burbage sighed, back on his heels. He held in his hands the cup that Will hadrefused to take. I saw you talk at nothing and then nearly faint intofrothing fit upon the floor, Will. I m taking you to a doctor on themorrow Simon Forman, if he ll see us and you ll not be playing for Glorianatoday.Will shook his head. Sir Francis dead, on Her Majesty s critical birthday.Will felt the power stirring in London s bones as he had not since that long-ago Twelfth Night. I m in that play. I must be in that play, Richard.Can t you feel it? He must be there, to bring his strength to bear directly on the enemy. Nointermediaries this time. His urgency must have informed his voice. Burbagegave him a curious glance, and nodded slowly. It s like that?
 It is. What play? Tom asked in what could have been innocent curiosity, but Willrather thought was shock.Richard III. Wilt thou be seeing visions on the stage before Her Majesty?Tom Will turned to Walsingham.Tom scratched behind his ear, dark hair sliding across his high forehead. I saw it. Him. As well. The Devil was in this room, Richard. And he spoke toWill and I, passing polite, and pinched my cousin s soul out between hisfingers like a ring.Will and Burbage exchanged a long stare. Will nodded. Burbage swallowed once,his Adam s apple bobbing under his pointed blond beard. He spoke to thee? He said he d seen Faustus in Exeter. God have mercy.We need a priest, Burbage said, but Will shook his head, glancing to Tomfor permission.Tom nodded. Richard, what would we tell him? We were at the deathbed of the Queen sspymaster, buried these five years, and Lucifer Morningstar showed up to draghim like Faustus to Hell? 
Ah. Tom turned Sir Francis signet between his fingers. I wonder why Will and Isaw him, and you and Cousin Frances did not. Silence followed, heavy withthe thin scent of morning, broken as a cock s crow was answered by rivals.
We can discuss it later. Will heaved himself to his feet. I wish householders would leave the chickens in the countryside. They re overloudwhen a man sleeps of a morning.Burbage laughed, then looked at Sir Francis corpse, abashed. But what would you do for eggs?
There s swans on the Thames, Will answered. They re tolerably silent.They re also, Burbage reminded, the Queen s.Then let her charge tuppence an egg.Will managed scarce three dream-torn hours before the nones bell dragged himfrom under his prickly woolen blanket. He pissed, washed, and dressed forcourt with a fussy, practiced care that would have amused his wife.Tightening the points on loose breeches, Will resolved to gain weight if hehad to subsist on possets and cream. His hand trembled with exhaustion; heglared at it until the tremors subsided enough to get his sleeve buttoned,then poured ale and broke bread for his breakfast. The bread caught in histhroat; he crumbled it into the ale and choked the mess down, grimacing. Hisshoulders ached. He swore under his breath and left by the garden gate, in avile enough mood that he wanted a walk to calm himself before he had to facecompany.Winding Lane bustled. Will stepped around a woman whose dark orange skirtsswayed over a farthingale, his left shoulder almost brushing the dark woodfrontage of shops and houses under the overhang. Pale scars from thatsummer s violent hailstorms marked the facade; they might take years to fade.He at last turned westward on Leadenhall Street, following it out Aldgate andthen south outside of the city wall so he would not have to walk within sightof the Tower gallows and its somber-feathered attendants. The Queen was notat Westminster, but rather at her favorite palace in Greenwich. Will soughtthe barge that would carry the Lord Chamberlain s Men and their carts ofprops and costumes down the Thames; it was docked above the city, asconvenient to the Theatre some two miles north as possible without haulingcarts through London.Burbage was aboard, eyes red-rimmed, hair damp. He eyed Will critically, acorner of his expressive mouth twitching upward, as Will came up the gangway.Will smiled at how Burbage found his frame between the pilings and theupturned poles at the front of the cart: a master player s unconsciousauthority of whatever stage he trod.
Slept? Burbage asked.We ll sleep in the grave, Will answered. Burbage coughed. So long as we don t die tonight.On the stage?Or after it. The company is aboard?But Kemp is late.Kemp is drunk, you meanKemp is late, William Kemp called from the dockside. Some of us hold our 
liquor better than others, sweet William. Now, Burbage drunk, I d believe it.And you not drinking; tis put about that you re unfriendly. Step aside andlet your betters in the boat.Not so much unfriendly as unhumored for it. Will moved three steps towardthe heavy-necked Suffolk who dozed at the center of the barge. These were thehorses he grew up with, placid liver mares with flaxen manes braided over thebrands at their crests. Kemp danced up the gangplank backward, his sack thrown carelessly over hisshoulder, looking at any moment as if he might fall. He never did, of course,and Will laughed. I will write a clown as hero one of these plays, Will. 
I will you to it, Will. Kemp grinned and folded himself onto a pile ofwell-stuffed woolbags. Wherries and skiffs flitted across the sunlit surfaceof the Thames behind him. Wake me in Greenwich. The barge slipped with the current between green muddy banks scattered withhalf-timbered or brick or stone houses that swam into view and subsided behind. The tide was with them, but Will s belly rumbled for dinner beforeGreenwich Palace s riverside face appeared, pink-red and white, leaden roofsgleaming obscurely. Towers and chimneys stood bravely against a blueSeptember sky and the rich green of the trees. The horror of the night beforecould have been but another pageant; devils and men dying in their own rothad no place in the same world as this concrete dignity.The players barge passed through the water gate just as the Queen s might,and Burbage clapped Will on the arm and grinned. Will pushed a hand throughhis hair and walked forward past the dozing mare, holding a rail, to watch asthe barge bobbed up to the stair that ran down the bank to the landing.
Lovely, Kemp said over Will s shoulder. How do we get the mare and thecart up that? With difficulty, it proved, but they had made the river passage with hours tospare before the performance, and Will helped haul trunks with a light heart.His hands didn t shake and his balance didn t fail, although he was aware ofBurbage s supervision. In case I should glimpse a Devil, doubtlesss.Will punched his thigh with a fist, stilling a shiver. We re here to play aplay.
Servants showed them within, through tapestried halls whose floors werecovered like any housewife s with a scatter of herbed rushes. The presencechamber was large, Queen Elizabeth s chair already in place and identifiableby its weight of gilt and crimson cushions. Burbage, son of a carpenter, gotdown on one knee among the rushes and poked his head under the stage as soonas their escort withdrew. Will, a lightWill looked up, and Kemp did too, but Kemp was the first one to go in searchof a candle and spark. Will simply mounted the stair and tested the boardswith his weight, so that Burbage pulled back cursing and brushing sawdust outof his blond-red hair. Seems sturdy, Will said, hiding a hesitation in hisright leg that wanted to become a limp.Burbage opened his mouth to curse and sneezed instead, his eyes screwing intoslits. Edward well bearded now and beyond playing girls hauled rolls ofpainted cloth, stifling a laugh.
As sturdy as thee, thou beggar. Burbage levered himself up against thestage. Twill serve. If thou dost not stomp like a carthorse. What s thehour? Two of the clock. Her Majesty will enter after six. Burbage brushed fragments of rush fromhis knee. So let us make haste. The sets were less even than what they used on the bare boards of theTheatre, but the rig to hold the painted backdrop took three cursing playersto erect. Will stayed back, knowing he hadn t the remaining strength to bemore than an annoyance. Instead he sorted through trunks and laid outcostumes and changes in the order they would be needed, taking advantage of atrestle that had been provided for the players convenience and concealed behind a red-and-green tapestry.By the time servants came with lamps to augment the failing light from thewindows, the whole improbable structure was cobbled together and stood up toEdward swinging on the crossbeam to test its strength. The players tidiedthemselves and dressed and hastily ate, beer and bread and a bit of coldmeat. We LL have an appetite for our suppers, Will thought, pinning gold lacewith his fingers while Will Sly basted it.They were just finishing when the Lord Chamberlain arrived, his starched ruffstanding high under a gray fringe of beard. Lord Hunsdon wore a black doubletfretted with golden stitchery, a sapphire glinting almost black on the little 

finger of his broad left hand. He drew up a few steps short of Burbage, whohopped quickly down from the stage and bowed. Will thrust the mended costumeat Sly and moved to flank Burbage, bowing also.Master Burbage, Master Shakespeare. Is all in order?My lord. Burbage glanced at Will, who nodded. All is well. Expect Her Majesty within the hour. The court will be admitted first: theplayers may stand at the back of the reception line. Where are yourliveries? Ready, my lord.Lord Hunsdon nodded. His eye caught Will s. Master Shakespeare.Yes, my lord?I must speak with you a moment. His gesture made it plain he meant for Willto follow him, so Will fell in behind. Hunsdon lowered his voice as theywalked to the center of the presence chamber, far from the tapestried walls.He paused beside a heap of jewel-toned cushions intended to provide comfortto the Queen s ladies-in-waiting as they sat upon the floor. Tell me what you saw last night, William.Will looked up, surprised. My lord, how did you hear?Hunsdon just smiled.I believe I saw the Prince of Darkness. My lord.Well, I cannot say Sir Francis lived in a good expectation of God s eternalgrace, but that is unsettling. And a bad omen on top of ill auguries, andDee s horoscope for the coming year Hunsdon rubbed his chin one-handed,hard enough that Will heard the wiry rasp of threads of beard against hisskin. This is the Queen s nine-times-seventh birth day, and Dr. Dee s chartsindicate that it will be an auspicious night to bring forces to bear againsther such as we have not yet encountered.Worse than the plague?No answer but a level look, and Will swallowed and glanced up at the beamedceiling, far overhead.Yes. What think you of Tom Walsingham? A level look from the Lord Chamberlain. Kit trusted him. But that wasn t what Hunsdon asked. Will closed his eyes,feeling in a pocket for the slick outline of his now-habitual shilling. Heturned it in his fingers, staring down in thought. Mine impression of himis very fair, my lord. Quick to act. Protective of those around him.Could he serve his Queen?As well as any man, I warrant, although I m not sure he has his cousin s . . . Hunsdon, inimitably plainspoken, smiled. Ruthlessness? Yes. That can be achieved. You may find yourself opposed tonight.My lord, how does one oppose a play?Hunsdon s elaborate doublet, covered by a gown, rose and fell over the narrowold-man s shoulders it padded. He knotted his fingers to control theirpalsied trembling; Will looked away. On a day when devils arise from Hell topull down our allies, anything is possible. He stepped away, turned back,the pointed tip of his beard quivering. Long live the Queen.Long live the Queen, Will replied.
16 August 1596 
I write not knowing if I will have the courage to send this, or, if I attemptits dispatch, if or when it may reach thee. Forgive the abomination of mymuch distorted secretary s hand: I scribble this missive in the belly of TomWalsingham s coach, where I have begged a ride for as thou knowst I am no 
assured horseman & I have need of very much haste: we were touring in Kentnear Tom s house when the news came, for the new Lord Chamberlain has closedLondon s playhouses I race ahead. I race ahead.I may burn it, the Letter I mean: I have no secret inks & no privacy in whichto use them, although I suppose I could thrust my quill into an onion &squeeze the milk thereof.But that will come Later. First I must acquaint thee with a year & two monthsthat have passed since Last we spoke. Thou hast been true to thy word inkeeping from me, & I have not wished to trouble thee with my Letters. Forgiveme for writing now: I am very much in need of the comfort of thy presence inthis hour;Sir Francis is dead. I do not know if thou wilt have heard, he passed thisSep. previous, attended by devils as befits the sorcery he oversaw. Godforgives not crimes in good cause.The devil is fair; if thou shouldst encounter him be not o erawed by hisbeauty, as I was. The morn of that night Lord Hunsdon s Men no, we werestill at that date the Lord Chamberlain s Men & myself did betake us toGreenwich, where we performed Richard III before the Queen & her court tomuch approval. It was her anniversary of her birth, & my master commended meto have extra care in the performance, that forces might oppose us.Kit, they did. It is Essex & his troupe, and I think them allied to Baines &yr Inquisitor.The Queen might have died that night or fallen ill: it was a terrible thing,a black miasma that seemed to overtake the performance, made us stumble Lines& the prompter Lose his place. I could feel it, as if I waded the currentwhen the Thames drops with the tide & thou canst walk the breadth standingupright, the water not even cresting thy knee, much to the dismay of thewatermen. But I contrived to trip on a board that was really not so Loose after all &drop a bladder of pig s blood over Essex & some book he was reading in hisLap, where he sat beside the stage. Her Majesty, thankfully, was unstained.With that action came an easing of the tide & brief interruption of the playalthough Her Majesty being much amused insisted we continue to completion.Much to Essex s dismay. The ensuing acts proceeded smoothly, & all couldrecall their Lines as necessary. That little action has earned me Oxford senmity: I believe he has decided with Sir Francis death of which he seemed unaccountably early advised, for I know neither Tom Walsingham, Burghley,Burbage, nor the Lord Chamberlain informed him that he may well end hispretense of alliance with us & show his true colors in courting Essex.Fortunately with Lord Hunsdon s protection I shall be safe.Our little magic worked, Essex s counterspell so I believe it beingthwarted, & our gracious Queen was in very good spirits after & consentedeven to dance with rude players & commend her Ladies Likewise, for as I amsure thou knowest she is a great dancer esp. of galliards.Forgive thee me if I ramble overmuch. I find the core of this tale wigglesfrom my quill Like a fish in weir; penned, but seeking escape.In November of Last year, a book was published which caused great furor, butit seemed the Queen s will & a playmender s small magics still held allthings concise. That book was called A Conference about the next Succession to the Crown of England, & dedicated to Essex, which I am sure thou wilt seeas the bold move on the part of his supporters it was. While I am not
o ermerry at the thought of James VI as our next King, there are those inmine acquaintance who think it no bad thing, & the Queen herself seems tohave made him the best of a bad Lot Oh, I shall have to burn this Letter, myfriend & surely he would be better than that popinjay Essex, whose solerecommendation is that Gloriana once thought him handsome.The fuss that followed was something to behold. My distant cousins RobertCatesby and Francis Tresham were jailed in London with many Catholics andsuspected Essex sympathizers; I did make shift to see them fed & clothed 
during their stay at the Queen s hostelry, although it was not so Long assome. 
Still our grip held steady, & I felt it safe to return to Annie & my childrenfor Lent when the playhouses were closed; I had seen to Robin and Franciscomfort, & all in London quiet. & I thank the Lord my God for the grace thatI did that thingOh, Kit. London is terrible. I cannot know what has changed, or how what wehave done was broken, but I feel the power gone out of our mighty Lines & Ifeel Oxford must have poets to oppose us. Spenser is returned to London: LordHunsdon has informed me that Edmund is one of ours & always has been (Iwonder at the secrets kept & the acts of one hand kept hidden from the other,but who can truly trust whom in a game where crowns are hostage?), but I fearhe is not well; although he struggles to complete his Faerie Queen I cannotfeel but that we will soon Lose his Light. There is famine in the streets: itis all I can do to provide for Annie, as so many starve that there are cartscome to collect the bodies as in a plague year. Babes swim not in theirmother s blood, but rather starve & sicken for there is no milk at thebreast 
no, I will write no more of it.On Easter Sunday, Burghley saw men taken into service through the timelyexpedient of impressing those able-bodied who attended Easter service forcommunion, as is of course required by Law. England s stronghold at Calais isfallen to the Spanish: I see thy Fray Xalbador s hand in this event. Drake sship has returned: Drake has not, & it has very much taken the heart out ofour Queen that her other Sir Francis is dead. Essex won some favor, theknave, taking a fleet to Cadiz by Leave of thine old patron the Lord Admiral,where they sacked that Spanish city.There is a new playmaker in London, a University man & the son of abricklayer or some would have it the posthumous son of a priest. I haveenclosed some of his pages: he fancies himself a comedian. His name isJonson, & I have some thought of bringing him into the fold if I can prove heis not Essex s man. Not easy to do, as I myself have served Southampton aman s patron does not show his heart. Chapman is too pompous to trust.Also there is a man Spencer, Gabriel is his Christian name, who is notrelated to Edmund the poet & who seems to wish to attach himself to LordHunsdon s Men. I have spoken to Richard of it. There are players & there areplayers, & I suspect this one is both.Thou wilt laugh to Learn that I am under interdict with Francis Langley!owner of the Swan by a Southwark justice of the peace one William Gardner whosays we have threatened him bodily. I have not done so, but thou mayst beassured I will see to it does he trouble us further. These are pettyLawsuits, & I thou seest my hand is fairer now, & I write this by candlelightin the Davenant s Inn where I rest my night before resuming my pell-mellflight on the morrow but I believe this Gardner is one of the whoresons inPoley s employ. Of course if Oxford no Longer believes the players undercontrol such petty harassments can only continue. & since the death of HenryCarey & his son George s accession to his place as Lord Hunsdon we are Lesssecure. The new Lord Chamberlain, Cobham, is of Puritan sympathies, & hewould the playhouses closed, torn down, & I think the players & playmendershung, drawn, & quartered. Or at Least whipped through the town. I wonder athow much of our famine is his doing
he must be Theirs. It is down to Burghley now, & the Queen still Loves him, but he is ill, Kit,& in his dotage he grows enamored of oppressing the Catholics rather thandefending his Gloriana. I am desperate. Soon it shall be only Tom, LordHunsdon, Robert Cecil, & myself. We are not the men our forerunners were. . . . No. I will not send thee this Letter. I will write it for mine ease of spirit& I will burn it, for I will not tempt thee with troubles to return to a 
world that thou hast sanely Left.We starve & we bleed & we die. & yet the only grief in my heart that is too deep for speaking, the thingthat I must write now & never send to thee. The reason I am again in thyTom s coach rattling over unsanded roads & Roman ditches, & yet there is nohaste that can carry me home in timeI cannot write these words. Kit, I am going home to Stratford because my son is dead. Dead seven days nowof this writing. Dead & in the ground before I knew of it.Kit, what have I done? 
Act II, scene xiii
She wore no gloves, for neither sun nor windWould burn or parch her hands, but to her mind,Or warm or cool them: for they took delightTo play upon those hands, they were so white.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Hero and Leander Kit and Amaranth strolled together through the airy corridors of the Mebd spalace, her coils dragging behind like the train of a queen. He walked with aflute in his hands, practicing the fingerings, keeping the lamia on his leftside where he could see her hair writhing. You should make a start on yourcloak, she said. I would help you sew the patches. He wondered how she spoke so clearly, when her forked tongue flickered with every breath.Magic and more magic. Cairbre says I must stitch them myself. Tis part ofthe protection.
Then I will teach you to sew. Lightly scaled fingers demonstrated aminnowlike dart. Kit frowned, not looking up. I am, he said with asperity, a cobbler s son. I can handle a needle very well indeed.
So I ve heard rumored. She laughed when he shook his head. Tell me of this protection. I haven t heard the tale.The Queen s Bard wants me for an apprentice, I think. A true one, and not ahanger-on. It seems to involve rather a lot of memorizing antique balladsThey were great memorizers of all things, the Druids.They would have gotten along well with my Latin tutor. I wonder if theDruids also believed in the recollective power of birchings. He slid the flute into its case on his hip opposite the rapier, and stretched his fingersone against the other. I am restless, Lady Amaranth.You have seemed less anguished of late, Sir Poet."I have. I am busy playing the student again, and making poems to please theMebd. Morgan Leaves me alone, more or Less. Is pleasant when I report to her,and gives me no hint to what use she puts mine information, or if it is ofuse at all. Will not answer my questions about Murchaud, and neither will theQueen. And there is no news from EnglandLeave it, Christofer. England is done with thee, and thee with she.How is it that writing for royals is not so rewarding as the bloody rush ofthe common stage?
I should be writing, he said, aware as he spoke that Amaranth s last fewcomments had fallen into silence unanswered, and he could not recall them.Ah, she said. Something in her cool, melodious voice caught him; he turnedto study her eyes. Such a lovely man, she said, stroking his cheek. Herfingers felt like cool leather, the scales catching his rough-shaven cheek.Pity about your scars.There s nothing to be done for it, he said. Many a man s survived worsethan half a blinding, and to more sorrow.What would you do for your sight returned? she asked, as if idly.Can you do such a thing?She shook her head. There might be those that could. It s in the songs: If I had known, Tam Lin, that for a Lady you would Leave, I would have taken youreyes and put in dew from a tree.
I do not know that song. Cairbre has not taught it me.We do not sing it here. She smiled, a curve of bloodless lips. Hisfootsteps padded beside the rustle of her belly sliding on stone. It has not been written yet. And what would you write, if you were writing?A play. Something of Greek descent, perhaps. Has ever a playmaker had such acast as here, that could play satyrs and centaurs convincing?A tragedy?
Tis what I m good for. Tragedy and black farce. He ran the fingertips ofhis right hand along the wall, feeling slight dimples between the coolstones. You know much of my history, Lady Amaranth. And I know little of 
yours.I have no history. As they turned the corner, the way opened wide.Cushioned benches lined the windows on the west wall; on the east were glassdoors made of a thousand diamond-shaped panes as small as Kit s palm. Beyondthem, sunlight lay on autumn gardens, begging comparisons to Elysium. Shall we wander? I know why you are overset, Sir Christofer.I never said I was unhappy. But he held the door for her, waiting until thelast slender inches of her massive tail whipped past, and stepped out ontothe balcony behind.Amaranth rose like a charmed cobra, the power of her lower body lifting herhuman torso fifteen feet into the air. She draped her coils over the thickstone banister and stretched down it, scorning the steps Kit descended. Heenjoyed watching her move; she didn t slither side to side, like a gardensnake. Rather, her scaled belly pulsed in ripples like waves rebounding in afountain, pushing her forward, leaving not so much as a depression in thegravel path to mark where she had gone.
Neither did you say you were not, she replied, stretching her arms to thesun. The snakes of her hair yawned wider than cats and twisted sleepily inthe warmth of a St.-Martin s-summer day, tiny fangs glittering white.Clever Amaranth. Snakes are a symbol of wisdom. She turned to him, winked one of herexpressionless eyes.If you re so wise, then what is it troubles my well-known, imperturbablecalm? Her laughter was a hiss. The Prince-consort, of course.I have not seen him . . . Kit paused. Time in Faerie ah. I cannot say howlong it s been. Years.Then you have not been informed. Curious. Without inflection, as she sankher face into the enormous, late-blooming starburst of a peony.Kit turned so fast that he tripped, his throat closing in fear. Somedetached, intelligencer s fragment of his mind observed his sudden panicwryly. So. It was not all enchantment, was it, Sir Christofer? Been informed of what? She cupped the blossom in her hand as she rose like a pillar to face him, soits crimson petals shredded and scattered through her fingers. He has returned. I No. No, I had not known. When, Lady Amaranth?Two days gone. He s been closeted with his mother, and then his wife. But Iwould have thoughtKit rubbed his eyepatch. So would I, he said, cold between his shoulders.I would have thought, as well.He hadn t a key, but locks as ancient and massive as the one on Murchaud schamber door were a formality, a politeness more than a measure of security.He almost could have flipped the pins from the tumblers with his finger; ashorn quill and the shank of a heavy brooch sufficed. Kit sprang the lock andglanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had noted his unorthodox entry. Itseemed unlikely. He slipped inside and let the latch click tight behind.Twilight filled the bedchamber. Such decadence, in Faerie; even servantsslept in their own beds. The first time in his life that Kit had had a bedand a room to himself was at Chislehurst, and that was a function of TomWalsingham s great house understaffed and underoccupied. Kit walked to thewindow and threw the panes open, leaning out over the broad carpeted ledge onhis elbows and breathing deep of the sweet air of Faerie. The sun had slidunder the horizon, and mackerel clouds banded a violet sky. Dying raysstained the misty tops silver as mirrors: their bellies gleamed pewter-dark.A tiny knot had snagged in the carpet. Kit worried it with a thumbnail, as ifhe could press it back into place among the red- and black- andmustard-colored wool. The evening smelled of rain, but only change-of-weatherclouds hung across the sky. Kit at last closed his eye and leaned his 
forehead on the back of his fingers, thinking about what Amaranth had said. Aremembered taste of blood came with the thought of a glittering blade, poisedjust above his eyeHe pressed the heel of his hand against his eyepatch. How Long can you playinvulnerable, Kit?
He drew one last breath and turned from the window. First, Murchaud scorrespondence. And then
And then whatever follows. 
Night was long fallen when the turn of a key in the lock woke Kit proppedupright against a bedpost with his naked blade across his knees from a doze.He opened his eye on darkness and rose to his feet, groping his way by theedge of the mattress. No servant had arrived to kindle a fire; perhaps thelocked door had been barrier enough.Murchaud entered alone, bearing a flickering lamp. Kit recognized the turn ofhis head and prayed himself invisible against the bedcurtains as Murchaudpulled the key and locked the door behind him. The flutter in his throat wasexcitement and apprehension, nothing more. The memory of Tom andAudrey companionship, conversation, family unoccluded by sorcery or betrayal,still burned brighter than Murchaud s presence. Kit swallowed against thefeeling that he betrayed them, somehow.
You LL never see them again. This is Faerie. There is no Love here. Use whatyou have.
Murchaud set the lamp on a stool and unbuttoned his doublet at the collar,turning toward a wardrobe cupboard against the interior wall. Kit movedacross the carpets soundlessly and as Murchaud hung his doublet on a peg setthe tip of his rapier between Murchaud s shoulder blades, just a half inch tothe left of his spine. Kit remembered the spring of ribs, the curve of muscleunder his hand, and pressed forward until the point of the blade slid throughsnow-white silk and a stain the size of a shilling started up.
If I blotted a pen, Kit said softly, why should I not write my displeasureon your skin?No reason, Murchaud answered, lifting both hands into sight. As welcomes go, this is more dramatic than most. Might I unhood the lantern, or do youplan to kill me in the dark?Only if you wish to die tonight. Kit stepped back, sword whispering intoits sheath in a snake-tongue flicker.What sort of a death are we discussing? Murchaud s long fingers darkenedthe lantern for a moment and then were silhouetted; Kit looked down to avoidsudden brightness.He ran his tongue along the back of his teeth before he answered. Thou couldst have told me. Told thee which? Murchaud came toward him, as if to pull him into anembrace. Kit turned aside, feeling unfaithful still, and not to Murchaud. He went tothe window and flung the sash open, leaning out into the night. A cold moongilded the lawns and gardens below, tossing thoughtfully on the ocean. He didnot turn back when he spoke. Hell, Murchaud?What dost thou mean? The voice close behind him, Murchaud s footsteps softas a breeze. A hand on his shoulder, fingers brushing his throat. Kit smiled,and didn t shiver. Thou hast been what five years in Hell? I know thou didst write to thymother and thy Queen. Yet not to meI thought Murchaud halted. My mother worked a particularly vile sorceryon thee. Kit snorted and shook the hand from his shoulder. Thou claimst to be a friend to me? Thy pardon, dear heart, if I mock the claim 
Tis true. Tis words. Kit moved away. He leaned against the wall between tapestriesand crossed his arms, watching Murchaud spread his hands in conciliation, all 
the night and the nighttime sea behind him. Just words. How didst thou know? Know that it was only words?Know I was in Hell. A man has ways, Kit answered. And he was assured that he had set Murchaud s 
memorized papers back in order so neatly that no one would know they had beenriffled. Thou didst travel to negotiate the tithe. The seven-year s teind.We will need Hell s protection as much as ever we have when Glorianapasses.What of thy Queen?What of her? Murchaud let his hands fall to his knees. Marriages are whatthey are, and politics are what they are. Surely and the note of pain in hisvoice was masterful: so little, so bright, and so manfully repressed that Kitcould almost believe it all that love thou didst show me was not merelyblack magic and bindings?Almost believe it. "All that love? Kit smiled, and reached down with hisleft hand to slip his scabbard from his belt and lean the sword against thewall. He came to Murchaud, and ran his fingers through the other man sjet-black curls, lips so near to lips that Kit could taste Murchaud s breath,with a trace of wine on it, and a scent like roses. All the love I have given thee in subjugation is but shadows of the love thou shalt have.We keep nothing, who serve. And he pressed Murchaud s head back against thewindow frame and kissed him as if Kit s mouth were a branding iron andMurchaud the property it marked.Kit did not ask himself to whom his service went. And it was he who rose from the warmth of the bed in the darkest hour of morning, retrieved his sword,and dressed. And turned the key in the lock. And left.There were mirrors in Faerie, after a fashion: glass, water in a bowl, winein the bell of a glass. Morgan had not precisely been truthful in sayingthere were none. What was true was that they did not reflect. The DarklingGlass drew all reflections to itself: into its embrace, and into its power.All reflections save those in a blade. A silver dagger polished to mirror brightness gleamed on the marble mantelover his fire, which lay as cold and unkindled as the one in Murchaud schamber. Kit stripped to his shirt and washed in cold water from the ewerbeside the bed. He rinsed his mouth and spat, combed his hair, and went tothrow the window wide so the autumn nighttime could fill his chamber.Which is when the light dancing in the polished blade of that dagger caughthis eye. A light he hadn t seen in
How Long?
He left the window open and walked toward the dagger, which glittered as ifreflecting the light of a single candleflame. Will, Kit whispered. How long has it been?He lifted his hand toward the thick bundle of papers that lay beside theblade, visible in shadowy outline. A letter, he knew, with his name writtenon it in Will s fast-scrawled secretary s hand. Set on the mantel before amirror, with a candle lit beside it. News of Robin, perhaps. Mary, Chapman,Sir Francis, Tom.England. The Queen.The papers were insubstantial, glimmering like shadows: a reflection cast onair by the light in the dagger s bright blade. If Kit s hand touched them,they would appear in his grip, firm and crumpled.He reached out and willfully tipped the dagger over. The light in the bladedied as if snuffed. The bundle of papers flickered like a blown candle andvanished. Kit bit down until he tasted blood, and took himself to bed. 
Act II, scene xiv
Gloucester: O, madam, my old heart is crack d, it s crack d!WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, King LearThe house was dark when Tom Walsingham s carriage rattled to a stop on thesummer-baked road. Will put his foot on the iron step, clinging to the doorfor support as lathered horses stamped. "There s an inn not far, JohnThe coachman tipped his cap. I know it, Master Shakespeare. I ll see to thehorses and I shall find you tomorrow. I am grateful. Will would have tipped thecoachman another man s servant, after all but John clucked to his horses,gentling them into the twilight as if he hadn t seen Will s outreached hand.It was a measure of the trust of the horses that the coachman never reached for the whip, and they went willing though their hides heaved like bellows.Their clatter receding, Will turned toward the thatched and half-timberedcottage as swaying exhausted as if he had run from Kent on his own two legs.The door was latched, painted wood tight against timbers set in stucco thatgleamed a soft pink-gray, stained with ochre earths.Anne had let the flowers by the doorstep die.Will tugged twice to free the latch, although he knew before the door openedthat his house was empty: no smoke rose from the chimney, and he could smellcold ash. Twilight streamed down from the loft. Annie had left the windowsunder the eaves unshuttered. He fumbled his habitual shilling as he steppedinside, the glass-smooth coin ringing on the door stone.He crouched to retrieve it, feeling among the rushes strewing the floor, andsuddenly found he had not the strength to stand. Cold silver between hisfingers, he crouched on the threshold in the open doorway and buried his facein his hands. It was Edmund who found him. Will had curled forward, his knees drawn upagainst his forehead and his back pressed to the timber. He heard thefootsteps up the walk and looked up, blinking in the twilight, scrubbing ahand across his face although his eyes stayed dry.
Will. You should have written you were coming.I got here faster than a letter would have, Will said, and covered hismouth as he coughed. From Kent. We only stopped to rest the horses. Where isAnnie? With Mother. Are you . . . ? Edmund s voice trailed off. Will pushed himself to one knee and stood. No, I m not well. How did youknow to find me? Edmund took Will s elbow as Will hid his shaking hand in his sleeve, theshilling folded tight inside his palm. Bill the landlord had it from yourdriver. He sent his boy. Come. Both men pretended it was exhaustion alonethat left Will leaning on his brother s strong young arm. Let s go home.He dreaded Anne. Feared anything she might be speaking, unspeaking. Eyesblack with weeping. Eyes cold with consideration. Was there anything I couldhave done? If I had been here, surely t were something I could have done.
She sat by the fire when he came into his parents house, her dress overdyeddrab in black that would fade as one might expect mourning to fade:eventually. One expected to lose babies. Or young children to the flush oftheir illnesses, the measles and the scarlet fevers and the great and smallpox. Will s parents had lost three girls before Will, one of them the firstJoan of two at nearly Hamnet s age. Children of schooling age, however, anonly and an eldest son . . .Will didn t notice if Edmund came through the door with him. His father mightalready be abed; Susanna and Judith were nowhere in sight. Will s mother lefther darning in a pile on the board and came around it, past Annie, who lookedup, but no more than that. Mary Shakespeare squeezed her own child sshoulders and leaned her forehead briefly on his neck. She kissed the cornerof his mouth. Oh, Will 
Her voice broke and he clutched her tight for a moment, then set her back thelength of his arms. Thank you.She nodded and ducked away, knuckling her eye, a hasty clatter on the stairstelling her passage.Will went to his wife. Annie s hands were white on her skirts. She crouched on a three-legged stoolas if warming herself before the fire, but Will knew her chill would takemore melting than that. He knelt down before her. The stool wobbled under herwhen he took her hands, the one leg shorter than the other that his fatherhadn t mended in fifteen years gone past. He opened his mouth; she closed itwith a look.
 You came, she said. She leaned forward, her unbound fair hair fallingaround him, tangled with her lack of care.Would you doubt it? Her look was answer enough. Annie, what happened?She lifted her shoulders and shrugged. The hasty dye at her collar had rubbedoff onto the linen of her smock. Her palms were calloused enough to rasp hisskin, no lady s white soft hands. Fffuh she started, and her throat musthave closed on the words. Will heard the front door latched; no one spoke. A stealthy creak that wasEdmund climbing the stairs to bed. Saving candles, Will wondered, or tooweary still with grief to face a long evening in company? He held his peaceand held Annie s hands, and she neither flinched nor closed her eyes.
Fell, she said again, more clearly, leaning back on her stool until onlyhis grip held her upright, their arms taut between them like a rigging. Fell from an oak. Dashed his brains upon a stone.Annie Hush, she said more clearly, and shook her head. If you had been hereEach word might have cost her blood. Will clutched her hands in terror. Shecontinued on a second breath.
 nothing would have changed.Annie, my love, he said as the tears silenced her, finally. Come upstairs. He pushed a tangle off her cheek. I ll brush your hair.Will, come home. She stood when he tugged her upright, leaning heavily onhis arm. I am home. . . . Or let us come to London Plague, he said. She stopped, one foot raised, and pivoted toward the hearth, drawing him. We should bank the fire. Everyone s abed.Will crouched on the sun-warm hearthstone. The poker had a curved point onthe back like the beak on a halberd; he raked coals together with the edgeand knocked ash over them, and the last bit of a log that had fallen out ofthe fire. He stayed there, hiding his right hand between his knees, fingerssteadied by the twisted iron handle. Warmth bathed his face, his fingers,warmed his breeches until he felt the weave of the cloth. Annie reached down and pulled his right hand into the light. Worse? No better, he answered, drawing the poker back so it scraped a white linethrough ash and across the stone.Annie flinched. You re thin. Eating s He pressed a hand to his throat. Hard. And there s famine in London. She swallowed and leaned closer. Stratford as well. I wish thou wouldst have a care for thyself.I am taking care of myself, Annie.Shall I warm you a posset before we go up?I subsist on the things, he said. I wish only thy company. Let us to bed,wife. He hung the poker on the rack, muting the clatter with his hand, andthrust himself to his feet. She swayed as he slid an arm around her waist anddrew her against his side. 
Upstairs, he petted her until she slept she rarely cried, his Annie. Evenwhen he thought she better might. And held her until a sliver of moonlightfell through the shutters, revealing the dark hollows bruised likethumbprints under her eyes, and she rolled away to bury her face against thewall. Will rose in his shirt and smallclothes and crossed the floor. Breathless warmth surrounded him as he threw the shutters back and leaned out over the garden, imagining the colors of the late-summer blooms whose nodding facesreflected the flood of moonlight thistle, daisies, and poppies. The Dutchbulbs would be over, but the too-ripe scent of late honeysuckle lay on theair like the scent of rot, and Will drew his head back inside.Someone Edmund? had carried his bags up the stairs. Must have retrieved themfrom John the carriageman at the inn. Will lifted the smaller case and dug init for paper and pen, finding first the sealed and bundled pages of hisuncollected letter to Kit. He pushed them aside to uncover his inkhorn,silencing the rustle of papers as best he could, and left the case standingopen when he went to the window.The moonlight was bright enough. He wouldn t need a candle.Will laid his sheets on the ledge and worked the plug out of the inkhornbefore sliding the nib inside. He let the excess ink ooze back into thepalm-sized container, propped it against the edge of the window, andhesitated, the quill almost brushing the creamy sheet. A Midsummer Night sDream, he thought, remembering the impossible blue of Lucifer s eye.I d dream myself home safe in bed, and Hamnet clattering down the Ladder toshake Annie and me awake 
The ink dried while he watched the moon-silvered garden. He dipped again andset it to the page in better haste, and wrote:

Ill met by Moone-light, proud Tytania . . .
Will drowsed, half waking, and mumbled as Anne smoothed his hair back to letthe sunlight rouse him. The morning was unkind to the weary lines around hereyes. The household is awake. The clatter of pots confirmed it. How was your sleep?
Broken. He sat upright to knuckle the crusts from his eyes. He swung hislegs over the edge of the bed. Show me the grave today, Annie?She hesitated, reaching for her kirtle. Of course. We What? Thy father had a mass performed.Christ, Annie, I don t care what religion my boy is dead in. It came out sharper than intended, but she didn t flinch.Her brows rose, as if she were about to deliver a tongue-lashing, and hermouth opened and shut. She covered her eyes. Will, I m sorry. It was hard,that thou wert gone.Would that I had not been. Would that none of this were necessary at all.
Would that I were still in Kent with Lord Hunsdon s Men. Would that I could have taken Stop it, Will. I m home now, Annie.For how long? She turned her back on him as she wriggled into herpetticoat-bodies.Annie waited long enough to be certain he wouldn t answer, and turned overher shoulder. That traveling priest is here more than you are, Will. If hewere Anglican, I d say I should have married him.Traveling priests and cottage intrigues he said, lacing his points withhands that almost didn t tremble. He heard her indrawn breath and rolled over it, refusing to look her in the eye. I would not fight with you, Annie.Her shoulders went back and she whirled on him, whispering so her words wouldnot carry. Well, and what if I would fight with you, Master WilliamShakespeare? Or shall I put that want on the shelf with all mine other wants,and will you talk to me of duty?She leaned forward, hands on her hips, her hair still unbraided and tangledover her shoulders. The little room seemed even closer as she stamped one 
bare foot among the rushes and then threw up her hands in exasperation at hissilence. He felt as if he might choke on all the things he could not say toher. Annie, my loveGo back to London, she said, and turned away to open the door. If yourplays are more to you than your children. Go.It s not he began. But the door swung softly shut behind her, and Will lethis mouth do the same. Damn, he said, and narrowly avoided punching thewall. A sunny afternoon followed Will from the graveside. Fleeing its relentlesscheer, he pushed open the door of Burbage s Tavern and nodded to the landlordin the cooler, airy common room. Good day, Bill.Will. He hesitated, a rag in his hand, and cleared his throat. Three orfour other men sat about the lower level of the tavern, the silence hangingbetween them redolent of an interrupted conversation. I m sorryWe re all sorry, Will said into the heavy quiet. He nodded up thesmooth-worn wooden stairs. Have you anyone at work in the gallery today?Not until suppertime. Sit down over here. A gesture at one of the longtrestles, flanked on both sides by sturdy benches. I ll see you get somedinner, for all the bread s gone cold by now.They fed me at home, Will lied, taking a seat in a sunbeam, which caughtflashes of silver from the coin that he fussed. He couldn t face choking downbread and cheese before these pitying men. Ale would go kindly. Served warm, and in a leather cup.Ale it will be. Is there news from London, Will?Will shrugged. There s starvation in the streets, want and privation,consumption and plague. The usual, only worse. Preserve us from cities.Footsteps from the more occupied corner of the tavern, and a voice unexpectedenough to knock the shilling from his fingertips to clatter on the trestleboard. Oh, Master Shakespeare. Surely if London were so unhealthy as allthat, none of us city rats would ever return, given a view of the country anda breath of fresh air. Will held the mouthful of ale until it could trickle past the tightness inhis throat. He laced his fingers under the table and let the silver spiral,jingling, to a stop. Master Poley, he said, and didn t look up. What brings you to Stratford? Expecting the easy charm, the intelligencer s lie.Surely Poley wouldn t try to start an argument here, surrounded by Will schildhood friends and his family s neighbors.
I came to look in on your family, Poley said, swinging a leg over the benchopposite Will. I m a father myself. It seemed the least I could do,considering the care you ve taken of Mary. And little Robin, too.Will did raise his eyes then, and dropped his voice. Am I intended to understand this as a threat? 
Understand it as you wish. Poley s trustworthy smile turned Will s stomach.The intelligencer held up a pair of silver tuppence to catch the landlord seye, and traded them a moment later for a cup of wine. Have you consideredhow much your family must miss you? How much the worst it would be ifanything should befall you in London, so far from home? Cities aredangerous
And your family? Do you consider the future of your son?Poley just smiled, and it struck Will like a kick in the gut. I am not Like this man. I am not Like this man. But how, then, do we differ?
Will unlaced his fingers, lifted his tankard with his left hand, and onlytouched the ale to his lips. He wiped his beard to cover the smile. My wifemay curse me to my face, Will said. And I can t deny she s a reason to. Butneither my Annie nor your Mary will cross the street not to catch mine eye.
My Mary? Poley turned his cup between the flats of his hands, scraping theboard. I haven t a virgin thought in my head. Many a cheerful one, but not 
of Mary. Take her
Tis not so. Pity for thee, Will. She s a wildcat.I ll not be thee d by thee, either. Master Poley.Ah. The shilling lay shining between them. Poley picked it up, balanced it
on edge. An old one. A toy. Too debased to spend.It rings fine.It s shaved to half its size, Will said, as Poley made it jingle against
the table again, the note of silver bell-clean.But the loyalty it buys is a whole loyalty, no?Your point, man?A scrape as Poley pushed the rough bench back, quaffed his wine and stood. Heextracted a short knife from his belt and pared his fingernails over thetable. Will edged his cup away. Mine only point is this. A flick nimble as a cutpurse s razor. Poley wore hammered rings on both thumbs, rings thatglittered the dark hard radiance of steel. You made an enemy in Essex.My clumsiness is renowned.A wonder you can stay on a stage at all but no matter. Think hard, MasterShakespeare.Think on what, Master Poley?Think whether your family might be better served by your return toStratford. Or by your choosing a master longer for the world than LordBurghley. Or Lord Hunsdon. Or Tom Walsingham.Tom s young.Aye, Poley said, and sheathed his dagger again. Nearly of an age with youand Kit Marley, as I recall.Will neither stood nor looked up as Poley moved toward the door; nor did hefinish his ale. He sat for some time in silence, and then he picked that poorshaved shilling up with his fingertips and rolled it twice across theirbacks as Tarleton had shown him, almost a decade before and made it vanishinto his sleeve. Well, he said under his breath, that was interesting. Bill The last louder, so the landlord looked up. Will? Is John the carriageman still in residence?Not in at the moment, but he did say he d be staying as long as you didSend me a tally, Will said. He stood. Let him know I ll be a week or so here, and then back to Kent. If he needs to attend his master I ll find othertransportation.I shall. For home already? It s barely noon.For home, Will said, and went. 
Act II, scene xv
Rome if thou take delight in impious war,First conquer all the earth, then turn thy forceAgainst thy self: as yet thou wants not foes.
M. ANNAEUS LUCANUS, Pharsalia, First Book (translated Christopher Marlowe)It begins in a confessional at nightfall.The subtle bitterness of myrrh, the richness of frankincense, the sweat ofthe penitent lingering in age-calmed wood. Kit bows his head, leans close tothe grille. Above the frankincense, the perfumed soap of the Spanish prieston the other side. With the cloying scent came cloying fear, knotting hisbelly like hunger, although he is successful. Accepted.Soon, he will be going home.
Christ, not this one.Not this 
Kit heard his own voice, Latin, the words of ritual. He fixes his eyes beforehim. Tis a good ritual. Comforting. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.Indeed, my child, you have. But fear not. Your penitence will be adequatebefore Heaven. English, and a voice he knows.Blurs, a jumble of unclarity, of time slowed beyond time. The door of theconfessional slides open, Kit blinking in the light as he moves to stand.Each heartbeat distinct as enormous hands close on his wrists, implacable asiron manacles, haul him up; he tries to kick
Kit: slender, not tall, barely bearded, without yet a grown man s shoulders.He might break nine stone after a hearty supper. Richard Baines simply liftshim off his feet like an ill-tempered child, like a spitting virago, veinsbulging in Baines muscle-ribboned forearms as the black robes fall back. Baines bounces him, once, and nausea fills Kit s throat as his shoulder ripsinside like twisted cloth snagging on thorns.
There s our cat, Fray Xalbador. Oh, don t like that much, do you, puss? Gotyour claws nowBaines shakes Kit; white flashes occlude Kit s vision. Hands fumble his beltas the Spaniard claims his dagger.
Where shall we have him, Fray?The priest s accented voice. The basement, I think. Tis pity my tools arenot here Baines answers, Mine are. Baines iron rings pinch Kit s flesh. The skin at his wrist breaks; bloodtrickles. He fights, but the other Kit, who watched him, already knowing that Kit curled tight and hugged himself in resignation. Wake up. Wake up. Wakeup.
I ll see him settled wildcat! another bounce, with a kind of a twist to it,and this time Kit screams as his shoulder pops with a sound like a drawncork well, that should make him easier to manage.Broken? Just slipped, I think. Fetch the others, Fray Xalbador.This Kit chokes on pain, keening the agony as Baines twists his dislocatedarm behind his back to make him march This Kit thinks Others. This is the core. These are the names Sir Francis needs. ALL I have to do is talk my wayout of this. ALL I have to do is Live through this.That Kit wept for his own innocence.He blinked, and this Kit closes his eyes in pain and opens his eyes in pain,in a room prepared with a half-dozen torches, two braziers, and a fireplacefor warmth. Dark, clean, the floor of rammed earth and the walls of mortared stone. Longtables against the walls, and Kit sees chalk, a small heap of candles, twine,and some things he can t identify as Baines shoves him to his knees andtwists his left arm behind him. He opens his mouth to argue, and Baines bendsthe arm higher. Not much, an inch. 
Kit wheezes with pain and locks his tongue behind his teeth. And then thereare men in the room, and he can t beg if he wants to, because spiked ironfills his mouth. He did know the names of four of the other five. Easton, Carter, Saunders,Silver. The last one is a slender-hipped, broad-shouldered blond, barely aman in years, whom Kit would have eyed with some appreciation under othercircumstances. Catesby, Fray Xalbador calls him, and Baines calls him Robin.
Easton, Carter, Saunders, Silver. Catesby. Richard Baines. Xalbador de Parma.Easton, Carter, Saunders, SilverI can remember that. 
In the dream, the rough iron of the bridle already wears at his cheeks andnose. In the dream, the ruin of his right eye weeps blood and matter down hisface. In the dream he kneels quietly at Baines feet, domesticated. And roughjades mouths with stubborn bits are torn . . . History had been different, but dreams were what they were. Puke with that thing in your mouth, Kit, and you LL die of it.
Kit strains to overhear the quiet discussion without attracting Bainesattention. The Spaniard seems to be instructing the others with careful handgestures. Kit presses at the gag in his mouth experimentally with his tongue,moans as fresh blood flows. Baines catches the iron straps around Kit s skullin a free hand and gives it a little shake, playfully rattling the scold sbridle, bruising Kit s cheeks and tearing at his mouth. Baines reachesthrough the bars and smoothes Kit s hair, leans down and whispers Holla, yepampered Jades of Asia, / What, can ye draw but twenty miles a day?Catesby, the splendid blond, turns from the rest and crosses to Baines,looking down at Kit with something like dismay. He s a bit unprepossessing.Baines laughs, petting. He s a poet. One of their sorcerer-playmakers, adarling of Walsingham s. Already known around Cambridge for his filthytranslations of Ovid, and London for a bloody travesty of a pagan play.Aren t you, puss? Another little shake, a caress, and more blood.This Kit nods, biding his time, a chip of tooth working into his gum.
Good puss. Pick of the litter.It s distasteful 
Twill break their black arts. Baines jerks his head at Fray Xalbador.Between me and he, you ve two priests who say it. Desperate times.Catesby smiles bitterly, as that Kit thought but you weren t there. It wasonly the five of them. Panic. I would remember if it had been six. I would remember. This is not how it happened. Catesby had been at Rheims, arriving just as Kittook his leave forever. Kit remembered the worn sword, the good clothes, theexpansive grin. But Catesby had not, could not have been in that closebasement room. He still speaks. It doesn t sit well. But, to the glory of God and the HolyMother Church. To the glory of God, Baines answers. Kit doesn t think Catesby feels thelie in the big man s words, but Kit does. Feels it in the way his handtightens on Kit s tattered arm.
Does Will know how much I Left from that I told him?
 Which will it be, the pentangle or the circle of Solomon?
Oh, God.No. Marley, I conjure thee, awake.
The braziers smoke as they make him ready, twisted rodstock heating in eachone. It s copies of the poker with which he d threatened Will, not the ironsde Parma actually used, and I fought. I fought and they had to drag me he goes docile and willing to Baines command. It would be easier if they would bend him over the table, like Edward, so hecan t see their faces. But they want him on his back. 
That Kit remembered how he had turned his head, cursing, pulling against theagony of Baines hands, and sunk his teeth in the base of the big man sthumb. This Kit tries, but the weight of his head presses the bands of thebridle forward, drags the barbs on the bit across the soft ridges on the roofof his mouth in a mockery of a lover s kiss.Still, that Kit remembered the taste of Baines blood with bitter triumph,and Baines mockery as he inserted the bit. Now, puss, if thou rt going tobite we LL have to muzzle thee sooner instead of Later. A fair idea, the Spaniard had answered, to stop his pagan poetry in hismouth. It s why I had it with my mage-tools. That and in case we Laid hands on a fayafter all. Disorientation, time out of joint. Baines, laughing at the woundon his hand as the Inquisitor fetched the bridle. Jesu Christi, she evenfights Like a wench.
They come one by one into the circle and de Parma seals them one by onewithin. They take turns, every expression etched on Kit like the scars on hisbreast, his belly, his thigh. Catesby dispassionate, Silver mocking, Eastonwith closed eyes and a bitten lip
except in the dream, it s Edward de Vere who rapes him, and sweet TomWalsingham, and over them falls the shadow of vast, bright wings. He feelsthe power they filter through him, the cool edgy blade of a magery sodifferent from his own visceral poetry that he has no name for it. Asdifferent as blood-tempered, cross-hilted steel is to a crown wrought of rawreddish gold and fistfuls of the gaudy jewels of Asia.And through it all, Richard Baines, hands as sure as irons pressing him tothe table, a soft voice in his ear encouraging him, making a mockery ofcomfort, calling him kitten and puss as it bids him be brave, good puss, itwill all be over soon. And he cannot even scream. 
God, enough.
God didn t seem to be listening. Again.
Consummatum est 
When they release him he rolls to the floor and lies there, drools blood asfast as it fills his mouth, mumbles through the agony, amazed his tongue willshape words at all. His knees curve to his belly. His chin curves to hischest. The bloody earth of the floor clings to his bloody flank.
You re for the Queen s destruction, he rasps.The priest nods, unafraid of him. Unsurprising: Kit couldn t stand if theroof were on fire. We are. 
Let me help.
You hate her so much? I m not inclined to trust you right now, poet. Butyou ve earned a quick garroting; I m not an unreasonable man.Was not He spits again, smearing at his bloody mouth with a bloodier hand.Was not Job tested in his faith? The priest watches, unimpressed. Kit rolls prone, whimpering as his left armtouches the floor. He shoves himself upright with his right, drags forward,more on his belly than his knees. He slumps down on the chill earth andkisses the man s boot with his broken mouth. I beg you. Let me help.It isn t enough, and he knows it. He closes his eyes. Both of them.If we have a chance to complete the wreaking in London, Baines says, overthe sound of the well-pump he works to wash his hands, it would help to usethe same vessel. Even more if he were willing, of course. Although mayhap ourlittle catamite liked it, considering his tastes. Did you like it, puss? He crouches beside Kit almost congenially, and tousles the poet s blood-mattedhair with clean, wet fingers. A look passes between Baines and de Parma thatKit does not understand, does not wish to understand.De Parma turns away. Then let him live. 
This Kit covers his face with the hand he can move, curling like an inchwormat the touch, and that Kit finally managed to wake, whimpering, clinging to apillow wet with sweat and red with the blood from his bitten tongue.God in Hell, he said under his breath, checking guiltily through thedarkness to be sure Murchaud still slept. Kit rolled against thePrince-consort and buried his face in Murchaud s hair until his gorge settledand his heartbeat slowed. A nightmare. Nothing but Queen Mab running her chariot over your neck. He d Lived. And three weeks later he had stood in front of Sir Francis Walsingham,his arm still useless in a sling, and reported that the Queen s enemies wereresorting to sorcery and had fully infiltrated Essex s service. And that he,Kit, had engineered a connection to one of them and the guise of a doubleagent.He d worked shoulder to shoulder with Baines, ostensibly as a turncoat on theWalsinghams like Baines himself until 1592, in Flushing, where he had somehowslipped and given away the game and Baines had nearly gotten him hanged forcounterfeiting.The only thing that had kept him sane those five years was the knowledge thatone day he would look Richard Baines in the eye as a hangman slipped a noosearound his neck. And the determination that nothing nothing that had happenedat Rheims would change Kit Marley.And what a fabulous Lie that was, sweet Christofer. Because he had walked away from his chance at Baines in London, so terrified of the man he couldn thave looked him in the eye if it meant his salvation.Murchaud smelled of clean sweat and violets. Kit lay against him in thedarkness and tried without success to chase the reek of frankincense from his lungs. 
Act II, scene xvi
O absence! what a torment would st thou prove . . .
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet 39
October, 1597I should have burned this Letter. I should write no more. I know now I m writing not to thee, but to myself. Still I imagine I mightsee thee again. But I am a poet, & poets are Liars, as Ben Jonson you wouldhave hated Ben, sweet Kit reminded me over supper at the Mermaid yesterday.Still, I ve managed to hold my peace a year. Perhaps I am Learningindependence after all. That was what sent thee back to Faerie so hastily,wasn t it, my friend? The worry that Tom & I wouldn t stand aloneThou wert probably right.There is the usual news, fair & foul. Mary & Robin are well Robin tall as a weed, & Mary we ve found work as a seamstress with the Lord Chamberlain sMen. We re the Lord Chamberlain s Men again, George Carey Lord Hunsdon hastaken his father s old place in the wake of Cobham s death God rest hiseternal soul, merrily, & in a place where entertainments are shown daily,much may it chafe him.Oh, Kit, the Litany of the dead grows Long.The gossip might as well grow on trees. Gabriel Spencer, who I mentioned whenI wrote you Last, killed a man in a duel before Christmas. And he and BenJonson were arrested in July Ben says Spencer s a secret Catholic, not thatthat means overmuch, but it doesn t ease my suspicions that he s Promethean.James Burbage died in February; Richard & his brother Cuthbert head thecompany now. We had to tour Last summer, & next summer again Likely. There sLease trouble with the Theatre: we shall have to relocate & though they havepurchased the indoor theatre at Blackfriars (the one that was used byChapman s boy company, from whence so many of our apprentices on the commonstage did come) a Lawsuit by the neighbors there keeps us from using it.I suspect Baines. Or Oxford, more likely. Not that there s a blade s widthbetween them. Annie bought me only the second-biggest house in Stratford, after all: she smoved the whole family therein. My father was awarded arms in London lastfall. Life seems to go on most merrily, & yet I find nothing in it to put myteeth in. Perhaps because I have Lost one or two.Ned Alleyn has left playing, for good he says, & truly he has everything aman could want from it. I think he finds the modern masques & satires aswearying as I do, & misses thy pen & thy wit, sweet Christofer. Truly, he &thee were a match. Half the new satires have no play behind them but a seriesof jibes.Or perhaps I am old & out of fashion. Although my plays do very well. Iinclude my Midsummer Night s Dream a foul copy, forgive me on the thought itmight amuse thy mistress a little. Thou shalt judge if it is fit for hereyes.Thou wilt however be amused to know Ned s still wearing that cross and sincemine encounter with the Devil claiming he appeared at Faustus (I had heardthe story but never credited it) September Last, I m inclined to wear one ofmine own. The other news is not so cheerful. Thou wilt however Laugh I can see theeLaughing to know that Her Majesty clouted Essex alongside the head recentlywhen Essex turned his back on her. She created your old patron, the LordAdmiral, Earl of Nottingham after Cadiz, & Essex was outraged that he, theQueen s favorite, should be passed over Burghley says he nearly drew hissword on the Queen, & the Lord Admiral now Nottingham pinned him to the floorbefore he could clear the scabbard, thus saving Essex s Life.Pity.My Richard II has been pirated, & I recognize the draft of the manuscript Icirculated through mine old patron Southampton & his friends. I shall not 

make that mistake again.Sleeping, waking, heart beating or cold in earth, tis all the same. I ve no taste for anything of Late but putting words on paper. Kemp claims I musthave taken a pox, I have so little will for sport. Mary s a relief. The playsgo well. I write better when I m unhappy. There s comfort in that of a sort.I fear I am growing old. Four & a half years ago I was young, Kit. The agemost men are when they marry. My career ahead of me, London bright, Glorianastrong. Thou wert alive, & we were rivals and chambermates. The poetry wewere going to write, each of us outdoing the other! 
Now I am famous & a gentleman with a fine house.Edmund my brother is with us in London now: he said he could not bear to stay 

in Stratford He s a hired man with another company not with theChamberlain s, he said he wished to make his own way & I cannot grudge it &
Well. I LL Leave this on the mantel tonight, again, and again you will nottake it Nay, enough. More Later, perhaps. As the spirit moves me.
The place on the Mermaid s weathered door where a hand might rest to make itopen was refined smooth and fair, the wood so oiled with the grease of men spalms that it retained a fine polish although its sea-blue paint was worninto the grain. Will found the spot and pushed, holding it wide to let littleMary slip through before him.A few ragged voices greeted them, rising from an enclave of players in thecorner by the fire, half under the gallery. The October afternoon was gonechilly as the sun slipped behind a layer of overcast unlikely to bringdesperately needed rain.Mary headed for the publican as Burbage waved Will to a cluster of benchesmaintained by the other Wills Sly and Kemp along with the amiable,red-goateed playmender John Fletcher, whose unbuttoned red doublet made himlook like a fashion-conscious demon, and Kit s old collaborator Thomas Nashewith his ridiculous curls. Will limped close enough to speak in a normaltone. Wills. Jack, Tom, Richard. They embraced and kissed him before hesat, which eased Will s sore heart. He hadn t the spleen to be angry whenthey treated him like Italian glass; it was, he knew, a measure of theirlove. A spare crowd tonight. Tom, you re neither in the country nor injail.It had been a play called The Isle of Dogs that had seen Nashe flee London before he could be locked away on suspicion of sedition; Will glanced aroundthe Mermaid for its second author, Ben Jonson. These satirists sailed veryclose to the wind. Admirable but the wind changed frequently.
Not jailed, and drinking to it.Chapman claims he s close to ending his revisions on Master Marley s Hero,and he ll be along when tis finished. Fletcher s eyes sparkled above hisfreckled cheeks, a comment on the likeliness of that.Nashe snorted into his wine. Kit s four years dead. I think he would havehad the poem finished in a month at mostChapman has to be sure he s eradicated all the bawdy bits. It takes a whileto find them all, it being Kit s work Will replied, dropping into a chairas laughter rose around him. He waited for the pause, and filled it to anapproving roar. and for George, longer than most. Where s the bricklayer,Tom? Nashe tapped a pipe out on the edge of the table and twisted a knife in itsclay bowl. Ben? Still jailedNo one stood his bail? Burbage, stretching until his shoulders cracked. Henslowe loaned him four pound to eat on.Four pound? At what rate? Will raised an eyebrow.Fletcher laughed. Better than borrowing from Poley. 
Aye, at least with Henslowe you ll see the money and not a pile of lutestrings you re supposed to sell to recoup.Mary came to the table balancing two mugs of thick ale, and Nashe letwhatever else he might have been about to say about Robert Poley smoneylending practices die in his throat. Mary perched on Burbage s knee andkept one mug for herself, sliding the other neatly to Will. He cupped it, toocheerfully tired to think of fighting to swallow. The mug was cool from thecellar. I ll stand Ben s bail. How bad can it be? 
Fifteen pound. Nashe drained his wine. Significant. I ll go tomorrow. I want him to owe me a favorYou ll have him teach you satire? Will Sly was sly enough, on the rareoccasions when he troubled himself to add to the conversation. Will snorted. Something like that. Richard, especially for you I come withfair news to tide us through a cold winter.Burbage s head came up. The playhouses.Yes, my merry menHah! That from Burbage, who slammed his fist on the trestle and kissed Maryhard enough to spill her ale.Every man in the room looked or jumped, but Will followed the motion of onefellow in the corner, who started to his feet as if expecting a brawl,feeling for his swordhilt; Will s cousin, the Earl of Essex s friend, thegolden-haired recusant Robert Catesby. Will blinked: he knew both of the menat Catesby s table. One was Gabriel Spencer, who had also been jailed forIsle of Dogs as one of the principal players, and whom Will would haveexpected to be sitting with the players: he raised his mug to Will as Willturned. The second, in a plain brown jerkin, was the Catholic recusantFrancis Tresham. Interesting. If Sir Francis Walsingham was aliveThere was not a chance that Will would inform Burghley and Robert Cecil ofthe same. There was comfortably Protestant and conforming in the name of theQueen, and then there were the Cecils and their mad-dog desire to see everyCatholic whipped from England, and every priest hung.Burbage clapped Will on the shoulder, drawing his attention to the table.Oh, yes, bail Ben for that. I ll stand half the fee. I ll buy that BanksidepropertyBuy?No more landlords. Burbage spat into the rushes.Kemp muttered assent. What about the timbers? Burbage shrugged. Tis small carpentry, but great labor. We ll pull theTheatre down. And cart it over the Bridge?Float. Or wait for the ice to set and skid it over. Won t your landlord have something to say on that? Nashe asked, hunchedover peppery warmed wine. He was lucky to be free of the Marshalsea. Kit andTom Watson had spent time in Newgate themselves, an experience Will enviednot. We ll do it at Christmas, Burbage said. Betimes, I know an innyard or twowould be glad of usThe Mermaid s blue door rattled a little on its hinges when it opened. Willturned to see who had come in, and understand why Burbage s voice had stoppedso abruptly that it still seemed to hang in the air around them.Sir Thomas Walsingham stood for a moment framed against the door, resplendentin a ruff starched pale yellow to compliment the canary slashes on hisdoublet of sanguine figured satin. A touch of gold at the buttons, the hiltof his sword, the clasp that held his cloak askew, and the pin in his hat.He d come from court, quite obviously, and quite obviously in a hurry; hishorse s sweat stained the knees of his breeches and the insides of his hose,and his clothes were quite unsuited to riding.Master Shakespeare, he said from the door. If you would be so kind 
Will stood, pushing his still-brimming tankard at Mary, and followedWalsingham out into the hubbub of the autumn afternoon. You look like you vehad a hard ride, Sir Thomas.
A fast one, in any case. And have I stopped being Tom in private throughsome offense, or
A public thoroughfare is hardly private.Tom dismissed it with a tip of his well-gloved hand. Robert Cecil sent me. After a fashion. 
On what case? 
Have you any progress on the Inquisitor?
God s blood, man Will looked up as Tom s eyebrows rose. I forget myself,Sir Thomas. 
I like that in a friend. You were about to say you had been on tour.
Aye.
But the playhouses are opening.
Aye. Oh!
Yes. And Cecil wants his results half yesterday. Oh, that Walsingham smile.As if Tom looked right through you, and weighed what he saw, and was amused.A softer voice, almost too quiet to be heard over the street: Any word ofKit? 
No. You? 
No. Tom swallowed. He always was marvelously good at making a threatstick. Will, bring Poley s head at least to Cecil if you can, preferablyBaines or de Parma. His father s health is failing, I think, andWill sighed, following Tom s smooth stride over the cobbles almost without alimp. And tis down to me and you, and Dick. I d thought of recruiting BenJonson. If anything happens to me, you ll need a poet. Things are not good,Sir Thomas. 
Nay, not good at all. No one can remember such a drought. Jonson s rumored arecusant, isn t he?
And he seems to spend most of his time in jail. Will shrugged. But he has talent. 
Cecil won t hear of it. 
Then Cecil won t hear of it. Tom coughed, and smiled. He wants you at Westminster tonight. Privily.
You re a most discreet messenger. In your court suit.
A more usual one follows. I thought you deserved warning.
By Sir Thomas Walsingham.
William Shakespeare, Gentleman. How does it feel?
Like ashes rubbed between my hands, Will said bitterly. I ve never written better in my life.The way forked. The two men glanced at one another, and turned back in thedirection they had come, annoying a goodwife with a basket full of greens.
Is there more? Will asked. Tom shook his head, and they continued in silence to the Mermaid s door. I d offer you my horse, but it would be a little obvious.
I don t ride, Will answered. I ll just slip inside and await themessenger.
And do try to look surprised Tom stopped and laughed at the expression onWill s face. Very well, Master Player, I shan t teach you tricks that wereold when you were a new dog too. Have a care tonight. He s a very devil,Robert Cecil. 
I think, Will said, it goes with the name. 
Act II, scene xvii
Like untun d golden strings all women are,Which Long time Lie untouched, will harshly jar.Vessels of Brass oft handled, brightly shine
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Hero and Leander Kit leaned back on Murchaud s shoulder, his right side to the wall and hisrapier twisted aside so he could rest his heels on the padded bench whilethey watched the dancers. The prince s warmth soaked the knot between Kit sshoulders, and the warmed wine at least began to ease the pain in his neck.And contributed to the headache he still carried, since waking from anotherevil dream in the black hours of the morning.
A pavane, he said amusedly. It will be country dances next
Country dances. You like them for kissing the ladies in passing, Murchaud said, elbowing Kit in the ribs.
Better in passing than in matrimony, Kit answered, turning his head towatch Morgan whirl across the floor, her wild hair spinning around her, herivory silk skirts swaying heavily as she moved. We re failing utterly tolook disaffected with one another, love.
We ll quarrel after the dancing. Murchaud draped his right arm over Kit sshoulder and around his chest. I m expected in my lady s chamber s tonight,and perhaps tomorrow as well. Besides, a stormy love affair is so much moreintriguing to a gossip or conspirator than a quiet one, or a simple partingof the ways. You might after all be disaffected enough to turn, and yet stillclose enough to exert influence.Kit shivered, nodded. I LL just sit up tonight, he thought. I ve that masqueon Orpheus to turn to a proper play, anyway. Renewed interest? Relief, thatthe tone in his voice was amused pique and not the terror of waking alonethat knotted his gut. Six days nightmares, he thought. Perhaps on theseventh day my demons will Let me rest.
Renewed interest in getting an heir, Murchaud said.
 I d presumed thee childless by inclination, Kit admitted, and Murchaudlaughed.
The Fae are not known for our overwhelming fertility, save when we breedwith mortals. And even then Murchaud shifted against Kit s shoulder. The Mebd s one daughter, Findabair, is dead these thousand years. I barely knewher: she married a mortal king a short time before I was born, and diedbarren. There has not been another. 
And the Mebd is suddenly keen to get an heir?
War is brewing, Murchaud answered. I m her heir, as it stands: there is no spare.
Ah, Kit said, as the music shifted. There s my country dancing. Come picka fight when you re ready to go to bed.
Kiss enough pretty women to make it look convincing.Oh. Never fear on that account, my dear.The wine was cool, and sharp enough to cut the exhaustion cloying Kit sthroat. He d probably had too much of it, and the hall was nearly empty,false silver creeping across the blackness of the high windows. But hecouldn t face the trek from his lonely seat at the end of the high tableupstairs to his bed and his nightmares yet.Kit leaned on the back of his fingers and contemplated lifting the tall glassgoblet again. It seemed like a lot of effort for very little reward, and heraised his gaze to the last few dancers on the floor below. He saw Geoffreyand Cairbre, whom Morgan was relieving at the music stand. He knew the namesof the others by now, but did not know most of them beyond a casualconversation. I should remedy that tonight.It took a moment to grope out the edge of the table and grasp it. Oiled silkand linen slipped under his hands; he took a firmer grip and hoisted himselfto his feet, the floor lurching. He leaned on the table edge heavily, reachedfor his cup, and overset it. He righted the glass in the midst of spilled 
wine and looked up again, glancing around the room for someone to talk to.Geoffrey, he thought. Perhaps the stag will be a little more forthcomingtonight. Given the obvious disrepair of my Love affair with the Prince. But the stag was nowhere to be seen, and, in fact, Kit found himself quite alone.He didn t recall hearing the music stop, but the hall echoed in itsemptiness, and he realized that everything was tidied except for his ownplace at the table and that single glass of wine. He imagined the castle scorps of brownies and elves sweeping the place clean in a matter of instants,and rubbed his face with his hand. Well, passing out drunk at the high tablewill certainly convince them your heart is in disarray. Hast no dignity atall? At Least it wasn t face-down in a puddle of vomit.To bed, he decided, and set about working out how best to clamber down thelow steps from the dais without breaking a limb. There was no railing, andmisperceived heights were enough of a problem sober and fresh.
Sir Christofer Kit closed his eye. Robin. Drunk enough that gratitude soaked his voiceeffusively. Your assistance, good Puck?Ah. A jingle as the Puck took his arm. No one bothered to inform you thatthe wine was fortified, I take it?Kit giggled. Is that what it was? I thought I was merely a shame a shameful drunk. You have your reasons. The little creature steadied him; Kit clung to hishand. I ll see you to bed.The spiral stair wasn t as bad as Kit had anticipated, for all his headreeled. Robin s long fingers were cool and soothing, and there was a railingto cleave to. Left on his own, he thought, he probably would have had tocrawl.
 Oh, he said, surprised to recognize his own door. Here we are. Yes, Kit. Come inside Robin turned the knob and chivvied him into the bedroom, kindling a light from the lamp at the top of the stairs. Can youget your boots off on your own?Not. Kit swallowed. His throat burned, which was bad: it meant he wassobering. Not going to bed.Suit yourself, Robin said. How s the stomach? I am unlikely to disgrace myself. Further.Good. You knew he was married, Kit.Not that, Kit said, then cursed himself for honesty. Nightmares, he explained, as Robin led him to a chair. Do you dream, Robin?These nightmares, the Puck said, jumping up on the arm and turning to facehim. Are they new?Kit shook his head. He reached out and gently caught Puck s wrist, turning itto see the way the spidery fingers joined each other in a palm no bigger thana shilling coin. Amazing, he said. New? No. But worse of late. And dif different. The Puck s bells rustled. He twined his other long hand around Kit s wrist: agesture of comfort. They ll get worse before they get better. Are youstitching your cloak yet?Kit shook his head, regretted it when the room kept wobbling after. Should I be? Tomorrow. The sooner the better. You ll have to claim this, or it will claim you.What is it? Great brown goat eyes examined Kit, their horizontal pupils swelling ininterest. A bardic gift, Robin said plainly. The gift of prophecy. If agift you can call itCassandra, Kit said thickly. Wonderful. Serve forth Apollo: I ll fuck him.Cairbre didn t warn me . . . 
Cairbre doesn t have it. Robin laid his hand in his lap, and curledcross-legged on the arm of the chair. Tis rare, even among bards. Taliesinhad it, if you know that name.
Nay
Merlin? The Puck smiled at Kit s expression.
The slip of a clerk s pen nearly metamorphosed this Marley into a Merlin inyounger years, Kit said, remembering amusement at the name misrendered onhis scholarship papers. And his sisters good-natured cruelty over themistake. Merlin s going to university, Father
A turn of prophecy, then. Make your cloak, Sir Kit. You re close on becominga bard: you ll need it.
So hang thee me in thy rags of honor, Kit said after a considering pause.
In the tatters of Autumn s fair fastness clothe me in patches of moss-shag dboulders that all who attest shall know thy banner, thy brand, thy choice,thy mark in this vastness for all the world, thy witness: my shoulders bah.It needs internal rhyme. And banner/honor, that s not so good.
Pretty, Robin commented. What is it? 
Slightly less than the back half of a very bad sonnet. The Italian form. Thescansion limps outrageously and it doesn t close properly; I was never verygood at them. But that Oxford could do better. I am most foully drunk, MasterGoodfellow. Puck laughed, and turned on the arm of the chair so he could lean back onKit s shoulder, as Kit had leaned on Murchaud. Kit shifted to make thecreature more comfortable; his rapier hilt jabbed floating ribs, and helifted his chin to clear the Puck s half-floppy ear from his field of view.They settled into companionable silence while the room grew brighter.
There are many sorts of bindings, Puck said. I myself am knotted in theMebd s hair, and have no choice but to serve her loyally inasmuch as shecommands me. I feel your grief, Kit.
There are bindings and bindings, Kit said, as the sun peeked the horizonand Kit s wine-soaked dizziness receded like the tide before morning.
Have you heard from your playmaker in England?
No Kit sighed. I thought it best to make a clean break, after all.
His son has died. Kit blinked. He arched his neck and angled his head to get a look at thePuck, who snuggled closer on Kit s blind side. The words hung in the air,unaltered. I beg your pardon?
His son. A year past now, of a fall from an oakKit heard a Queen s voice, a smiling rhyme. Ellum do grieve; Oak he do hate;Willow do walk if yew travels Late
Hamnet, Kit said. Dead. 
Aye.
Oh, God. Numbly, remembering an undelivered letter a year past, though I amno judge of time in Faerie. And then hugged the Fae close as Robin flinched,covering his ears with his spidery hands. I beg your pardon, Master RobinGoodfellow. 
Tis nothing. Robin hopped up, his moist eyes dark. I must to mine own tasks, Sir Kit. I hope you find your surcease.Perhaps, Kit said, a little soberer and sadder. He grasped the arms of hischair and pulled himself to his feet to walk Robin to the door. Theyexchanged a handclasp, and Kit closed and latched the door behind the Fae.He turned and leaned his back against it, eyeing the smooth-tuggedcounterpane of his broad, empty bed. A few rays of sunlight lay across it,but the bedcurtains would see to those 
His son. Oh, Will.
Decisively, he turned again, steady enough if he did not bend or stand, andpulled his door open. Mouse-soft footsteps carried him up the stairs andthrough the gallery, to a door he had not tapped in quite some little while. 
His knock wavered more than he liked; he was about to turn and walk away,almost with a sense of relief, when it swung open and Morgan stood framedagainst the morning, blinking, in a white nightshirt and a nightgown ofapricot silk, barefoot, no nightcap and her hair a wilderness of brambles onher shoulders.
 Madam Kit said, shifting from one foot to the other.She stood aside, and let him enter. 
Act II, scene xviii
Now Let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,Take thou what course thou wilt! WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Julius Caesar The chamber was large enough for a royal audience, bare but for fresh rushmatting on the floor and the figured richness of the red gilt leather walls.Will wouldn t have wanted to sit, and it satisfied him to have the excuse topace, tumbling his shilling through ink-stained fingers. Will I, nil I, he muttered, staring up at the dark beams vaulting the underside of the roof,and grinned. That wasn t half bad
Master Shakespeare.Will stopped and turned, hopping a little when his right foot dragged on therush mat and tripped him. He blushed, and stammered a greeting. Sir Robert. Cecil smiled, sharp brown goatee bristling over his carefully pressed ruffand increasing his startling resemblance to his father. His robes fell inrich, simple black folds to his knees, his shoes and stockings as blackbehind them. His beautiful hands were ringless, the thumb of the left onehooked as if by habit behind the broad maroon ribbon from which depended hisonly jewelry, a finely detailed golden lion s head, mouth yawning to show itspointed teeth. He came to the center of the room, limping slightly, and Willwent to meet him, slipping the shilling into his sleeve and stilling thetrembling in his hand as best he could, but limping as well.Cecil noticed. A frown at suspected mockery became a raised eyebrow ofinterest. Art injured, Master Poet?
No, sir. A weakness in the leg is all.It doesn t impede thee on the stage?The stage is smooth, Will said. He didn t ask after Cecil s limp: rumor hadthe man born with a twisted spine, and Will could see that one shoulder rodehigher than the other. You wished to instruct me, Sir Robert.Instruct? It had been mine intent rather to seek answers of thee. Cecil s voice lowered as the two men came together, almost shoulder to shoulder, farfrom any wall. Will understood Cecil s choice of the room, now. How proceedsthine investigation of Master Richard Baines?Surely you have men better equipped for such than I?Cecil s mouth twisted, and he lifted his chin. I have few men who have worked neither with nor for Baines nor Poley.Ah, Will said. I see. Why has Her Majesty not had him hanged, Sir Robert?Cecil stopped his pacing and looked Will square in the eye. The letter of the law must be upheld, he said, and Her Majesty persists in seeing ourstruggles with these vipers in her own bosom, as it were, as the sort ofsquabbles among snotty boys upon which she has built her power, her reign,and her control. She has ever maintained and strengthened her power throughthe skillful manipulation of factions, and perhaps . . . Cecil s voice trailed off, as if he examined all the ways he could say what he needed tosay, and came up wanting. She is Gloriana, he said at last. She has not failed us yet.Ah, Will said, when the silence began to drag. I can prove nothing onPoley, Sir Robert. Less on Baines. They are as scrupulous as anyone couldwish. Or unwish, in this case.Cecil straightened, and Will heard the click of his bones as he pulled hisshoulders back. Then invent something, he said. As soon as thou mayst, butnot too hasty; it must hold up on inspection. I will be waiting.Ben Jonson s shoulders almost filled the doorway he ducked through. Young,barely bearded, scarecrow-thin despite his height and frame, he looked morelike the soldier and bricklayer he had been than the playmaker he d become,with a face like a mutton-chop. He straightened, tugging the grayed collar ofhis shirt and wrinkling his broad, broken nose at the steady drizzle. Heshifted a bundle on his shoulder. Will, he said. I can imagine kindersights, but not many. 
Will fell in beside him, boots slipping on filthy cobbles in the rain, notwilling to answer his unspoken questions just yet. If thou couldst onlycircumspect thy pen he said, and then shook his head. Then thou wouldst bear some other name than Ben. And grinned, as Ben clouted him on theshoulder.
 And let the first thing I hear as a free man be rhyming doggerel? O terribleShakespeare. He scratched with broad hands at hair gone shaggy, and cursed.
I m crawling. May I prevail
Of course, Master Jonson, Will said. Is there a barber thou preferest?
At the sign of the black boar s as good as any. You could do with abarbering yourself. Unless you mean to make up for the hairs falling on topby growing them at the bottom.
It s the damned satires, Will answered. And the humors comedies. I go, Iclutch my hairs in horror, and they unravel from the top and hang a fringeabout my neck. I ll have to find some goodwife to knit them up for me again,like a stocking cap. The rainswept street was empty; Will contemplatedducking into a church or cookshop, but it didn t seem half worth it.
Will, why did you stand my bail?
I m collecting favors owed.Ben hesitated. Some playmending you d as soon elude?
No, Will said. Come, Ben. We ll see thee barbered, deloused, and fed. Thenwe ve an appointment with the crown.
Her Majesty? Ben tripped on a cobblestone and caught himself, checking hisstride so he didn t outpace Will.
Well, Will said. Her Majesty s servant. But so are we all, in the end.
I m no Queen s Man.
You will be. Will grinned. I hear thou wentst Catholic in prison. That suseful, if thou rt loyal.
I heard a sermon or two, Ben admitted. But a conversion is news to me. 
See, it s familiar news.
Will, Ben said, in the gentle tone he could take between tirades, what s the enmity between you and Robert Poley?
Who told thee about Poley?Ben s eyes were cleverer than they had any right to be under a gloweringCyclopean brow. Richard Ede, he said, lowering his voice further. A keeperat the Marshalsea. Not a bad man, I think. They put Poley in with me, Will.
Poley s no prisoner
Aye, an informant. There to prove sedition or treason on me. Ede warned me.What are you playing at, Will?
A sudden question. And an unnerving one, following on the heels of Poley.
He was curious about you. Very much so. Ben s concern turned to a pleasedsort of mockery as he began walking again. Which I might have attributed toyour undeserved fame, you ill-educated lout, but then with Ede s warning
What toldst thou him of me? Even over the sound of the rain, Will knew bythe way his voice shivered at the end that he d misread the line.Ben almost reached out to lay a filthy hand on Will s shoulder, but caughthimself and withdrew it. I should be grateful for the rain, he said, wipingstreaked dirt from his face on a grayed linen sleeve. I told him naught,Will. Well 
What? 
I had to tell him something, or he d assume I had something to hide.
So? Ben s eyes flickered sideways, and his heavy jowls twitched with humor. I told him the William the Conqueror story.
Christ on the cross, Will swore. And I was hoping that one would die adeserved death 
If you d seen the disconsolate look on Burbage s face when he wandered intothe Mermaid alone, you d think it worth it. 
There are greater challenges than to outcharm Richard, Will said. And the citizen in question a comely lass. But tis not the gentlemanly thing tospread tales.Ben choked. Not gentlemanly at all, he agreed. And yet some spread them anyway ah, here we are.Will opted for the barbering after all, and saw Ben decently clothed and fedat a tavern by the time the rain began to taper. Ben ate with the appetiteWill associated with stevedores, while Will picked through a mincemeatpastry, choking down what he could. Finally, Ben wiped his mouth on his new,clean kerchief and sat back with a sigh. Unwell, William?
In pain, Will answered, rinsing his mouth on the dregs of the wine. I shall be fine in a bit. He tucked his hand into his pocket and stood. Art content? Aye. Ben pushed his bench back. Whence? Upstairs, Will said, turning away. He s waiting for us.He? Will nodded. Sir Thomas Walsingham. He turned his head and glanced over hisshoulder. The well-worn shilling was between his fingers. On an impulse, hedrew it forth and tumbled it through the air on a high, lamplit arc.Ben was quicker than he looked. Blunt fingers plucked the shilling at theapex of its climb; he frowned. What s that? A grand gesture, Will thought, and smiled. Come on, Queen s Man. Thou hast acraft to learn. Do I have an option? But Jonson fell into step beside him, although Willtook his elbow to lead him up the stairs.Not if you expect to write plays like that and live.Eleven months and two weeks later, Tom Walsingham leaned against the shuttersin Ben s lodging, which were closed against an unseasonable late-Septemberchill, and tossed a gray kidskin pouch idly in his hand. Something jingledwithin it. By Tom s smile, Will had a pretty clear idea what. He rose from his perch ona three-legged stood beside the hearth and crossed to where Ben crumpled histallness over a trestle, papers unrolled and weighted at the corners with aninkhorn, a candlestick, and a pot of sand. Will leaned over his shoulder.What s Tom brought us, then?Ben s thick finger tapped the middle of the paper, shifting it under theweights. It was a plan of a house and garden, well drawn in black lines, witha steady hand Will envied. Ben raised his eyes to Tom, who was still fightingthat inscrutable smile. Richard Baines house and garden, Ben guessed. How did you come by these?
Bribery, Tom said succinctly. Catch. He tossed his bundle through theair; Will fumbled it, and it landed on the map with a clunking sound entirelyunlike the fairy jingle of silver or the sharp clean sound of gold.Will struggled with the knot, the fingers of his right hand momentarilyfailing to answer, and got it untangled. He upended the pouch and dragged it,whistling as it spawned a river of coin. There must be a hundred poundhere. 
Hundred fifty, Tom said. Or a few pounds worth of pewter, he said, thatgrin returning. It seemed appropriate, somehow, given Baines has used thetrick himself. I thought it best to attend to Cecil s pardon, Sir Robert sdemands regarding the inestimable Master Baines while he was still occupiedwith the affairs of his late father. 
How do you intend to pass it to them?Plant, not pass. Tom drew his dagger and picked at a cuticle with thepoint, not quite as idly as Will thought he meant to make it look.Interesting, Will said. I don t see you clambering in windowsThe clambering is Ben s part.Sir Thomas Ben looked up from arranging the debased nobles and sovereignsin tidy rows across the face of the map. 
You re youngest, Ben. And a circular gesture of the knife strongest.Ben sighed, his brow wrinkling like that of a bull-baiting dog. Aye. Andonce the coins are placed, Sir Thomas, how do we make sure Baines spends themrather than dispensing with them?
The property will be searched. Tom sheathed his knife and picked up asilvery coin, turning it in the light. Leave that to me. These are better than some I ve seen Will wasn t sure what drew his attention to the window; a shadow across theshutters or the faintest of sounds. Ben, he said in Jonson s ear, is there a stair out your window?
A drainpipe, Ben answered in an undertone, following his gaze. Over the kitchen garden. Sir Thomas, you were followed
but far from the best. I m minded of a time in France Tom continued,never missing a beat as he drew his sword and moved to the window in silentfootsteps.Ben came around the board, catching his sword from the back of the chair ithung on and easing it from the soft leather sheath. He caught Tom s eye, andTom nodded as Will hastily scooped the jingling counters of a hanging offenseback into their bag.Ben hurled the shutters open and Tom lunged, reaching, cursing softly andjerking back a moment later. Missed him, he said, over a rustling crash andthen the sound of running footsteps. Ben, go afterJonson didn t hesitate. He dropped his rapier inside the window and plantedone hand on the sill, vaulting over with a grace that belied his height. Willwinced at the thump from ten feet below, but Ben sounded unhurt as he calledup "BLade! He must have stepped aside as Tom snatched the sword up anddropped it, point-first so it would stick in the earth. Tis Gabriel SpencerTom was already moving for the door. Will grabbed his sleeve as he went by.Tom couldn t: too much chance of being spotted and recognized, even in thatnondescript, unfashionably blue doublet that was too broad across theshoulders. No. A moment s startled regard, and then Will? Tom s voice was suddenly hiscousin s, his eyes as full of cold necessity as Sir Francis had ever been.
 Make sure Ben understands Oh, Christ on the Cross. Will nodded and stuffed the coins inside his doublet, hitching his stubborn right leg as he stumbled for the stairs. Hewasn t about to catapult out a window like a man eight years younger, butWill was surprised how fast his halting gait, assisted by a grip on thebanister, brought him into the courtyard.Ben must have caught up with Gabriel Spencer by the innyard gate. He had thesmaller man lifted off the ground by the collar, Spencer s hand and adagger pinned high against the timbers. I m about to order a man to kill. Will swallowed, as best he could, conscious of the clunk of the coins insidehis shirt. Tyburn hanging, he thought, and then he thought about Kit in ahearth-warmed kitchen, trying so hard and so falsely to smile. Ben, Will said. Let him down. Ben turned over his shoulder, startled. Will nodded, and picked up the bladethat Ben must have dropped when he manhandled Spencer against the wall.Will held the rapier toward Ben, hilt-first, careful of the edge. Ben droppedSpencer more tossed him to his feet and stepped back far enough to grasp it,keeping a questioning sideways attention on Will. He heard everything, Will said in an undertone, hearing a different voice in the place of Spencer ssudden, comprehending pleading. This is what a Queen s Man is. This is what aQueen s Man does.Why, so it is.
Ben stared for a moment, aghast. And then a soldier s composure settled overthe rough features, and he stepped to block Spencer s rabbity bolt for thegate. Draw, Gabe, he said tiredly, as his blade came up and he turned to 
extend the line of his arm. Spencer glanced from Will to Ben, and back. He slipped his main gauche intothe proper hand, and reached across his belt to his rapier hilt. This is murder, Ben. It s a hanging.
Right of clergy, Ben said, piggy eyes narrowing under the cave of his brow.
I read Latin. It s a branding. Counterfeiting is a hanging. Draw your blade,and you ve got a chanceHe didn t, of course: quick as Spencer was, Ben was half again his size, halfagain his reach, and almost as fast, with a soldier s nerve. The blades rangsilver on silver, with a purity of tone the debased coins burning Will schest couldn t hope to match. Spencer lunged and shouted above, at thewindow, a cry of murder! went up Ben parried, riposted, the passage too fastfor Will s eye, trained only to stage combat, to follow. The big man movedin, Spencer s main gauche tearing his sleeve but not the arm beneath, and amoment later blood stained eight inches of steel at the tip of Ben s blade.Shouting and running footsteps rang down the street. Will never saw how ithappened.Ben wiped the blade on his kerchief before he sheathed it, while thewitnesses and then the watch crowded close around them. You tell Tom he d better stand my bail, Ben muttered, and Will nodded as Ben was led away. 
Act II, scene xix
It Lies not in our power to Love, or hate,For will in us is over-rul d by fate.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Hero and Leander In absolute blackness, Kit paced in the cramped circle afforded him. Hisright hand trailed on the damp stones of the wall. He had no fear oftripping; his feet knew the path, and the dank earth was where he slept whenhe grew too tired to walk. Wasting energy, he thought, but he could not sitstill. The sink wherein the filth of all the castle falls, he mumbled, butit wasn t, quite. More an old, almost-dry well, lidded in iron as much tokeep light out as the prisoner in, for the sides were twenty foot and steeplyangled.He had paced forever.He would be pacing forevermore.A strange sort of irritation, first an itching and then a raw, hot pain, grewin patches on his torso and his thighs. To pass the time he told himselfstories. Bits of verse Nashe s plays, half memorized, Kyd s Tragedy, Will sTitus. The Greeks and the Romans and his newest acquisition, the Celts.And none of them could drive the mocking voice of Richard Baines out of hismind. Good puss. Wait there, I LL be back for thee when I can.Damn you, Baines, don t Leave me alone down hereOh, thou wilt not be alone. There s rats and frogs. And they tell me Edward sghost still screams. He ll be company for thee; thou hast so much in common.Dost remember the irons, puss? Thou canst Look forward to their acquaintanceagain.
Kit closed both eyes. It made no difference: he walked, and turned, andwalked, and turned. Christ, Richard. For the love of God, what made you sucha monster? Froggy frogs, someone answered. Kit startled, felt about him. He kickedsomething that rolled and rattled in darkness, a heavy iron jangle, butnothing that felt like flesh.Master Troll? Froggy frogs. Froggy frogs. Froggy frogs faint as an echo up a drain pipe.Kit felt after whatever had rolled. Maybe a tool, something that could beused to dig, or pry, or climb. He found it after some scrabbling and sat downagainst the wall to explore it with his fingers. Round, a sort of ball ofiron straps. . . . It smelled of rust, the cold savor of iron. He felt insideit, and yelped when something pricked his thumb.
Oh. Of course he would have Left this here for me to think on. 
Carefully, almost reverently, Kit laid the scold s bridle aside and scrubbedhis hands on his breeches as if he had inadvertently grabbed two fistfuls ofmeat writhing with worms. His breast burned, his belly, his thighs. In fivediscrete patches, now, one for each brand, an agony as fresh as the day theyhad been seared into his skin. How did I get here?He didn t know. 
Hurm. And harm. Master Troll? Is there a way out of this pit? This oubliette? A forgetter,some helpful portion of his mind supplied. Where you put someone to forgetthem. But Baines said he d be back. Listen carefully, Kit. Can you hear Edward screaming?
There must be a way out of this.:Ah, Sir Christofer: A voice like brushed silk. :There is always a way. Comewith me, my love. I am the way:There was light, suddenly. Light cast from over his shoulder, and as he foundhimself standing he turned to it, turned into it. The scent of pipe tobaccosurrounded him, a comforting memory of Sir Walter Raleigh s chill parlor andmany late nights. He walked through it, heard voices hanging on a glittering 
arpeggio, felt air stirred by a suggestion of wings.
God. 
He walked past, and through. Found himself elsewhere, in a tower room, highin the air: an autumn or early winter evening and the unmistakable reek ofthe Thames, the cry of ravens in the graying light. Harsh wood scraped Kit sknuckles; something writhed ineffectually against his grip. He looked down,at the skinny, stripped man of middle years he pinned against the roughtable, in an all-too-familiar pose.
God. God, hear me now
The man was familiar too: his black hair, high forehead, terrified gray-blueeyes. As familiar as the lazy oval scarred by a set of good young teeth atthe base of Kit s left thumb, the saddler s muscle ridging his forearms underthick golden hair. The pain from his brands was a symphony now, bright asholy words written in his flesh. Will. What is Oh, God.That s Will. I m Baines. 
A flurry of wings, and the cries of falcons, or perhaps of women inunimaginable grief or unspeakable pleasure. The light shattered like a hurledlooking glassKit awakened in the evening dimness behind Morgan s bedcurtains, his headpillowed on her nightgown-covered thigh, and groaned with the simple agony ofopening his eye. Where is he? Her voice, lazy and collected and very much awake. Where is who, Sir Kit?He raised his head, wincing, and looked up her body at the woman lowering herbook to regard him. Whosoever it was that beat me in my sleep.
All your own doing, I fear. She laid the cloth-bound volume aside and reached down lazily to smooth his rumpled hair. You re a sorry drunk, Kit.Do try to avoid it in future.I don t recall, he answered. Vaguely, a memory of walking ever-so-carefullythrough her door, the click of the latch, her hands unbuttoning hispearl-embroidered doublet and unbuckling his sword. A brief check informedhim that he was half dressed, at least, and Morgan seemed clothed andcomposed. What befell? 
You fell into mine arms, she said, quite gently, and wailed like a puppulled from his mother s teat. And when I thought you d cried a whole world stears, you cried a few more in your sleep, and tossed and turned. But sleptthe morning through and then the afternoon, and whimpered whenever I rose orleft your side. Still dreaming?Her fingers were gentle. He laid his head down on her thigh again, and sighedin the simple comfort of her touch. I could have Liked her, if things hadbeen different, for all she is wild and cold. Aye, he said, and then satupright, the spinning room competing for his attention with rememberedhorror. Baines. And Will. Prophetic dreams.She let her hand fall from his arm. What of? 
How did you know of my dreams?Sweet, Murchaud isn t so sound a sleeper as that. They aresomewhat spectacular. She smiled. He blinked, considering.Morgan, thank you. It fell from his lips unheralded, and he paused a momentto examine the sentiment behind it. Thank you for saving my Life? Letting meawaken with some shred of my dignity intact, after Last night s display?Just being there? He didn t know. He stood and collected his clothes from the back of her chair, and struggled into them while she laughed.People will talk.Let them, he answered, and licked his palm to push his hair back from hisface. Impulsively, he bent and kissed her on the cheek.She covered the place with her hand, her expression unreadable. Such haste 
I ve an obligation, he said, stamping his boots down, still quitedishevelled. Anon? Anon, she answered, and did not rise to see him to the door. But he couldhear her laughter chasing him as he fled back to his own room, andSomeone had been there before him. A single candle burned on the mantel, andpropped up beside it was a tall silver blade. Something shimmered beforethem, half real. A bundle of papers of mismatched size and color, ragged atthe edges, so thick it was rolled and tied with a grosgrain ribbon instead offolded and sealed. Kit hesitated in the doorway, his sleeves unbuttoned, headaching and stomach sour, his rich court doublet hanging open over lastnight s crumpled shirt. Do you ever feel at the mercy of conspirators, SirChristofer? Why, no. Never in my Life. Sblood, he cursed, and kicked the door shutwith his heel before he crossed the room. He snatched the letter from the mantel, and brought it across the room to the window and the last light ofsunset to read. Sorting the pages rapidly, he recognized sheets of plays andpoetry, Will s hand and someone else s, shoving them all aside until he foundthe thick ten pages of letter.
Oh, Will.Head pounding but no longer spinning, Kit sat on the edge of the bed to readWill s shaky, hasty secretary s hand. When he finished, he set the pagesaside and stared for a moment out the window, watching the palephosphorescence of the twilit sea, hoping it would calm the cold terror inhis chest. As if entranced, he stood, buttoned his sleeves and laced hispoints, buttoned the doublet, adjusted the hang of his sword, and settled adagger on the right side of his belt. As an afterthought, he slipped a dirkinto his boot, and then as he reached for the door he glanced down andlaughed at himself, going to war in court silks and pearls. 
Act II, scene xx
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;While night s black agents to their preys do rouse.WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth September, 1598Thou wouldst have hated Ben Jonson, Kit.& as I write that Line, & read it over, it strikes me; I write as if to adead man truly, & now I wonder if I have in some madness invented thysurvival. Ben is brilliant. I mocked him for writing in humors, & he presented acomedy Every Man, tis called that I cannot overly fault. To prove me wrongas much as himself right. Brilliant, & of much use to Tom & I.Tom asks after you. He s been knighted. Audrey is pregnant again. Mary s sonRobin is apprenticed a chandler.Her Majesty has survived another anniversary of her birth, by the grace ofGod, & Richard has procured a property in Southwark not far from thebeargarden & the Rose, where he will raise our new playhouse, which we havedecided will be called the Globe. If we can free our materials from the odious Master Allen, our old landlord, we LL have it up by Spring. & no nearneighbors to answer to, by God, for all we LL have to build it on timbersover a sewer ditch. Like an ark when God sends His rains to cleanse the unfaithful, we vile players can clamber into our sinful playhouse & raft tosafety on the swollen Thames.So we will have only the Lord Mayor to contend with.The flag is already painted, & the motto chosen. Totus mundus agithistrionem which thou wilt be able to translate as well as ever I could. Ben, whom I did mention previous, has found himself new trouble. His tempermight o ershadow even thine: I oft imagine if thou wert still with us, thee &he would likely have come to blows. You would have Loathed him with a passionI m sorry I shall not witness.Let me set the stage: Master Jonson is near sixteen stone of man, trained asa soldier & he wears a sword daily. His wits are quicker on paper than in atavern, for all he is an excellent poet, & he s as quick to take offense asany man. Thus it is not too much questioned that he killed the rattishGabriel Spencer in a duel. It wasn t a duel, but out of unpleasant necessity,for Spencer became too well acquainted with our plans, & our Ben only avoidedthe Tyburn tree through claiming benefit of clergy for he reads Latin &forfeiting his chattels. Also he was branded on the hand, & cannot writeuntil it heals. I ve sent him to Stratford to stay with Annie for a week or two, which is notso unwise as it seems: better than to keep him in the city; Lest anotherquarrel be provoked, or he insist even now in taking part in the merrimentTom and I have planned.The foolishness of this is that it forces advancement of mine own plans. LordBurghley too has Left us; the Queen s guiding Spirit died, they say, in HerMajesty s arms Last month, after even her cosseting could not save him. Themood is somber. His son, Sir Robert, has become secretary of state.Which Leads me to my current problems. I ve been charged by that selfsameRobert Cecil with the eradication of Master Poley & Master Baines. & theadditional complication that Ben writes to say he s seen thine oldacquaintance Nick Skeres in Stratford. I have a sense of things moving underthe surface, Kit, & I wish I could gaff them & Lift them into the Light.Still, Tom & Ben & I have hit upon a plan for dealing with Baines & Poley.ALL it needs is a little expedition to plant some false coin kindly providedby Sir Robert in their chambers, & a search. Thou wilt appreciate the ironyof this. Ben was to make the entrance, but his circumstances now forbid it. If I couldbe assured that this Letter would reach thee, I should beg thine assistance, 
for thy habit of walking through walls would be most salutary in this cause.I ve thought Long on this, & in addition to my ms. of the Dream, I veincluded a fair copy an act or two of Ben s. & some poems.Which will discuss Later, as I do not believe I would have the courage toinclude them if I thought thou wouldst ever collect this thy Letter.Be glad thou canst not see what poor George has wrought on thy Leander. To befair, tisn t bad. But it is not Kit.
 A fool and more than a fool, Will cursed himself under his breath, steppinginto the stirrup Tom Walsingham made of his hands. He bent his head close toTom s ear. Why am I shinnying in the window?Could you pick me up?There was that. He put a hand on Tom s shoulder and gripped his dagger in histeeth, steadying himself against the wall. Tom s strength surprised him He s three years older than I am, damn it. Tom s shoulders moved under Will s soft-soled shoes, his hands bracing Will s thighs, and Will was glad of thegrowing darkness in the garden, as his face heated at a sudden image of Tom,and Kit Will spat the dagger into his hand and slipped its narrow blade between theshutters. On the second try, he caught the bar. On the third try, he liftedit successfully, and held his breath as it clunked rather than clattered tothe window ledge between the shutters and the glass. The sash shifted easily,and the space was sufficient for a skinny man to slip through. What lightsstill burned in the house were under the gables, and Will and Tom had beenlurking in an upstairs room of an inn down the street long enough to seeBaines set off, alone, a little before dusk. Curfew was nine o clock, if hebothered to come home before it; they should have an hour at least, and Willexpected the sojourn into the house to take less than five minutes.He looked down, and spoke softly. Tom, as soon as I m inside, you leave.
Will No. If . . . If. You ve Ben. You keep working.He felt Tom s rebellion, knew he had no right or precedence with which tocommand the other man. And then felt Tom s resignation at the logic of it.This is what a Queen s Man does. All right, Will. Hurry I ll meet you atthe Mermaid. False coins shifted against his breast in their soft leather bag. Tom got ahand on each ankle and lifted as Will pulled, and a moment later Will wasinside the window and standing in absolute blackness. And how did you intendto find a place to hide a sack full of counterfeit coins in pitch bLackness,Master Shakespeare?Purity of spirit, sir.
He crouched, realizing he was silhouetted against the window, and thenthought to swing the shutters and the glass closed so a draft wouldn t bringsome servant looking for the source. He traced the baseboard with hesitantfingers, following it into the corner of the room. This was supposed to be abedroom ah. And so it is. 
His fingers found the featherbed, straw ticking, the twine binding the edge.He bit through a knot with his teeth and tugged edges open, heartbeat pulsingin his throat as he shoved the bag arm-deep in rustling straw and tugged themattress edges together, knotting the cord as best he could in the dark.And very nearly wet himself when the door swung open, and a darkly cladfigure held a single flickering candle high in his left hand. You must be Shakespeare, he said, and set the candle on a table by the door. The brassand wood fittings of a pistol gleamed in his other hand; Will recognized theblack-red color of his hair, the thin, aristocratic line of his nose.
Fray Xalbador de Parma. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.Amazed at how steady his voice stayed, although his eyes betrayed him with aflicker at the window. Will started to stand. 
De Parma cleared his throat and gestured slightly with the pistol. Will satback against the bed.De Parma crossed the room, staying enough away that Will wouldn t risk a grabfor the snaphaunce flintlock in his hand. That s right, Tom. Just head onhome. I ll be aLong shortly.Oh. Rather a bad miscalculation, this.
A miscalculation compounded as another figure stepped into the room: slender,blond, with a mischievous twist to his lips. Fray Xalbador, Robert Poleysaid, slouching on his left shoulder against the door frame. I thought I dheard a mouse scratching up here.
PoleyThe blond man clucked and shook his head. After all that fuss killingSpencer, he said, you should have known we d be expecting your visit.Yes, Will answered. I should have known. 
Barabas: Your extreme right does me exceeding wrong.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, The Jew of MaLta Kit pressed fingertips to the cold, black glass and hesitated, his right handgoing to the hilt of his sword. The other Prometheans were warded from thegaze of the glass. But Will was not, and so Kit saw Poley turn, saw clearlythe half-inch bore of the weapon pointed unwaveringly at Will s midsection.Saw, as if he floated overhead like a one-eyed angel, Tom s occasional guiltyglances over his shoulder as against his better judgment he followed Will sinstructions and paused by the warmth of the well-lit tavern. Until hecursed, stopped, and turned to retrace his steps.
Just what I need. Bad enough to have to rescue one of them.
Tom, don t.Kit didn t expect Tom to hear him. Most of Kit s attention remained on Will,anyway, and the two images layered each other like an oil painting held upagainst the back of a stained-glass saint. Until Tom stopped, and glancedover his shoulder, as if he d imagined he d heard someone call his name.Kit cleared his throat, forgetful in his fear. Tom, love.Wide eyes, a whisper barely shaped. Kit? 
I ll take care of him, he said, and then let the scrying end before he saidanything else, turning his attention entirely to Will. Will, who had drawnhis knees up and kept his back to the bed as if it could afford him someprotection. Poley moved about the bedroom, lighting candles, and Kit nibbledhis lip at Robert s expression. If onLy I had been a half step quickerOr a haLf a year. No time for recriminations, sir.
The pistol was his worst worry. It wouldn t take more than a glancing shot toshatter bone, tear flesh, crush limbs assuming the thing didn t misfire. Oh,I wish I had Morgan s magic now. But if I step into the room behind de Parma,PoLey onLy has a dagger. I just have to make enough noise that the InquisitorwiLL turn instead of making sure of Will.Good WiLL. Stay there on the floor, roLL under the bed when the fightingstarts Thank God Baines is nowhere in sight.
Kit drew his rapier and his main gauche, pulled a single shallow breaththrough his nose to still the trembling in his hands, and stepped through theDarkling Glass.
O conspiracy,Shamst thou to show thy dang rous brow by night,When eviLs are most free? WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, JuLius Caesar Will could never quite describe what he saw: whether the shuttered windowseemed to fall open on a starry night, or whether the shadows of theflickering candles twisted together in some glimmering reminder of the spanof black wings. But he gasped, and when he did, Poley turned to follow theline of his vision. De Parma brought the pistol up and danced a half stepback, angling his left foot with perfect balance, a sidestep that would have 
brought him around, his back to the wall beside the shuttered windowif several narrow, blooded inches of Kit Marley s main gauche hadn t emergedfrom his chest as he moved, his own momentum carrying the blade through hisbody and dragging it out of Kit s hand. De Parma completed his turn before herealized he was dead, the pistol still rising, finger tightening on thetrigger as he staggered back against the wall beside the window. The scrapeand then the roar of the flintlock was so enormous that Will imagined for aninstant that he hadn t actually heard anything, just tasted all the brimstoneof Hell in a concussion as if God Himself had boxed Will s ears. De Parma fell against the wall, the narrow blade leaping a few more inchesfrom his chest, and slid down like a pile of discarded clothing. Kit wasalready sidestepping to face Poley. Will, he shouted, loud enough for Willto hear it through ears that would never stop ringing. Run! Will forced himself to his feet, de Parma s blood already soaking through hisshoes. It shone on the floorboards, glossy, and Will tore his eyes away witha grunt. Kit extended like a dancer, infinitely more graceful than Ben, thetotality of his body and his will focused, it seemed, on the firelit silverof his swordpoint.Running wasn t possible. Will staggered toward the door.
Marley. God. You re dead, you son of a whore.Oh, Kit said cheerfully. God has very little to do with it, and mymother s virtuous to a fault, I fear. What shall it be, Master Poley? Thyheart? But a bulky shadow filled the doorway, and Will skidded to a stop fast enoughthat he went to one knee in the rushes and the blood. How about an eye, and into thy brain, dying instantly? Too good for thee,but time is short and we must make Kit. 
do. Good evening, puss, said Richard Baines, as Kit turned to face him. I should have known my kitten would never be so uncouth as to die withoutbidding me one last farewell.
I am Envy. I cannot read and therefore wish all books burned.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Faustus The tip of the blade shimmered, so close, so close. Kit settled himself forthe lunge, the perfect motion of body and sword and strength that would carryhis blade into Poley s left eye and carry with it a perfect, a hoLy revenge.And then Will s panicked squeak, and the voice God. The silken, caressingvoice of Richard Baines. Bile and blood cloyed Kit s tongue. He stepped back from Poley, unable toturn his blind side on Baines for the second it would take to make sure. Dick, he said, and extended the rapier over Will s shoulder. He let the tipsway on a gentle arc between Poley and Baines, a motion including both ofthem. Kit feigned deafness to the shiver in his own voice, swallowed amouthful of saliva and put his back to the window as he croaked, Will, comeback here, please.Will didn t stand, just skittered backward in a crouch that looked like ithurt him. De Parma s blood reddened the palms of his hands, the knees of hishose. Across the line of Kit s rapier, Baines smiled and came a half stepcloser, a half step beyond the reach of Kit s lunge. Thou hast aged not aday. And the eyepatch suits thee. Did it hurt very much?
No, Kit answered. No. It didn t hurt. Much. Baines nodded. Not compared to some things, aye? Sweet puss. There s nowhereto run, thou knowest. Back to the wall, and I can wait here all night, andthou hast nowhere to go.
There s a knife in my boot, Will. Kit felt fingers fumble it as much as hefelt anything but the ice snarling his limbs.Kit, Will hissed, grasping the window ledge to stand a little behind him,where he could not foul Kit s arm, he s unarmed. Kill him 
And it was true. Baines stood just inside the doorway, limned by candlelight,those big hands hanging open at his sides. Kit could imagine he saw theoutline of his own teeth, sunk in the heel of the left one. He shuddered, andbrought his gaze back up to Baines eyes. Better the eyes than those gentle,terrible hands. He never needed weapons beforeKit, shut up.
Poley had a dagger, no good for throwing or he would have thrown it. Kitbarely spared him a glance. He caught the light winking off the blade inWill s hand as Will skinned it. What are we doing?Will spoke in an undertone that Kit matched with a murmur, aware of Baineswatching his lips for a hint of what he said. Get ready, William, my love.If this doesn t work, I m sorry.Put down the little knife, puss, and I ll be gentle Baines steppedforward. Kit flinched, and Baines smiled.What are we doing, Kit?Kit never dropped his eyes. He felt with his left hand, slipped it aroundWill s waist, shifted his weight in a way he hoped Will would understand.Will switched the dagger to his left hand and gripped Kit s belt with hisright. He moved with Kit, in unison, and Kit nodded. No hesitation. Runningaway, Kit answered, and let his knees go as weak as they wanted to, draggingWill backward through the window and the glass. 
Intra-act: Chorus 
These things, with many other shall by good & honest witness be approved tobe his opinions and Common Speeches, and that this MarLow doth not only holdthem himself, but almost into every Company he Cometh he persuades men toAtheism wiLLing them not to be afeared of bugbears and hobgoblins, andutterly scorning both god and his ministers as I Richard Baines will Justify& approve both by mine oath and the testimony of many honest men, and almostall men with whom he hath Conversed any time will testify the same, and as Ithink all men in Christianity ought to endeavor that the mouth of sodangerous a member may be stopped.
 RICHARD BAINES, A note Containing the opinion of one Christopher MarlyConcerning his Damnable Judgment of Religion, and scorn of gods word,recorded May of 1593Baines lunged, shouldering Marley s slender blade aside. A half second toolate; the edge of Marley s doublet brushed his fingers, and Kit and thecrippled playmaker hit the glass with
no sound of splintering. They vanished as if they d tumbled intopeat-blackened water. Baines caught himself hard against the windowsillbefore he could follow, headfirst through shattered glass and the shuttersknocked wide, into the garden below. Something in his elbow popped, and hegrunted as he pushed back. Fray Xalbador s blood slipped and stuck under thesoles of his boots. Damme. Quiet and wry, an edge of admiration in itBaines would not have permitted Marley to hear.
Christofer Marley, Poley said, not releasing his dagger. Jesus fucked Maryand Joseph. Nick wasn t drunk after all.Baines pressed his palm against cool glass, tentatively. The sensation wasmundane, diamond-shaped panes and strips of lead between. He strode acrossblood and stopped not far from Poley. You sound like our pussycat, Robert.Such blasphemyPoley looked up at him, blowing the hair out of his eyes. I buried that man,Dick 
Aye, and he s come back from the grave? Baines rolled his shirt-sleeves up.Put the damned dagger away, as it did you so much benefit last time. Are yousure you killed the right poet?Poley turned his head and spat. I checked his brands before we buried him. But that was no ghost managed the friar so neatly. And you saw the eyepatch:Ingrim struck him fairly and laid him down. The slender blond agent nudgedde Parma s flaccid corpse with his toe. We ll have to dispose of this.We ll wall him in the cellar, Baines answered, already calculating thelosses and advantages of the Inquisitor s bloody death. Damme, we re short a sorcerer. Aye. And moreover, it seems our Kit s exhumed himself with a touch of theglamourie. Poley raised a hand and rapped lightly on the window glass,tilting his head as if to assess the rattle of the sash against the frame.The old bitch must have had him off overseas, or he s been laying low.Still. As long as he s livingBaines lifted his chin in comprehension. We won t have to enchant another,when the time comes. How did he survive a stabbing and a burial, then?Poley wiped his blade, unnecessarily, on his breeches and slipped the daggerinto its sheath. Sorcery?If he were a sorcerer, I would know it. A poet, yes, and a good one, but thereal use of him was Baines saw Poley s eyes widen as he, Baines, hesitated.If the light were better, he imagined he would have seen Poley blanch.You think Mehiel had something to do with it.I think, Baines answered, considering, we may find Master Marley difficultto keep dead, if that is indeed what happened to him. An unexpectedincidental result. He shrugged. But I mastered him once. Can do it again.He slipped your lead once, Poley reminded.Only because de Vere gave him too much rope. 
Come, Dick. Help me wrap the friar so he doesn t drip down the hall.Baines crouched, dragging a woolen blanket from the bed. He lifted de Parma sbody by the sticky dark auburn hair, and heaved in unison with Poley. Thelittle man was strong for his size. If our pussycat s returned to mysafekeeping, I can promise you that won t happen again. 
Act III, scene i
Orlando: Then in mine own person I die. Rosalind: No, faith, die by attorney.The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time therewas not any man died in his own person, videlicit, in a Love-cause. Troilushad his brains dashed out with a Grecian club; yet he did what he could todie before, and he is one of the patterns of Love. Leander, he would haveLived many a fair year, though Hero had turned nun, if it had not been for ahot midsummer night; for, good youth, he went but forth to wash him in theHellespont and being taken with the cramp was drowned and the foolishchroniclers of that age found it was Hero of Sestos. But these are all Lies: men have died from time to time and worms have eaten them, but not forLove.
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It Kit grunted as Will fell atop him. The hard landing broke Will s startledshout, for all Kit cushioned them both as best he could without losing hisgrip either on Will or his rapier. Threads on Kit s doublet snapped, pearlssplashing, powdering between bodies and stones. Will rolled, scrambling tohis feet with the dagger at the ready, bad leg dragging. He turned, trying tocover Kit and still stay out of his way, and then hesitated, amazed. Kit Kit pushed himself to a crouch, wheezing. Damme, but that was closer than Ilike them. "Where are we? William, my Love. Will dismissed it with a half-formed judgment on Kit s habitual extravagance.
Faerie. Kit dragged himself up the wall as if his ribs pained him. Willwinced. Drink nothing while thou here lingerest. Neither shalt thou dine,lest like Proserpine thou dost find thyself obligated to the underworld.Faerie. Will shook himself, a chill only half excitement crawling thelength of his spine. Why this course? With the Inquisitor dead, I don t seewhy you left Baines and PoleyKit straightened, consternation a furrow across his forehead. I should have had Poley, he admitted. I couldn t see Baines well enough to know if he wasarmed, and I didn t dare risk keeping my back to him if he was. It was amistake. 
Why did we come here instead of going after Baines, then? And why was hetalking to you Like that? The bitter taste of something half understood,which he understood no better when Kit glanced at the floor and turned away.Come along, Will. We ll get you cleaned up a little, and I ll see if you canbe presented to the Queen. Or I suppose I could send you back through theGlass now, safe and sound in your lodgingI m in Faerie, and all you can think of is sending me home? Will struggledto keep up; still shedding pearls like snowflakes from his shoulders, Kitcaught Will s blood-covered sleeve and helped. Before I ve seen the place?You could lose your life in a night. Or be trapped here.I ll risk it. Just this once. For an hour. Why did you pass your chance atBaines? Because I wasn t sure I could kill him. He wasn t armed Christ wept! Kit turned on Will with enough force that Will staggered astep. I wasn t sure I could kill him, Will. Why are you after me? I came tohelp, didn t I?Perversity flared in Will. Came to help. Aye. And where were you all the LongLast year, and the one before that, and the one before that How did youknow about Baines? I read thy letter.You read my . . . oh. How did you And this is the night he chooses to takeit? Did you read any of the papers with it?Ben s play? Kit shook his head. I read the letter only, and panicked. Anda good thing: you would not have wished to make an intimate acquaintance ofMaster Richard Baines. 
I m glad you have the poems. Will hoped his voice hid his desperation. Theymoved through narrow corridors; with a little amusement, he realized despiterich hangings and the smooth golden stone underfoot that Kit shepherded himthrough the castle on the servants trails. Just as well Will s blood-soaked shoes left brushmarks on the flags. The walls were almost translucent,glowing mellow amber. Will laid a hand on one, surprised to find it cool. Do you suppose I could reclaim those? Ben has my other copy, and I don t expecthim back from Stratford for a month. 
It may be a month gone by when you return home, Kit said, and Will couldn tmiss the relief in his voice at Baines as a dropped subject. But, aye, ofcourse. May I keep the plays?In addition to Ben s, Will answered. He ducked so Kit wouldn t see his blush. There s two comedies of mine. Oh? A Midsummer Night s Dream. Which Satan said he rather Liked. Rather in advance. And As You Like It, Will said. If thou couldst see the boys wehave now, thou wouldst strangle me in my sleep for a chance to write forthem. Kit changed the subject again, leaving Will to wonder at his discomfort.Here s my door. There s half a chance hot water awaits thee, if I know thecastle s staff. I m off to fetch Morgan. I won t be above half an hour.With blood all over thy breast? Will asked gently.Kit brushed at it with the backs of his fingers, scattering another pearl.She s seen worse, he said. Your poems are on the bed. Drink nothing, noteven the water. He shut the door before Will could thank him, or make senseof the ragged darkness in Kit s expression.Kit s chamber was big enough for a Prince, the floor covered in a stunningextravagance of Araby carpets, the curtained bed broad enough for five. I wonder who he shares it with, Will thought, and put the thought away.Tapestries and painted cloths muffled the walls; their subject was pastoral,and Will did not think Kit had chosen them. The aftermath of combat made him dizzy. He washed, then sorted his poems fromthe other papers and rolled them tight, finding a bit of ribbon in his purseto tie them with. Will breathed easier once those too-revealing sonnets weretucked inside his doublet; less easily when the door opened and Kit led awoman of middle years and black Roman beauty in. A woman clad in a man swhite cambric shirt, riding boots, and green breeches that were almost trunkhose, cut tight and close to her hips and thighs. My lady, Will said,making a somewhat unsteady leg, noticing Kit s discomfiture as an adjunct tohis own. It s a bit of a pleasure to see Marley flustered.She snorted like a mare and scanned him lengthwise, shaking her head hardenough that the peridot clusters in her ears tangled in the escaping tendrilsof her hair. The legendary William Shakespeare, she said, and turned toKit. A little unprepossessing, isn t he? Her smile softened the comment into a flirtation; Will didn t understand why Kit blanched and leaned heavilyon the edge of the clothespress.
My lady, Will said, feigning hurt, I am accounted the most charming ofplaymakersGiven thy competition, I do not wonder, she said. Her hips movedmarvelously under the tight dark brocade as she crossed the carpet. Will kepthis eyes on her face, the green-black eyes she never lowered. Wert injured?No, he said. She reached up and tilted his face side to side, clucking her tongue. Despitehimself, her fingers stroking his beard, the scent of her skin like mint andcitrus, he couldn t help but smile. What is t? You sound exactly like my wife.I hope that s a better compliment than if I said you sounded like myhusband. 
Tis the greatest compliment I can offer, Will said as she stepped away.Do I pass inspection, madam?You seem unhurt. We ll talk of the other things later Before he could do more than startle, she moved toward the door. You washed your hair, atleast. I ll see you clothed; we ll present you to the Mebd tonight, aftersupperKit cleared his throat. Morgan turned to him and smiled, and Will s breathswelled his throat for a moment as he tried to decide if the smile was a lover s, or that of an indulgent guardian. My boon, my Queen, he murmured. Her chin lifted, and the smile grew amused. Of course. A little show of feeling in her pockets, until Kit touched his collar Will realized that theother poet had changed clothes, or his shirt and doublet at least, and washedthe rusty red spatters from his hands. He keeps clothes in her rooms. Thatanswers one question. Or does it? Morgan laughed and unpinned somethingwinking gold from the cambric of her shirt, coming back to Will. Have you aplace for an earring, Master Shakespeare?He lifted his hair, showing the bit of silk that kept the hole from closing.Kit nodded when Will caught his eye, and so Will ducked his head and let heruntie the cord and slip it from his ear. A little gasp as she tugged the holeopen and slipped something into it: a substantial ring, warm from the heat ofher bosom. There, she said. A favor from a lady. A favor that will permitthee, Master Shakespeare, to come and go from this land to that land as thou wilt, without years cut from thy life whilst thou in Faerie dwelleth.Kit came forward beside her, rubbing at his eyepatch as an exhausted manmight rub his eye. As Morgan stepped back, Will touched the earring, feelingheavy gold swing. A rich gift, Your Highness.
We have a special love of poets here, she said. Don t we, Sir Christofer?She turned to kiss Kit on the cheek. Will saw his friend pale, but Kit didnot step away, and in fact smiled as if at a favor.The door shut behind her, concealing the sway of her hips, and Will touchedthe earring again. Do you trust this?
Her word is good. When you can get her to give it.
An impressive woman.
If thou knowst what s wise, Kit said, that will be the last time thou thinkst so. Come, lay thee in my bed and rest. I m too long slept, myself:I ll sit and read thy Jonson s plays while thou dost slumber, and wake theewhen thy clothes arrive.Who ever Loved, that Loved not at first sight?
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Hero and Leander Once Will fell into exhausted slumber, Kit dragged the fireplace armchair tothe window for better light, muttering amiable profanity as ornately workedlegs snagged on the carpets. Taking up the remaining papers, he settled downto study. Jonson s play he set aside, for perusal when his concentrationimproved, while he spread the sheets of Will s comedy across his knees andheld them up, unfolded one by one, to read. Five or ten leaves in, he stifledlaughter against his sleeve and read faster. At the end of the third act, heturned the already-read pages over and laid them on the floor, sitting backin the chair to regard their slumbering author.He gazed for long minutes, blinking thoughtfully, and at last picked up theremaining sheets to read: more slowly now, and with attention. Ganymede,eh? But it was no more than a murmur, the shape of a name on his lips.He read the play twice over before he set it aside, and then he stood andpaced the width of the room once or twice, stealing glances at Will now andagain, shaking his head each time. Will showed no signs of stirring, sleepingthe sleep of utter weariness, and Kit at last stopped pacing and returned tothe window and Jonson s play. The wit was sharp, the rhyme fitting, if thetone a little dismissive of both players and audience but Kit could notconcentrate long enough to read a page complete. He laid them aside andpicked up Will s play again, thumbing through it to read a line here and 
there. Again shook his head, and again laid the papers aside. At last, infrustration, he stood and fetched a bundle, thread, and a needle-book fromthe clothespress: a task to busy his hands enough, he hoped, to silence thebreathless longing that had sprung painfully to life in his breast.
Who ever Loved, that Loved not at first sight?WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It Will found himself turning and turning again, trying not to stare at oneimprobable being after another as Kit led him through the soaring hall. Ittook concentration not to crowd Kit for the transitory feeling of safety thebrush of his shoulder gave. Will stole another look at his friend s raggedcloak, almost a motley, a panoply of richest fabric stitched with a tight andtidy hand. Court garb in Faerie.Will looked longingly at the wine in his glass, but set it on the edge of thetable. Go ahead and drink, Kit said. You ve a Queen s surety you may return homewithout fear. The Fae keep their word. And now, come and meet my lover.Another one? Haven t you enough problems?Mix with the men of power and rise. Kit shrugged. They teach that atCambridge, too.The banter, the sparkle. It was tinsel, Will thought, understanding. There s a reason no one ever Let you on a stage, Marley. But as Kit led him forward,he followed on. 
Act III, scene ii
Faustus: Was not that Lucifer an Angel once?Mephostophilis: Yes Faustus, and most dearly Loved of God.Faustus: How comes it then that he is Prince of Devils? Mephostophilis: O by aspiring pride and insolence,For which God threw him from the face of heaven.
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Faustus The rill of Cairbre s harpstrings shivered through the air as Murchaudbrushed a courtier aside and came across the floor currently otherwiseoccupied by clusters of conversationalists to Will and Kit. Kit bowed, foundit useless as Murchaud closed the distance between them and took Kit s doublet in both hands, lifting him to his toes to claim a possessing kiss.Kit s ragged new cloak, only a single layer of a few dozen patches yet,dragged at his collar as Murchaud bent him backward. He pressed one hand tothe Elf-knight s breast, feeling the racing beat of his heart under velvetand silk. Murchaud released him and stepped back, left Kit wiping his mouth on hishand, stinging with the suddenness of the release. Kit turned to Will, stilltasting the kiss, watching the blood rise in Will s ghost-pale cheeks. Your Highness, Master William Shakespeare, he said formally. Will, Murchaud apLauncelot, Prince of the Daoine Sidhe.
Fitz, Murchaud corrected. How did you know that?Your mother hinted strongly, Kit said, his eye on Will, who shifted aflustered gaze from one to the other of them as if uncertain where to restit. Welcome to Faerie, Will. Things are a bit different here.Your Highness, Will said, bending a knee. Kit thought he looked striking ina saffron-colored doublet pinked in peach and gold, the padding enough tomake him seem a little less painfully thin. If nothing else, those cheekbonesand the startling blue eyes would have made up for a multitude of sins
Kit. Stop.
Call me Murchaud, he answered, to Kit s surprised pleasure and thenjealousy. We needn t stand on ceremony. Come, let me introduce you to mywife He took Will s elbow and led him toward the dais, Kit trailinguncomfortably.The Mebd was garbed in gold and white, the floor-length sleeves of her gownwrought with fantastical chains of green embroidery. The dress resembled anantique style called a bliaut, belted with golden chains encrusted withemeralds. She drifted down the steps with her arms spread wide, poised like adove at the bottom of the dais, her train spread behind her glittering withcrystal and silver thread.
Kneel, Murchaud instructed Will as they came before her. Kit steppedforward and dropped a knee: uneasiness still troubled his stomach as Willsank correctly beside him and Murchaud bowed low.The Mebd looked from one face to another, and smiled. My lord husband. SirKit. And Master William Shakespeare. Has ever a court been so graced withjewels of verse as ours?
Your Majesty, Will answered, bowing his head. You do me more credit than I deserve. Nay, she answered. Sir Christofer, we see thou hast claimed thy rank asjourneyman-bard. We are pleased. A hesitation, and Kit felt her smile like abrand. Poets, rise. You will grace us tonight? You, not thou. Both of us.She means to make a little rivalry between us. Faerieand their games.
Will glanced sidelong at Kit, who nodded, barely. Will answered, It shall be as you wish it, Your Majesty. We will be pleased to. If I may beg a boon . .. ? Kit nibbled the edge of his mustache, keeping his eyes on the floor. CarefuL,Will. 
And, Ganymede. Jove s fancy-boy, his pretty cup-bearer, and by extension, thepainted boys who worked in London s alleys. Do I want to know if it means what I think it means, that Will named so his woman-dressed-as-Lad?
Kit s stomach knotted again.Ask what thou wilt, Master Poet.To stay in your court a little, that I may sing its praises the moreextravagantly when I return to England.She made a show of considering, but Kit risking a glance perfectlyunderstood the small smile playing at her lips. Thou mayst stay, she said. A little. And before Kit could do more than nudge Will warningly with anelbow thou mayst leave when thou wisheth. For the rent of a song or seven,while thou art with us. Art agreed?Aye, Your Majesty.It will be as we have said. She smiled, and graced Kit and then Will with atouch of her hand, and then took Murchaud s arm and permitted it to seem asif he led her away, although Kit could see the hesitance of the Prince sstep.Are they all like her? Will asked under his breath. Kit shook his head. She s the most Fey.Yes. Foolish to ask, but dost feel ensorceled?Will turned a stare on him, and then stopped, lips thinning as he considered.How would I know if I were? An excellent question, Kit admitted. Let me know if anyone pins a pansy toyour bosom. Will you write to Burbage to see to your affairs?I ll tell him I was called away, aye. We won t have a playhouse until afterChristmas, as it is.Tear down the Theatre, Kit thought, shaking his head at a bit of his worldgone forever. Sharp as a stone in his shoe. Murchaud did warn you the worldchanges, and you will not. Ah, there s someone you should meet. The ladyAmaranth. Kit stole a sidelong glance at Will, whose jaw was literallyhanging open. Striking, is she not?Astoundingly. Is she venomous?She assures me she is. I have never sought an opportunity to discover itfirst hand. Methinks tis probably as well.Aye, Kit said, taking Will by the elbow. I do agree. I ve spoken withMorgan. Thou wilt share my quarters, an it please thee. The bed s big enoughfor four, and to be frank I find it strange having so large a room tomyself. And it will present a barrier to keep thee from Morgan s clutches.And perhaps buy me some peace as well. The thought of returning to Murchaud sbed made him sick. Rosalind. Dressed as Ganymede.Oh, Will.Oh, God in Hell. Amaranth, Kit said as they came up to her. Meet my friendWilliam Shakespeare. Will, Lady Amaranth.Charmed, Will said, and to his credit bent over her cold, scaled hand andbrushed it with his lips.Amaranth s snakes swelled, pleased, about her elfin face as she mocked asmile. Master Shakespeare, she hissed. Your reputation precedes you.Will glanced at Kit. Kit shrugged. We stay current, he said. What poem doyou plan to recite?Will closed his eyes, as if considering. Something you haven t read, Ithink. Are you reciting Hero?They ve heard it, Kit said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. The raggedhem of his cloak swayed against his calves. The Mebd hinted she wanted me to play Bard, so I thought I would sing something not of mine own composing.When do we Kit pointed with his chin to the dais. Go and tell Cairbre there you re sentto claim the stage. He ll advise you when. 
Come with me? Kit smiled. Aye, I will. Amaranth, will you accompany?She tilted her head in gracious refusal as she flicked herself into a tidytower of coils. I must seek Master Goodfellow, she said. Anon, gentlePoets. 
Anon, my lady, Will said. Kit bowed slightly, but did not speak as she glided away. She likes thee. How knowst thou? Kit flinched as they turned toward the small stage. Cairbre had been joinedby Morgan le Fey, who gathered her gown thank God she s decently dressed in both fists as she seated herself before the virginals. I can tell. Your Morgan plays? Will asked in his ear, a tender thrill in his voice thatdrew another shiver from Kit. Very well, Kit answered, and walked forward.Kit leaned against the pillar between two silk-shrouded windows, arms foldedover his breast, and unsuccessfully fought a smile. Will was correct: hedidn t know this poem, and its simple style masked Will s eternal clevernessvery well.Half Kit s mind was elsewhere, hastily revising the words of a whimsicallychosen song to remove references to the Divine. But with his remainingattention, he watched Will put on a player s confidence and take the stagelike a master, broad gestures and subtle expressions as he declaimed.
... Truth may seem, but cannot be;Beauty brag, but tis not she;Truth and beauty buried be.To this urn Let those repairThat are either true or fair;For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
Applause, and Will soaked it in for a moment before doffing his borrowed hatand taking a long, savoring bow. Kit watched, his stomach still twisting. No Ned, nor will he ever be, but the man has grown. Even if he is Losing hishair. Congratulations, my Love: an ovation in Faerie, such as most poets onlydream. 
Will s smile, when he stood, cast his face in the architecture of delight. Heturned to Kit, summoning him on an airy gesture. Sweet Christ harrowing Hell,how am I supposed to sleep in a bed with that man all night after readingthat play?
Kit mounted the steps, acknowledged to a ripple of applause, and leaned downand whispered in Cairbre s ear, enjoying the expression on the Bard s facewhen he said, That Tudor song I taught you, SirBold, Cairbre said, and laced his fingers over the strings of his harp.This is not mine, Kit said, turning to the Fae, but is said to have been written by a King himself not known for his faith to his ladies. He drew breath, and found Murchaud in the crowd as Cairbre and Morgan gave him thefirst plaintive notes.
Alas, my Love, you do me wrong,To cast me off discourteously.For I have Loved you well and Long,Delighting in your company.Your vows you ve broken, Like my heart,Oh, why did you so enrapture me?Now I remain in a world apartBut my heart remains in captivity.The Prince s eyes widened in shock at the boldness of the gesture. And after that kiss, he shouldn t be surprised Kit looked away, to find the rest ofhis audience, aware that his voice hadn t the richness of Cairbre s deepbaritone, but finding its notes with confidence. Kit sang a line forAmaranth, and one for Geoffrey, and discovered other eyes in the crowd aswell. A sly glance at Morgan, giving her a phrase or two as she ran her 
fingers over the keys, and she smiled back as if enjoying his bravura.Goodfellow s glance, there, and a tight little smile as the Puck tugged athis own short motley cape. Kit smiled back, and gave him a verse, for theonly friendship Kit had known in Faerie. And then he turned his head and gaveWill a verse, one of the changed ones, his throat tight enough that he prayednot to squeak like a mouse.To Murchaud, the last verse, and to the Mebd s cruel, amused, approving smileand her whisper in her husband s ear See, Love? Your pet has teeth and then he closed his eyes and back to the beginning again, for the final hanging,dying line.
Alas, my Love, you do me wrong,To cast me off discourteously.For I have Loved you well and Long,Delighting in your company.
Shock, not applause, and Kit let the old armored smile slide over his facelike a visor at the paleness in Murchaud s cheeks and Kit s own unexpectedsuccess. I ve found a way to scandalize Faerie at Last, he thought, and tookhimself down from the stage. 
Act III, scene iii
Mercutio: Without his roe, Like a dried herring: O flesh, flesh, how art thoufishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura to his Lady was but a kitchen-wench; marry, she had a better Love to be-rhyme her;Dido a dowdy; Cleopatra a gipsy; Helen and Hero hildings and harlots; Thisbea gray eye or so, but not to the purpose.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Romeo and Juliet Will knew something had happened, that Kit s rendition of "Greensleeves had somehow been a challenge, the smack of a gauntlet against an unprepared face.Knew it more when the music that resumed after Kit left the small stage waswordless, and Morgan excused herself, smiling, and went to climb the daisbeside the Queen and the Prince.Who shortly thereafter removed themselves from the hall.Will, rested from the afternoon s nap, mingled joyously with musicians andpoets, with the Faerie players that Kit had recruited for his masques andplays, until at last Kit found him and tugged his sleeve toward the stair.
It looks desperate to be the last one at the party, Kit said. Unless youwere planning on leaving with the brunetteWill glanced back at her. She smiled coquettishly behind a fan of paintedmauve silk, and he waved and turned away. The fangs are a bitdisconcerting.
She s Leannan Sidhe. You d never be the same. Kit lit a candle at the base of the spiral stair, and Will climbed in silence beside him.Leannan Sidhe? He tried to mimic Kit s pronunciation.Kit hesitated, his hand still warm on Will s arm as they made their way upthe stairs. Blood drinkers. A man can t be too careful, in Faerie.Will watched Kit open the door. Black Annie, he said. Only men, notchildren. She s got a special affection for poets. Kit ushered Will inside, latchedthe door, and found cups and a bottle in the cupboard, upon which he left thecandle. Tis said her love gives inspiration.And have you availed yourself of this inspiration? Will took the cup Kitoffered him and held it under his nose. The scent made his eyes tear.Brandywine?"Better. Tis called uisge. Be careful As Will sipped, and coughed, and Kitlaughed at him. No, dying young once was enough. But I wanted to talk to youabout your play.The fire of the liquor sliding down Will s throat did nothing to calm thetension in his shoulders. He told himself any ripples shivering across thetawny fluid in his cup were just the effects of his palsy, and set it downbefore he could spill it. You disliked it. 
I could not adore it more, Kit said, refilling his cup. He leaned againstthe great carved post of the bed, curtains rumpling against his cloak. As ifirritated, he unfastened the clasp and leaned forward enough to free himselfof the tattered finery, tossing it to the bed. The single candle cast gentleshadows across his face; he drank and continued talking into Will s silence.
You ve cast me again, haven t you? As you like your Rosalind. YourGanymede.Will laughed. You caught me out. The first to notice it enough to warrant amention. 
How could they miss? Ganymede, Leander, dead shepherds. A crack about a great reckoning in a little room and another about incompetent historians?You should not take such risks. Not a risk if no one notices. Kit laughed, staring down into his cup. Kit in skirts I should be offended,I suppose, but she s a delightful girl. Although to call her Ganymede were anungentle jestUngentle? I thought to reference your Dido. . . . And not painted boys untrussing in doorways? I suppose that s all right 
I beg your pardon Will picked up his cup and gulped more liquor, likingthe second swallow better. I intended no offense. Naive, Will.Kit dismissed it with a tilt of his hand. She s a marvelous character. Anyman with the wit to choose a resolute wench would die for such a maid. And then hastily, as if afeared Is that how thou seest me, Will?
How I Damn. How does he always manage to weasel me into the honesty Idon t want to give? The liquor gave Will courage, and he wondered if Kit hadintended it so. Perhaps how I would see thee, if I could.That beautiful, ruined face turned toward him, and Kit set down his cup on arelief-carved trunk and closed the distance a few hesitant steps. Hisforehead shone pale, candlelight burnishing a thin gloss of sweat. Willswallowed. Kit s careful, measured voice coiled his limbs like the tendrilsof a fog, cat-amused. And were I a woman, a maid, what wouldst will of me?Will grinned and stepped back, far enough that he could breathe again. Thecloser Kit came, the vaster grew the tightness in Will s throat. He tossedback what was in his glass; it seemed easier to swallow, and a pleasantlooseness imbued his muscles. Wouldst measure thy will gainst mine? I d saya maid at thine age hadn t been striving for another state.
I d be inclined to agree. Dost wish more drink?Wine, an thou hast it. His throat was dry; wine would comfort it.By all means, put me to use.Kit busied himself at the sideboard; Will watched how his curls snagged andslid on the velvet across his shoulders. He would have made a lovely girl.To use? Pouring and fetching?Kit checked as if Will had flicked his nose for overcuriosity. Pity mineimpertinence. Tis queer to see oneself given a woman s body. And, in mysituation, a rare pleasure to be remembered. Bitterness on that last word,and Will flinched from it as Kit returned his cup.Will drank, and Kit drank too. The silence lasted until they d drained thewine. Will set his cup on the window ledge with a soft click and twisted hisheavy new earring in his ear before he spoke. The words that came were notthe words he d intended. Kit, why would any man permit . . . He swallowed,stuffed his traitor right hand into the pocket of the borrowed sunflowerdoublet. Isn t it agonizing?Kit cleared his throat, looking away, dispossessing himself of his cup aswell. Rather thou shouldst say, exquisite.I find it difficult to comprehend.I Kit paused, still looking down, face suddenly pale around a flush thatmarked consumptive circles on his cheeks, bright enough to show bycandlelight could show thee. Ah. Will s mouth that had been so dry was full of juice now. He swallowed it.Thou Kit was trembling. Like a leaf, like a girl, like a rose petal twisting inthe breeze, about to be lifted from the stem. Do not I possess mine ownbody, to pray God as I wish, to speak as I wish, to love with as I wish?Which was heresy again, and sedition, and half a dozen other things. To whichWill had no answer. Kit smelled of sweet wine and herbs, and that fiery taintof uisge. Soft boots silent on red-and-gold carpet, in one endless moment, hecame the few short steps to Will diffidently, like a man wooing a maid. Gazeon gaze, as if watching for the instant when Will might startle, he raisedspread fingers and slid them up Will s cheeks, brushed his ears, combed hiscurls with them. Then took Will s face tenderly between his hands and,tugging him down, nibbled Will s lips until they parted. William, my LoveA kiss at first as hesitant as a maiden s, but then deepening as Willsoftened into it; and yet unlike kissing a maid, for all Kit s lush mouth andpouting lip, because that mouth and tongue were knowing. There was theaggression of it, the light control exerted by Kit s hands in his hair, theyielding lips fronting a seeking tongue, the brush of beard against beard,the hardness of a man s muscled body in his arms. Literally in his arms; Will 
blinked to realize he d pulled Kit close, dust-colored curls between hisfingers, leaning into the forbidden, erotic kiss that drained blood from asuddenly light head to warm and throb in his loins. A swarm of moths beathungry wings toward the candle flaring in his breast
he jerked free.A string of saliva stretched between their mouths, glistening. Pity, Kit said, and broke it with a fingertip, stepping away. More wine before we sleep?
No, Will said. I think I ve had too much already. Art ready, for sleep?Aye, Kit answered, unbuttoning his doublet s collar. To sleep.Will lay in darkness, listening to Kit s slow breathing, hugging hisnightshirt close to his sides. How can he sleep Like that, as if nothingtranspiredSleep is what you should be doing as well, he reminded himself, and closedhis eyes resolutely on the faintly moonlit swells and valleys of the canopyoverhead. Will nibbled his thumbnail, stopped quickly at the subtle reminderof the pressure of lips on lips. He turned on his side, careful not to shiftthe coverlet, and buried his face in a tightly clutched pillow as if thegreater darkness could silence the voice in his heart. What if I had shown him those poems?He knows. He must know. Or was he just
being Kit? He shocked all Faerie with that song of old Harry s. Did he wantto shock me too? Did I want him to know? 
Kit never stirred. Will cursed him his complacency, the even rhythm of hisbreath, the relaxation in his shoulders under the whiteness of his nightshirtwhen Will turned to look at him in the moonlight. Wondered what would happenif he, Will, put out his right hand and took Kit by the shoulder and turnedhim to the center of the bed, and stole another kiss. It would be more than a kiss now, and that, thou knowest.He sighed, and rolled back to his own side of the bed. O Let my books be thenthe eloquence, And dumb presagers of my speaking breastAnd what if I told him that? Would he 
kiss me Like that again? What else would he do?Would I want him to? 
An unanswerable question, for all Will would have known the answer shorthours before. The night passed in discomfort, until the last grayness before the first goldof morning, when Kit s muttered whimpers and bedding-snarled struggles drewWill upright. Kit? No answer, but a low, tangled moan. Kit s hand reached out, as if to graspsomething, or ward it away, and Will impulsively caught his wrist with bothhands. Kit. Who blinked, and drew the hand back, self-consciously, rubbing at his scar.Who looked strange in the half-light, divested of the eyepatch Will stillhadn t quite accepted; Will wanted to reach out and touch that long whitescar, the drooping eyelid, the bland, pallid orb underneath. He tucked hishands below the covers. Dream, Kit said softly, turning aside as if Will sgaze discomfited him. Damn me to Hell, Robert said they were supposed to getbetter after I made the cloak 
What sort of a dream? Will drew back among the pillows, propped against thebedpost. Nightmares?Robert said they were prophecy, and indeed I had one of you in Bainesclutches. Twas what drove me to your rescue. But stitching that cloak wasmeant to bring their power under control. Prophetic dreams are all veryhandy, I m sure, but if I cannot sleep at night, any night, I ll be of no useto anyoneYou slept a little, Will said. 
I had . . . Kit stopped, his hands fretting the bedclothes. Just drifted off a moment ago.Oh. Wariness, and then a cold sort of delight. Not so cool as he pretendsMaster Shakespeare. It will not behoove you to be cruel. The cloak, Will said; anything to break the fraught, gray silence. What if you spread itover the bed? There s herbs that keep dreams off if placed under your pillow.Perhaps it holds the same sort of virtue.Kit lifted his chin and slid his legs out of the bed. He d pulled the cloakoff its foot the night before and folded it neatly over the back of thechair; now he shook it open and laid it over the coverlet. The fabrics darkand bright, rich and plain, were hypnotic; Will reached out and stroked arose-colored trapezoid of brocade. Why a patchwork?Kit smiled. Morgan and Cairbre say it signifies all the hearts a bard haspleased with his music; it represents protection, for the good will of allthose listeners and lovers interlinks to a garment that keeps ill magic andill fate away like ill weather. A very old kind of sympathy.
So not a fool s motley, then?They both represent something sacrosanct. Kit clambered back into bed,making a show of pushing his pillow around, and lay down with his back toWill again. A tatterdemalion sort of magic, but there you are.Which patch is from your Prince?He hasn t given one. A hesitation. The green-figured velvet embroideredwith the unicorn, though. That was from Morgan, and oddly formal for a thingthat s meant to be made of scraps and ragged leavings.
As if the Bard, in exchanging pleasure and truth with many, isn t entitled toa single whole Life of his own. Rest easy, Kit, Will said, because he couldnot think what else to say. I ll wake you again, if need be. 
Act III, scene iv
For such outrageous passions cloy my soul,As with the wings of rancor and disdain,Full often am I soaring up to heaven,To plaint me to the gods against them both:
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Edward II Kit awakened for the second time almost rested, and he wasn t entirelycertain whether it was the mingled silken and harsh fabrics of the cloakbunched in his fists that made the difference, or Will s arm around hisshoulders, bridging the careful four inches that separated their bodies. Therhythm of Will s breathing told him the other poet was not sleeping. Was I dreaming again?
Complexly, I gather, from thy conversations. Will drew back as Kit turned to face him, and Kit frowned.
Aye, Marley. And your own damned fault it is. What wert thou thinking? Moreto the point, what wert thou thinking with?
Conversations? What did I say? Kit sat upright, reaching for his eyepatch.
At least I didn t wake up screaming this time; the cloak must have itsuses. Will blushed, and as Kit asked, he remembered a flurry of wild white wingslike Icarus doves? Swans? If it s swans, does it mean Elizabeth? There seemsto be a symbolism running through these dreams of mine, rather than a literalthread. And there had been blood, and pentagrams.
Thou didst call on Christ to save thee. Begged someone to finish something,or make it done. And then Consummatum est. Kit stood and pulled his nightshirt over his head,stumbling across the carpet to the wash-basin. He all but felt Will avert hiseyes. I remember now. If I could only remember what it is that was done. .. .
 Yes. Kit Kit turned back, preserving some semblance of modesty with the nightshirt inhis hand, amused at Will s reaction to his nudity. Unkind, Christofer.I am what I am.
 What is that mark on thy side? Oh, there s another.Five, Kit answered, remembering how they had burned as if writ anew on hisflesh, in the dream. One on my breast. One to each side, just below the ribson my belly. One gracing each thigh, like the points of a star. The circle of Solomon or the pentangle? I imagine the circle would have required moremen. And then, circles are for keeping something out; pentagrams for keepingsomething in.Stopping my voice in my throat, Like the bridle. And when my Edward proved tothem they had failed to break me, they killed me. God in heaven, I hope Inever know what Oxford was thinking when we Lacrima Christi. When we were together. How much did he know?ALL of it?
 Not an accident, then.Rheims, Kit said, and waited. Did you think I was kidding about the irons,Will? When Will said nothing more, he turned away again and went to washhimself in the icy water before finding a clean shirt and leaving the basinto Will. Tis nigh on afternoon. Not surprising; we scarcely slept tillmorning. Have you plans for the evening?Will we be expected at dinner?Dinner is cold shoulder. The court prefers to gather for supper, and forsport and entertainments after. Thou rt still nine days wonder enough thatthou shouldst appear. I certainly will. Kit s clothing seemed to haveexpanded overnight, some brighter colors among the blacks and greens Morganfavored on him: clothes narrower in the shoulder and longer in the arm. Your wardrobe has arrived. Does it involve a clean shirt? 
Aye, a selection Kit stepped aside so Will could pick through the pile.Wilt explore Faerie?Is it safe? No Kit said. But I m only writing a play on Orfeo gone to Faerie now, or
perhaps tis Orpheus gone to Hell. I could accompany you.If it s not an inconvenience. Is there a difference, between Faerie andHell? When I ve seen Hell, I ll tell thee A light knock interrupted. A moment! Kit caught his cloak up from the bed and hesitated. Will, is this thine?Something gleamed in the middle of the coverlet, as if it had been slippedbeneath Kit s cloak. A quill he guessed it a swan s quill, by the strengthand color the tip cut to a nib but with the vanes of the feather unstripped.I think not, Will said, hunching to twist his hose smooth at the back ofhis knee. A pen?Indeed. Some unidentifiable thrill ran through Kit as he held it, asensation like beating wings, and with it came undefinable sorrow and joy. Heset it on the table near the bed but was unable to resist one last, softtouch. I wonder how it found its way onto the coverlet. Who s there?Tucking his shirt hastily into his untied breeches as a second round ofknocking commenced, he hastened to the door and unlatched it.Morgan stepped inside and regarded Kit with amusement. So you rise to greetthe nightingale, and not the lark? And then, over his shoulder: Good day,Master Shakespeare.Your Highness. Will came forward, fastening his buttons one-handed. A fine reception last night. I thank you.There s dancing tonight, she offered, brushing past Kit to lay a hand onWill. I wished to speak with thee. Kit, Cairbre wishes your attendance whenyou are decentKit swung his cloak up. Will, wouldst care to accompany me? I am not Leaving him alone with Morgan Le Fey.
I I shall send him along when I ve finished with him, she promised. Don t worry. It shan t be long.Kit looked from one to the other: Will had a certain bemused curiosity on hisface, and Morgan s tone was one step shy of command. He sighed and finisheddressing. Very well. He bowed over Morgan s hand. Treat kindly with myfriend, my Queen. Knowing she would hear everything he put into the title,both promises and obligations.I shall be sure to, she answered, and there was nothing for it but toexcuse himself and go. 
Act III, scene v
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,Which in thy breast doth Live, as thine in me:How can I then be elder than thou art?
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, from Sonnet 22"Now, Master Shakespeare, Morgan said, after the door drifted "reluctantlyclosed behind Kit, "this illness thou rt concealing so effectively. We regoing to discuss it.Will blinked and sat down on the edge of Kit s bed. Not such effective concealment if you noticed it in the span of a few hours acquaintance.
I am she who notices such things, she said, dark eyes sparkling. Shesettled on the floor, her gown puddling around her, and drew her knees to herbreast. What afflicts thee, other than the tremors and the shortenedstride? 
Lack of balance, Will answered, amazed at how easily the words came. Do not trust what the Faeries offer, he reminded himself. Easy exhaustion. Mythroat aches, as do my breast and back, and I have no appetite. Of late Inotice the palsy in my left hand too
The next stage of the illness, Morgan said, resting her chin on her crossedarms and her knees, is likely a more shuffling step and a nodding palsy, anda paralysis of the face. If it follows the course I ve seen. Thou rt no morelikely to suffer dementia than any man, for what comfort it offers.
Likely, Will answered. My father is well aged and still in his right mind,though ill for years. I have my hopes.Thou shouldst. She rose, uncoiling, posed for a moment like a caryatid, andas she came toward him he saw her feet were bare upon the carpets. The loosegown caressed the heavy curve of her hips and breasts such that it leftWill s throat aching more than his illness could excuse. I ve aught forthee: a tincture of hellebore and arnica, and powdered root of aconite.Monkshood? Will thought of nodding blue flowers. All poisons, YourHighnessAye, she said. He would have stood when she came before him, but herlong-fingered hand on his shoulder pressed him down. Herbs of great virtueare often dangerous. She smoothed her fingers under the line of his jaw,where his blood fluttered close to the skin, and felt of it for a moment,unhurried. She smelled of something sharply bitter and over it a musky, resinous scent:warmed amber, he thought. The frustrations of the night flooded back at hertouch, and he prayed she thought the shiver that ran through him was illnessand not the raw, physical reaction that it was. Always a weakness for olderwomen. He bit down on a chuckle. Much older. She nodded and stepped away, her hand lingering for a moment. I ve brought asalve imbued with amber oil and camphor as well, to anoint the sore places.Some say it helps A facile shrug, and then she dug in her pockets for a tinbox, a stoppered bottle no bigger than an inkhorn, and a casket of carvenstone. We can try poison nut if none of these avail. Thou needst be cautiousof the dosage: there is no remedy for monkshood or arnica poisoning, andneither is a pleasant death.Will held out his hands: they trembled less as she laid each gift in hiscupped palms. Thank you, Your Highness. You will show me how?She nodded and went to the fireside, leaning against the edge of the hearth,watching him with a sort of birdlike brightness. He stilled his face to hidethe longing in it. None of this is a cure, gentle Shakespeare.
I understand. Curiously, he examined the bottle; it was carven from thetine of a stag s horn, and the stopper was finished with a knotty gray pearl.He laid it on the bed beside him, along with the other trinkets. Your Highness 
Ask it, William. I have little time for reticence, as Sir Christofer will nodoubt inform thee. Why am I permitted my freedom and vouchsafed your aid, and that of the Mebd,when my friend Kit is so obviously bound here against his will, and indurance? A good question, she said, and went to find glasses on the sideboard. Thou shouldst not too much drink ale or wine with those herbs a little will not hurt, but be sparing. But I can offer thee a drink of lemons and gingerA good question that will go unanswered, he said with some amusement,smiling as she placed the cup in his hands. It steamed, and the metal warmedhis palms: more casual witchcraft.Nay, she said. I ll answer thee. She sipped her own drink, and Will only held his for a moment and watched herface and the way her hair moved against her cheek, showing bands of silveramong the black.She said, Because thou art of more use to Faerie in the mortal realm than thou art here, and Sir Christofer has that in him which we need, and canbargain with, and can use as a weapon. And thus we keep him here.Has that in him his magic? His poetry?No, though we have our ways of making profit on that.Does he know this? He knows we have uses for him. He knows what some of them entail: his poetry, his plays. We use him as your own Gloriana did and there is more to it, of course.And you have not told himBecause, she said, pressing the back of her hand to her eye, he is not ready to know. Thy Kit Marley is a deeply broken thing, gentle William, and Ido not think he could bear the knowledge of what use he has been put to.Will s hands tightened on the cup. He lifted it to his mouth and tasted thesweetness of honey, the sharpness of ginger, infused with a silveryaftertaste. Her candor left him nauseated: the ginger helped. What use is that, Your Highness?No, she said, after a considering stare. I do not believe thou couldst keep it from him long, even an thou understood why it must be kept. Sufficeit to say he is safer with us, and kept distracted with small tasks.He s not a man for small tasks, Your Highness.This smile sparkled, parting her lips for a low, sugared laugh. Perhapsnot, she answered, setting her cup on the mantel and strolling toward thedoor. She opened it and paused within its frame, turning back for a partingsmile. But then, neither art thou, I consider.Will paused in the doorway to the conservatory, blinking in the light as itsoccupants turned to face him, and then blinking again to bring the splendorof the enormous room into focus. Music surrounded him, an eldritch sort of areel on two flutes and viola; he gazed about in wonder as he paused atop thebroad, time-hollowed marble steps. Some vining plant a type of fig, herealized, for the fruit that hung in purple-black profusion along itsstem ascended a trellis, contorted branches a latticework against the crystalof the ceiling. A wisteria s waterfall blossoms dangled among the fig sglossy leaves, and all about the glass-domed marble space were fountains andbenches and statuary, a profusion of half-private niches and mossy grottoes.A small group of people both nearly human and quite outlandish gathered bythe splashing fountains: Kit and the bard Cairbre in their gaily coloredpatchworks, and beside them the snake-tailed Amaranth. There was a foppishlydressed gallant with a stag s head on his shoulders, shiny above the earswhere he must have shed his antlers, and Robin Goodfellow perched on the headof a statue, reed flute raised to pursed lips and his ears waggling in time.Will did feel better for Morgan s herbwifery, he realized; the ache acrosshis shoulders ebbed, and his hands shook less as he took the banister todescend, hushing his footsteps so as not to disturb the musicians. Kit caught 
his eye over the restless motion of the bow, offering a smile that broughtwith it a frisson that Will could almost convince himself was aversion. Or should that word be fascination, Will? 
He paused outside the circle until Kit, Cairbre, and the Puck lowered theirinstruments, then joined the polite applause. Kit, that smile still intact,handed his viola and the bow to Amaranth, who settled it under her chinamidst much inconvenienced hissing from her hair. Well played, Will said. Kit shrugged it off. He laid a hand on Will s shoulder and drew him gentlyaside, where the sound of the fountain and the flurry of music would covertheir speech. I ve not much to do but practice and play the Prince sfavorite. How went your interview with my mistress?
She is most gracious, Will answered. And most mysterious. I hope you havebeen careful what she has asked of you, KitAs careful as a man may be, where he owes his lifeAye, there s the rub.
Tis not the rub that concerns us so much as the result. Will chuckled, dabbling his hands in the fountain. He leaned back, restedagainst the edge, remembering the paleness of Kit s scars. The man s entitled to nightmares, he thought. He s also entitled to the truth of what Morgansaid of him: as well she knows I won t be used against my friend. She hinted at things that troubled me, my friend. Sorcery and subtlety.Kit snorted, turning to sit on the marble edge, shoulder to shoulder withWill and on his left. Did she tell you it was she who ensorceled me, whenfirst I came to Faerie? 
No. And yet she released you?After a fashion. Or I won my way free. I am still bound here, though.Will raised his left hand to brush his earring. Kit nodded. I envy you that,a bit. It seems I can be gone from Faerie three days, perhaps four, before mybody begins to fail.An unkind sentence. I comfort myself that at least I left no family, save that in Canterbury.
What dost thou then think I am, Kit? And the Toms, and Mary and Robin, andNed Alleyn? But he nodded, and bumped Kit s shoulder with his own. She also hinted and wisely said she would not say more, as I might run direct to theewith the tidings a deprecating laugh that thou wert bound, somehow, still.She suggested that there was a power in thee, something trapped and broken.He moved to see Kit s profile. Kit had put his blind side to Will, Willrealized with a rush of affection.
 She has a gift for manipulation, Kit said. But she does not understand,always, mortal men.I see. What did she say, exactly?Will drew a breath, watching Amaranth rise up on the tower of her tail, herscales catching the light that rippled from the fountains until it seemed sheshone. She said that I was free to go because of being more use in themortal world than here, and that you have that in you which she needs, andmight bargain with, and may find to be a weapon. And that you were toodeeply wounded to be told this secret, because it would damage you further toknow. I see, Kit said. Tis so satisfying to have the trust and good faith ofone s patrons.Will held back a laugh at Kit s dry, weary tone. Wilt beard her on this? Morgan le Fey? Might as easily draw the claws from a lion s paw as secretsfrom that one. She s fair as thorn in bloom, and twice as daggery. No. I llpursue where I can. Kit folded his arms across his chest, the angle of hischin telling Will that he watched the Puck cavorting about the shoulders ofHercules. He sighed. Sweet William. How did we ever get from there to here?Will shrugged. Where? London? Where is here, then? 
Sorcery, intrigue, intelligencing, Faerie. 
Poetry.
Poetry is how we got here? Who would have thought poetry so dangerous? Kit kicked one heel up, resting it against the base of the statue. My fathermade shoes. Yours made gloves. There s a certain symmetry there, and toending up here.
The Cobbler s Boy, the Glover s Lad, and the Queen of Faerie. I hope thisisn t an ending.
I was hoping for happily ever after in wealth and contentment. 
It should be a ballad. 
If I know Cairbre, it will be. A facile comment, but Will thought there wasmore behind it. Kit hummed a familiar melody, and sang under the rise andfall of the flutes and the viola: ALL hail the mighty Queen of Heaven! Oh,no, True Thomas, that name does not belong to me.
Old songs?
Old songs, old poems. Old poets.
Getting older.Silence for a minute, as they listened to the melody of the instruments andthe falling water. I think I know, then, what s bound in me that they meanto use as a weapon.
You do? 
I can guess The arms unfolded. Kit leaned back, his hands flat on the edgeof the fountain. Will imitated the gesture, cool marble smooth and damp underhis hands.
 What then? 
At a guess? Something to do with the spells we build with our poetry. Itwould go a deal toward explaining why thou hast been unable to break thedrought, if they ve . . . Baines and Will felt Kit s shiver said the bridle, the stopping of a poet s voice, was the symbol that drove the spellSpell? Will turned again, and laid a hand on Kit s shoulder, watching himswallow and continue to stare straight ahead at the musicians. Spell?
You re too easy to talk to, Will.
As it may be. Spell. You said nothing
What happened in Rheims, Kit said, was some sort of black magic.Promethean magic. Baines called me a deadly levelness, the tone of a boyreciting Latin verbs vessel. 
Christ, KitKit didn t turn, but a casual gesture dismissed Will s fury. So logically,if that s what s bottled up in me, and how they did it . . .
Canst prove it?
Nay. Tis speculation of the rankest sort.
What are we going to do about it?We. He felt Kit s relief at the word, the way the smaller man relaxed as heturned to give Will a fragment of a smile. Damn, Will. We haven t an idea.But we ll be sure to let us know when we figure it out, won t we?Will squeezed and let his hand drop, turning back to the music, aware thatthe appraising eyes of Cairbre and the stag-headed Fae rested upon them.
We ll certainly do our best. 
Act III, scene vi
That Love is childish which consists in words. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Dido, Queen of CarthageKit watched Will turn away, admiring the resplendent and obviouslyuncomfortable figure he cut in trunk hose, a starched ruff, a plumed hat, anda gold-and-aquamarine-wrought doublet of the vivid blue called inciannomati.Blues were unfashionable in London; it was the color of apprentice gowns andElizabeth detested it, but here in Faerie there were no such considerations.The color looked very fine with Will s dark hair and startling eyes, thetrunk hose showing a sinewy leg. Give Morgan that, Kit thought. She can dress a man 
And then he laughed, remembering many an attempt to dress Will up in yearsgone by. Will glanced over his shoulder as Kit pushed away from the fountainand fell into step beside him. Together, they wandered away from the littleclutch of musicians and observers to circumnavigate the conservatory. What? 
My William doesn t look like a Puritan today. Kit watched Will s eyes tosee if his friend flinched at the endearment, and was relieved when it seemedto pass unremarked except by a flicker of smile.Can you call it a day, here? And would a Puritan be welcomed in Faerie?That s a ballad of a different sort, Kit said. A bawdy one, or I miss mymark. Perhaps I should write itWith a black cloth coat / and a starch d white ruff / all strewn o er thegreensward Will sang to the tune of a common tavern song, and Kit laughed.So, sweet Christofer, how shall we entertain ourselves until the dinnerhour? Hast eaten? A pastry and a bit of small beer. It will do.I could introduce thee to the gardens.If they outshine the conservatory Will s stagy gesture took in theglittering dome overhead, the marble planters full without regard toseason of nodding blossoms, the scent of the wisteria as heavy and sweet astreacle. Shall I be called upon to sing for my supper again tonight?I should count on it, my friend. The Fae, Kit said softly, as they came upon the rest of the group, will pay handsomely to be made to feel. They arecold and strange, and I sometimes think . . .Will s curious gaze stroked his face.Kit felt it as a palpable touch, and sighed. He stopped, and turned aside totoy with the cool, silken petals of a chimerical chrysanthemum. Put it aside,Marley I sometimes think they envy us our passions, and half the reasonthey steal us mortals away is to keep us hothoused like these blossoms.Nothing ever dies in Faerie. It just grows chill and dark.I could wish a little chillness in trade for a little life. Kit glanced up at the bitterness in Will s tone, and almost reached to takeWill s arm. The stiffness of the other man s posture, his averted eyes,gnawed at Kit with sorrowful teeth, and he let his hand sink back to hisside. Will, I m sorryNo, Will said. You ve nothing to be sorry for. There s nothing you canmake better, Kit.I could have been there, Kit thought. You said it yourself. But he waited,dumb, as Will wandered away to plunge his hands into the fountain again. Atug on Kit s sleeve startled him; he jumped and turned to his blind side.Geoffrey!Your pardon, Sir Poet. You seemed pensive.I am pensive, Geoff. Has the music lost its charm for you already? He tilted his head suggestively at Amaranth, Puck, and Cairbre, who were stillin full swing.The stag shrugged, which Kit found anatomically interesting, and looked downhis long muzzle at the poet. This Shakespeare is a friend of yours?Aye, Kit said, a good one 
Geoffrey raised a placating hoof at the warning tone in Kit s voice. I meant nothing by it. One tries to stay apprised of the poetical rivalries in court,of course, and it s been long since we had bards to choose between.Kit laughed. Friendship has never stopped us being rivals. The two are notexclusive. Is politics and poetry the main course tonight, then?Geoffrey s cloven forehoof moved like a scissors. He lifted the dark violet,golden-eyed blossom he d snipped from the planter to his nostrils andsniffed. Do you remember when we spoke of war, and bondage?
Love-in-idleness. I couldn t forget.Then you know tis always politics.Politics and poetry. Politics and love. Politics and fairy tales. This isthe introduction to a seducement, Geoffrey.Am I so transparent?Kit let his voice go low, but kept the banter in his tone for the sake ofeavesdroppers. It s been a long time coming, he said. What does it entail? The overthrow of the Queen?Nothing so dire, the stag answered, just as soft. Merely a little magic.Which you well began in song already, I wot.Why now? Why not last year, or the year before?The stag arched his head, observing the musicians and Will both through theadvantage of his wide-spaced eyes. You re reclaiming yourself at last. Youshow you are a man of loyalty, once that loyalty is wonI wouldn t be so hasty as to think so. I ve never been known for choosingsides based on anything other than expedience."Haven t you? You ve been careful not to choose, here, Sir Christofer. It hasnot gone unnoticed that you share your gifts between factions, and permitnone of them, quite, to claim you.Kit caught himself chewing a thumbnail, made himself stop and tuck his handsinside crossed arms. What can you offer me that Morgan can t, or, failingthat, the Mebd?Freedom, Geoffrey answered, the sunlight shining on the silver-gray patcheswhere his antlers would grow come the fall. His wet nose quivered softly. If you likeKit felt Puck s curious eyes on him when he reached out and eased the flowerfrom Geoffrey s hoof. He crushed it in his hand satiny moisture and a violetstain that vanished when he brushed the ruined remains on the raven s-wingvelvet of his doublet. We ll talk again, he said, and nodded once before hewalked away.Leaning against a marble satyr, Kit folded his arms and watched Cairbre andthe towering Amaranth show Will the esoteric fingerings of a silver Faerieflute. He covered a momentary pang of jealousy with an idle smile. Give him his glory: a poet in Faerie.Kit laughed silently. If Orfeo stole his Lover back from the Faerie king,what does that make of me, having done the reverse? A moment before the fallacy sank in and his mouth twisted in bitter whimsy rather than humor.
That is to say, if I had any claim on him at all. Mayhap Annie can come stealhim back from me, and keep the Legend intact.He sighed and looked down at his hands. Most men are married, he reminded himself. It is the custom of the age.And what of you, Sir Christofer?
Ah, the unanswerable questions.He straightened and left Will there, slipping through the glass door to thegarden. Gravel settled under his boots; the scent of roses overwhelmed thesticky, lingering perfume of the crushed blossom upon Kit s skin. Kit turnedhis face to the sky, reveling in the warming sunlight.He recognized the step on the walk behind him and didn t turn to face whocame. A warm breeze lifted Kit s hair; a warm hand followed it, stroking thenape of his neck. Wanton. A whisper against his ear.
Murchaud. 
Sweet Christofer. Your friend has charmed the court already.Kit bit his tongue on his first reply and forced his manner to calm. He s for the ladies, lover.Poor Kit, that he should disappoint thee so. And more fool he. Murchaud knotted a hand in Kit s fine, full hair and turned his head to kiss him onthe mouth. Kit fairly burned with unexpected shame, knowing the embraceplainly visible from within the conservatory. Knowing Will would think Kithad abandoned him among strangers to go out to his lover.
A Prince s Licentious favorite. Ganymede, indeed. Even if he were so given,how could he ever believe thy Love more than this travesty?Tom did 
Murchaud spoke against his ear. You re thinking.Aye. Kit cast about for the plausible lie, hesitated. Drew back enough tolook Murchaud in the face when he spoke. The Mebd Aye.What do you think I owe her, Murchaud? He turned as he spoke and strodeslowly along the path, leading Murchaud among the roses and their lesserbrethren. Aside from your life?She s got payment in service for that, Kit answered. And surely I owe yourmother as much. Aye. Murchaud cocked his head to follow the flitting progress of anexaltation of larks. His right hand rested possessively on Kit s elbow.Everyone pushes me in one direction or another, Murchaud. As if the wholeworld held its breath, waiting to see which way I ll bend. And yet I feel Iam not vouchsafed information enough to do so intelligently. Kit kicked at the gravel. They came beside a path of cypresses. Kit did not remember havinggone this way before.And when you chose for England and her Queen, what details were youvouchsafed then? Kit stifled a laugh at himself. That was simply naive patriotism, I mafraid. And there was only one side that wanted me untrue, he realized as he said it. Or I wouldn t have been able to enter Rheims at all. Well, then, to be wanted so desperately now tells thee something. Murchaud drifted away, plucking dusky blue berries from the evergreens hedging thewalk and flicking them away with his thumbnail.Kit caught their resinous scent and thought it erotic. And what am I taught,my love?Thou art important to someone. Come, I wish to show something to thee.Kit considered that as he followed the suddenly animated Prince across a widegreen lawn toward a copse of thorn trees hung with berries red as blood.Curiosity galled him, but he wouldn t give Murchaud the satisfaction ofseeing it manifest. You LL know soon enough. The Mebd said once that when Queen Elizabeth passes there will be a rade. A procession. Murchaud s strides were long. Kit hastened to keep up, soft greensward dimpling underhis boots. Aye, we ll go to honor your Gloriana.And your wife the faintest emphasis said also that there would be a war. A war of song.A war of spells. Not that they are much different, in Faerie or on Earth.Murchaud led Kit under the bowering thorn trees, lifting the branches aside.Red blood welled from the Prince s thumb; he licked it and laughed. Beyondthe trees rose a simple pavilion of classical design, a miniature Parthenonof milk-white stone. How can she know what will happen when Elizabeth is dead? How can any of usknow? To contemplate her death alone was a marvel: Iron Bess had reigned andruled longer than Kit had been alive.We can t, Murchaud answered, turning impatiently to Kit, who must havemounted the steps more slowly than the Elf-knight liked. I can only guess. 
And it may not be hard on the heels of her death. I rather expect there willbe a few years subtlety and manipulation, first. Edging the pieces about theboard. The midgame starts when Elizabeth dies. Why?Because faith in Elizabeth herself is half the faith that holds England andthe Protestants together, Murchaud said. And that faith alone is enough tosend enemy ships stormlost at sea, and bring forth men like Burghley andWalsingham and Shakespeare and Marley to serve.What s that? Kit gestured to the long marble box, chest-high and seeminglyhollow within, that dominated the center of the pavilion. The only otherfurniture was a pair of marble benches along the walls.England, Murchaud answered. Come forward, Sir Christofer, and meet myfamily.Curious, Kit walked up beside him, through the softly breezy shadows, untilhe stood beside Murchaud over the tall plinth, as long as a coffin. An aptcomparison, because A plinth, he realized. Or a bier. Its high marble sides enclosed the form of a man on a platform some twelveinches below: what Kit would have taken for a waxwork had not the impossibleprofusion of copper-blond hair stirred in the passage of the sleeper s evenbreaths. Someone had combed those locks to softness, shining like hanks ofsilk in the filtered light, and Kit judged it would reach beyond thesleeper s knees if he stood, on a man as tall and as broad as Murchaud. Agolden circlet crossed his splendid brow, and a scattering of freckles dustedthe skin over the aristocratic bones of his face: last stars fading at dawn.By contrast with his hair, his beard was neatly barbered and as red as Kit s,but streaked with steel under the corners of the mouth. Powerful elegantfingers enfolding the hilt of the bronze Roman sword laid down the centerlineof his chest gave Kit the first soft inkling of who this was. How long hashe lain here? 
A thousand years. Breathless, and the weight of all those years was in thePrince s voice. Fingers very like the fingers of the sleeper twined Kit sown, and Murchaud drew Kit s hand out to brush Arthur s warm and pliantcheek.
 I always rather liked the tale, Kit said, just to break the hush, that he had become a raven. And that is why ravens are sacrosanct, and why shouldthey all ever leave the Tower, it is assured that England will fall. Pity itisn t true. Murchaud smiled. But it is true. As true as the story that he sleeps here inFaerie 
How can that be? Kit, softly, wondering.All tales are true, Murchaud answered, squeezing Kit s hand before he letit fall. Some are simply more true than others. Look here, unto thy lover,Sir Poet: here stands a man born nigh unto Roman times, son of a story notinvented until seven hundred years laterKit couldn t bear to break the silence. He stepped away from the bier, hiseyes stinging, and turned away for a moment to watch the sunlight movethrough the branches of the thorn trees. A thousand years. When he re-collected himself, he asked, What do all these factions want of me,Highness?Silk rustled; Kit thought Murchaud shrugged. What do you suppose they wantedof him?
 Conquest, Kit said promptly, and then a moment after Salvation. Love? Do you suppose?My father loved him, Murchaud said softly, and Kit turned to him in
surprise. The Elf-knight hadn t moved: he stood, still, with bowed head overArthur s bier. Your father betrayed him. 
Aye, Murchaud answered, glancing up with shining eyes. That s what makes it a tragedy, my dear. 
Act III, scene vii
Had my friend s Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth then thishis Love had brought: To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he diedand Poets better prove, Theirs for their style I LL read, his for his Love.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet 32Kit lay on his back against the emerald coverlet, lamplight snarled in hislight brown hair, and idly turned the swan-white quill between his fingerswhile Will watched from the chair by the window. The ornately carved back waswinning the war against Will s spine; Will leaned forward, resting his elbowson his knees. These lamps are very fine. They burn paraffin?
Spirits of some sort, Kit said. Tis a lovely bright light, isn t it?I might sit up a little, Will said, feeling dishonest. If the light willbother you, I can retreat to the library.No need, Kit said, kicking his legs high to swing himself out of the bed.He dropped the pen onto a shelf as he stood, his fingers returning to strokethe stainless plume briefly before he turned away. What a little mysterythis is, isn t it?What will you do with it?Kit shrugged, his eyebrows arching in cheerful mockery. Tis too lovely tostrip and stain with ink. Keep it as a token of affection, I suppose; I musthave an unconfessed admirer. Perhaps she wants you to write a sonnet to her loveliness. Or Will grinned on her loveliness, for that matter.Ah, but sonnets are thy idiom, not mineWill leaned back into the shadows, feeling the grin slide down his face.Where have you read my sonnets, Kit? He managed to hide a guilty look athis cloak and the brownie-cleaned boots that he had come to Faerie in. Theywere tucked into the corner beside the clothespress with his sonnets rolledup inside them. Surely Kit would be, if anything, too proud to sneakRomeo and Juliet, Kit answered. And nicely done it was. I wouldn t mindseeing those others you mentioned, though, when you think they re fit for thepublic eye.Somehow, Will managed not to choke. They may never be so.Really? Not as off-color as Tom s dildo poem, I trust Kit poured water towash his hands and face and made a little ceremony of it.With a better meter, at least.Kit turned to him surprised, reaching for linen to dry his hands, and Willlaughed.No; I ve a touch more decorum than Tom, though I ve read the poem inquestion. I rather imagine that one will never see printer s ink. You don tmind my rustling papers and cursing by lamplight while you try to sleep?Not at all. Kit shrugged. You re not like to have much time for work here. You re a puzzle to them, a toy, and if you claim the library, this palaceholds enough creatures who do not sleep to distract you with their demands.Besides, if you re here, you can wake me if I start to dream.Sensible, Will said. May I have that lamp by the bedside as well?Yes, and use my table. Kit brought the squat globe with its odd, tallchimney over to the broad walnut writing table, shoving layers of papersaside. Will picked up the lamp from the square table beside the window andjoined him, angling the two so they gave enough light to write by. That s not bad Better than candles. Aye. Sleep well, Kit.Kit pursed his lips as he turned away. Just don t wish me dream sweetly, Ipray.A few hours later, Will rolled the mismatched sheets of sonnetry into a tubeagain and fastened them with a ribbon. He weighed the poems in his hand: afew ounces of ink and paper and emotion and clever wordplay. Surely nothingto feel such pride and consternation over. 
He d lied to Kit when he said Jonson had a copy; a few he d shown to friends,but not most of them. Certainly not to anyone who might recognize thesubject.Poley and Baines know Kit is alive now, he realized suddenly. I have to draft a Letter to Tom Walsingham. Which he did, hastily, and sanded and sealed it,explaining the situation and that he, Will, would return by Christmas. And may I meet my promise to a conspirator better than I meet my promises to mywife. Will stood, the poems in one hand, the letter in the other, and hesitated. I don t know how to send it. 
He stole a glance at Marley, curled like a child under his spotted cloak, andstifled a yawn against the back of the hand that held the sonnets. He didn tfeel like sleeping, and he propped the letter and the poems upon the manteland stepped into his boots before he blew the lamps out. The latch clickedsoftly, well oiled, when he turned the handle, and he walked into thedarkness of the hall. The Mebd s palace changed in darkness and solitude. The airy corridors closedin, became low and medieval, and Will thought he saw things scuttle in thecorners near the floor. He stopped his hand before he could cross himself,wondering where that ancient reflex had arisen from, and picked his way pastthe roiling shadows of infrequent torches, certain of restlessness, uncertainof his goal.He found the spiral stair with ease and followed it down, noting landmarks sohe would be able to find his way back when his wandering tired him. Anunusual sense of well-being buoyed him; he wasn t sure if Morgan s medicinesdeserved the credit, or if it was simply the magic of Faerie.Will paused in the atrium, in the mellow moonlight drifting through highwindows and magical skylights, and nodded to the unmoving suits of armorflanking the relief-wrought doors. He wasn t sure they were inhabited, but inthe very least they felt alive. Felt alive, Master Shakespeare? Can youexplain what precisely that means, for our academic interest?Well... ...no. But he nodded anyway, and continued past, down the winding sidecorridor that would bring him to the library. A library worthy of a Cambridgeman s glee, in Will s admittedly under-experienced opinion. The light wasbetter, candles that never seemed to drip or smoke ranged every few feetalong the wall, and Will found the tall red cherry doors easily enough. Theygleamed strangely in the candlelight as he pulled a taper from its sconce andfumbled for the crystal knob, pleased his hand didn t shake.A dim strand of light crossed the floor as he eased the door; he slipped inand let it latch softly. Good night?
Master Shakespeare. A pleased voice, a thrill of velvet that reminded himof the furry backs of fox moth caterpillars inching along a twig. Morgan leFey looked up from reading, her light gilding one side of her face andcasting the other into shadow. A folio whose illuminated leaves were shinyumber under the ink and gilt lay open before her; she held a thin glass rodin her right hand which she used, delicately, to turn the pages.
Your Highness. He bowed, balancing his candle, careful to spatter no wax.The scent of paper and leather filled the library. An unexpected pleasure.I haunt the place, she said, laying her wand aside. Sleepless? Too ill? Ihave herbs for that, tooRather, I am too well to sleep, Your Highness, he answered. And I thank you for it.As he came forward, he saw that the light gleaming over her shoulder wasneither lamp nor candle, but what seemed a swarm of green and golden atomieshovering in midair. He tucked his candle into a wall sconce, well away fromthe ancient tome, and seated himself across from her in acquiescence to hergesture. 
She smiled. I m pleased to find I m not the only one who seeks the dustycomfort of books when I am restless at night.She did not behave in the manner he expected of Queens, and truth to be toldhe was restless; restless with a sort of longing that his own poetry and hissleepless exhaustion had reawakened in his breast. He ached with the need ofit, instead of the pain that had haunted him so much of late. He licked hislips and looked down at her text. What are you reading?She wrapped her fingertips in her sleeve and turned the book so he could see,but the thick hand-drawn letters defeated him. The illuminations told him it was an herbal, though, and he thought it one in verse. It s beautiful. 
Not quite so old as I am. She smiled. Her near-black eyes caught sparks oflight from her attendant atomies; they swirled about her hair like a tiara ofjewels on invisible threads.Unbidden, Will thought of a line of Kit s poetry O, thou art fairer than theevening air / Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars. And then, unbidden, a response and dark within that Light; not so much a star herself. There s apoem in that no, not a star, not so much a sun . . .
Her calm voice broke his reverie. I could grow accustomed to being lookedupon so, Master Shakespeare.He blushed, and blinked. My lady is lovely, he said, and blushed harderwhen she moved the priceless book aside and reached to take his hand.Her fingers were rough at the tips with callus, the hands shapely and longand the tendons plain against her skin as she turned his over to study thepalm. Have you ever had your fortune told, Master Shakespeare?He bit his lip and shook his head. The dancing lights grew brighter, flittinglike the fire-bugs that were supposed to inhabit the darkness of a New Worldcountry called Virginia. Her thumb traced the lines of his hand, and as shebent to study them her hair cascaded across his wrist. The old women of the gipsy caravaneers practice an art handed down from ancient times, they say.They claim a man s destiny is written in his hand, a predetermined fate
The Puritans agree, Will said with a smile that hurt the corners of his mouth. And the Greeks. And the Prometheans, Morgan continued, without raising her eyes. Their ideas are not so revolutionary as they believe. My history gives usprophecies of a different order: geas and fulfillment. You won t have heardof them No, madam. He watched, fascinated, as she stroked a deep crease beside theheel of his hand. This is called Apollo s. Tis said to indicate creativity and potential forgreatness. Combined with the shape of your thumb, a fortune-teller would saythat you are intuitive, passionate, intellectual. Quick of wit and great oftalent A fortune-teller would say so?Aye, she said, with a caressing touch that made him shiver. I am not a fortune-teller, Master Shakespeare. Her gaze rose again, her eyes blackerthan ever. His shiver redoubled. I am a witch. Strangely, his face tingled as if she stroked his cheek rather than his hand.He looked away, down, anywhere but into her laughing eyes. Great of talent, you say.A chuckle. Aye. Great enough for most purposes. And here: this line belongsto Saturn. It shows a destiny, as well. . . . Her voice trailed away.He focused on amusement, on keeping his breaths even and slow when theywanted to flutter in his throat. What destiny is that, Your Highness?I cannot say, she answered. But if I were a fortune-teller, I would saythat you would find it within twenty years, and no longer.Anything could happen in two decades. That s a fair spread.Not so long as it now seems, she answered. Here is the fold that dictates your romantic nature. See how it curves up, and extends long? She bent closer. Ah, and it is braided 
Braided? Aye. You ve not one great love in store, Master Shakespeare, but three.He laughed. Surely one great love is enough for any manHer fingers moved again, and he thanked the opaque surface of the tablebetween them for preserving his dignity. And this is your life lineAnd what does that tell you, Morgan le Fey? The challenge in his own voicesurprised him. Her fingers followed the tracery down and under his thumb,stroking the soft flesh at the inside of his wrist. He caught his breath inshock at the delicacy of that touch.You will live to go home again, William Shakespeare, she said. Do you say any of this will come true, Your Highness?
Tis the rankest charlatanry, she answered. Bending her head further, sheplaced a moth s-wing kiss in the center of his palm. He gasped again andalmost pulled his hand away; she held the wrist and transferred herattentions there.
 Your HighnessHush, she said, glancing up at him through the pall of her hair. Saynothing, Poet, save yes or no. Will closed his eyes, aching. Annie, he thought hopelessly, and then almostlaughed aloud at the next thing he thought: That was in another country, andbesides, the wench is dead. Oh, Kit, trust you to make a hellish sortof sense of this. Yes, he said, and waited endless instants while Morgansent her pixy-lights to bar and watch the door. 
Act III, scene viii
Rejoice, ye sons of wickedness; mourn, unoffending one, with hair in disorderover your pitiable neck.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, On the Death of Sir Roger Manwood (translated from theLatin by Arthur F. Stocker)Kit rolled over and lifted his head from the pillow as the bedroom dooropened and Will slipped inside, half invisible in the starlit darkness. "Youwere gone a while, he said softly, smiling when Will startled and jumped.I went to the library after all.Will s doublet was unbuttoned, his hair disheveled. Kit s smile broadened.Didst find what thou sought?Nay Will started, pulling off his clothes. And then he stopped and movedtoward the cupboard, a paler shape in the darkness. Well, perhaps. After afashion. So many books, Kit!Faerie has some joys. He turned away as Will struggled into a nightshirt.Plumage rustled as Will made himself a place in the featherbed, the perfumeof a woman coming with him. Just as well, Kit sighed. Perhaps he LL Lieeasier now that he s reclaimed that. And then he caught the scent of rosemaryand lemon balm on Will s hair, and turned, mouth half open, before he stoppedhimself. I could wish he d chosen differentlyor do you simply wish that you had chosen differently, Marley?
Will, half settled among the pillows, returned Kit s stare wide-eyed. That asmuch as anything told Kit how fey his expression must be. Kit? Will. But what do you say? You haven t a claim on him Thou hastn t anything to prove to mePerhaps I had something to prove to myself.Ah. Of course. Kit opened his mouth again, to say whatever he had been aboutto say, and closed it before the words could escape. Just be careful, Will.Will laughed, softly, and tugged the covers. What chance have I against thelikes of her, sweet Christofer, an she decides she wants me?For which Kit had no answer. The thrill of delight in Will s voice told himmore than the words, anyway. He lay back down, a serpent gnawing his bosom,and dreamed of sunlight and herb gardens and the beating wings of ravens andof swans. He woke again before Will did and stretched in the morning sunlight,surprised by how rested he felt. He stood and performed his toilet, stealinga glance at Will before he dressed. The other poet had burrowed so deeplybeneath the covers that all Kit glimpsed of him was one ink-stained hand.Kit smiled fondly, for all he still felt seasick with jealousy, and went tocollect his rapier from the stand beside the fireplace. I LL have to getanother main gauche, he thought, although he wasn t sorry to have left theslender blade in de Parma s back. I wonder what the coroner will make of a silver dagger, beyond the estimate of price? He turned to check his hair in the mirror over the mantel, tilting his head in curiosity as he noticed thepapers stacked there. The roll of poetry didn t surprise him. The letteraddressed in Will s cramped hand to Thomas Walsingham did, and Kit s fingersalmost brushed it before he tugged his hand back. It s not as if he made anyeffort to hide it from me. I could always just ask.If I weren t so out of the habit. He settled the rapier on his hip one lasttime, turning for the door. Which reminds me, I should write Tom myself andLet him know I ve queered the game with Baines and Poley.
So early, the palace was still as quiet as Kit had ever seen it in daylight.He wandered downstairs, idling, and made his way into the hall to see whatthere might be to break his fast upon, if anything had yet been laid.A few Fae clumped at trestles along each wall, sipping steaming mugs andcarrying on quiet conversation. Kit was first surprised to see brownies amongthose present, but quickly nodded. The kitchen staff dines early everywhere.He was less pleased to see Morgan le Fey rise from the sole occupied chair atthe high table and beckon him, but he went. She looked composed this morning, 
lovely, robed in some fine, unrestrained black fabric that clung to her bodywhen she gestured. Kit swallowed sharpness and moved forward, ascending thesteps. Your Highness, he said, and bowed.What, so formal, Kit? She reached out and took his hands, drawing him toher side. She did not sit, and neither did he, aware that they made a lovelypicture in their sable finery, framed against the crimson hangings at theback of the dais. Her hair was dressed, today, into a high elegant coil, asingle strand of tiny pearls wound through its blackness. Her changeable eyeswere poison green over the cheekbones of a goddess, and she suddenly took hisbreath away. Art unhappy?
What have you done to my William, Madam?A raven-black eyebrow arched. Your William, is it? And yet I heard you saidto Murchaud that he was for the ladies, and in the manner of one who knowsfor himself the truth of his words no matter, she said, shifting abruptly,turning away from the hall without releasing his hand. She led him betweenthe draperies, to a passage he had suspected but never walked down. Come,spend a little time with me.
You are my mistress, he said, and fell into step.Am I? Her voice was hushed; if he didn t look at her he could imagine theywalked hand in hand like old friends, like brother and sister. When he turnedto catch her words more clearly as he half suspected she intended, with thesoft risings and dips in her tone a barbed spiral he recognized as lust andjealousy and covetousness and the bitter dregs of a hundred other mortal sinscaught under his breastbone, and he drew each breath in pain.
Why should she have what I want so badly?
A bitter thought. An unkind thought. And unfair to Will, who was kindnesspersonifiedAre you my mistress? I come to your whistle.Still you have not forgiven me? They came from the cloth-draped passagewayinto the throne room, and Morgan led him down from the dais with its chair ofestate and the massive cloth-draped throne that Kit had never seen, nor seenthe Mebd sit in. How can I forgive He caught the words in his teeth before they quite gotaway from him. She held his arm, leaning close enough that he could smell notonly her own pungency of rosemary and rue, but the traces of another s scenton her hair and clothes. He breathed in through his mouth, and told himselfit was against the pain in his bosom. That is to say, Madam, whatever yoursins, they must be outweighed by your favors.She laughed. My favors weigh so heavily on thee? If tis jealousy thatdrives thee, Sir Christofer, then my favors can be thine for the asking. Itwas not I who ended our arrangement.He coughed and tugged away. She kept walking while he stood, her gowntrailing like the train of a jet-black peacock, and turned back only when herhand touched the door.
 I wish my friend safe, he said. Her eyes glittered as she smiled and inclined her head. You wish more than that. Aye A groan. He turned away. As if something buried, once watered, hassprung into the sun and flowered on a day, and now will not be withered nomatter how I scorn and strike it. I could give thee a spell to make him love theeHe loves me well enough, Kit answered, hating his own honesty. And that I should be content with. Her skirts rustled across the tile as she drifted to him. Her hands encircled his waist, her chin resting on the padded shoulder of his doublet. Could give thee a spell to do more.Kit bit his lip as her breath stroked his ear. Her breasts pressed his back,her fingers demonstrating what he was sure she already knew. She could. The experience that proved it was as painful as the experience that proved it was 
not just her magic that aroused him, although free of the sorcery he couldalmost pretend it was the touch alone, nothing more than a whore s practicedhand. She could give me WillMadam, he whispered. What do you take your Marley for?She laughed in his ear; he turned in her arms and laid his own around hershoulders, holding her away as much as close. Anything he ll offer me, she said. And then, more kindly: No, thou wouldst not be my Christofer if thouwert so base as thy Morgan in such matters. She smiled and would have stepped back, but his arms restrained her.She turned half a step; they moved as if dancing, her train winding theirankles, binding them together. She ran fingers up the breast of his doubletand touched his lip. He frowned, and she brushed the corner of his eye as ifsomething gleamed there.
Hard, she said. Hard it is to love something, to need something, and tohave it taken from thee. There are simples to ease that pain as wellThat pain, he said, is sheerest poetry.He would not like it if you bedded me todayI do not like that he bedded you last night.There was she smiled, her breath against his skin no bed. Ah. And indrawn breath. It cut. Come to my room, Christofer.He shook his head, but he didn t step away. I should go. Go to MurchaudMorgan. I can smell him on your skin.I know, she said, brushing her lips across his lips. I left it for you.Come upstairsAs if he had always known he would, he went.Morgan curled against Kit s side, her sweat drying on his arm. She laid herhead on his shoulder, the pearls half worked loose and falling across histhroat. Blessedly, she held her peace until his pulse no longer rasped in hisears, and he opened his eye again and turned to look at her.Such passion, Kit. She knotted a fistful of the linen sheet in her hand and dried her face; offered him the same.He rubbed the sweat from her body and untangled the pearls from her hair,laying the strand aside before pulling her down beside him again. That was different. Thou wert not ensorceled. Silly man, her pursed lips said, and he had toagree.What do I here? Is that all? Enough. She drew the damp sheet over them, idly toying with his hair. Tell me whence comes this sudden affection of thine for poets.He brushed her bare leg with the side of his foot. A tremendous hollownessstill haunted him, something as consuming as a flame, but for now he couldset it aside along with the images it taunted him with and draw the silenceof his heart over himself as Morgan drew the sheet. Not sudden, he admitted. I knew it years ago.Oh? A quiet sound of interest, after a long and companionable wait.Damme, what an intelligencer she would have made He sighed, and managed notto sound sullen. Damn you, Corinna. Is t not enough to have us both? Must also step between?She turned against his neck, tasting his skin with her smile.There are reasons I stopped going to London.When knew you, then?Kit laughed. He tripped climbing a stair and I almost swallowed my tongue inpanic.Her fingers coiled his hair and pressed unerringly against the sore places inhis neck. Speaking of falling. You should have come to me after you did.His and Will s ignominious tumble through the Darkling Glass, of course. How did you know I fell?The bruises on your arse. 
Their laughter drew the tension out of his shoulders almost as effectively asher fingers; he rolled on his stomach and let her lean over him, working thepain from his back. The teind is soon, she said, stressing every other wordas she leaned into him, an oddly artificial pattern of iambs. The sacrifice will have to be chosen. 
Ow. 
When you tense, it hurts. Warmed oil drizzled onto his back; he didn t askwhere it came from, as her hands never left his body.
How is that done? 
This? 
The sacrifice chosen. He groaned as she ran strong thumbs from the top ofhis spine to the base, and did not stop there. Gently, my Queen
Poor Kit. Black and blue from here to here. Her fingers measured a spanbigger than his palm. Thou rt lucky didst not break thy tail.
Art certain tis unbroken? And realized he d thee d her, and thought and would it not be an irony to you her so engaged?
Evidence would suggest.He gasped, burying his face against her herb-scented pillow, and she laughed.
Wilt urge me proceed gently here as well, Sir Poet? Will you write me poemson this? Her hair swept his shoulders; he shivered, jolted from his fantasy of whosetouch he labored under. When will we know who is chosen? 
When they bring the horse before the one who will ride him to Hell. There.Is that nice, my darling? A kiss between his shoulder blades; anotherbrushing the downy, well-oiled hollow at the small of his back. Are youthinking of your poet now?He couldn t bring himself to answer. 
Act III, scene ix
By my troth and maidenheadI would not be a queen.WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, King Henry VIIIThe Queen s withdrawing room, revealed through an opening door, wasn t asgrand as Will had expected; rather a quiet sunlit place appointed with richpaintings and more of the extravagant carpets, these in harvest-gold andwinter-white, with touches of emerald and sapphire in the plumed weave. Asmall table stood in the center of it, a cushioned chair at either end, aservice of silver-gilt and golden plates laid on linen as white as Morgan ssheets. He smiled at the memory and executed a sweeping bow, resisting the urge toreach into his pocket and fumble the scrap of iron nail Kit had pressed uponhim before the appointment. The Mebd stood before the window, her hairgleaming under her veil; she turned to acknowledge him. Gentle William. You brighten our court. Pray rise.
Your Highness is most gracious. They were seated, and attendants Will couldnot see poured wine and served them both. Nervousness robbed him of hisappetite: his knife shivered on the richly decorated plate. The Queen herselfate delicately; he was surprised to see that what she cut so tidily andplaced in her mouth was wine and capon, and not flower petals and dew.
You hunger not, Master Shakespeare?I am curious, he admitted with whatever charm he could muster. And now I ve met three Queens, he thought. And swallowed a broader grin as he alsothought, and bedded one. Curious? Curious what Your Highness would have of me.She smiled and laid her knife across the plate. Perhaps you and SirChristofer would consent to honor us with a play.A collaboration? We ve done it before, Your Highness. I m sure Kit wouldagree.We have faith in your ability to convince him, she said. Will picked up hisgoblet as she contemplated her words. We were favorably impressed with yourMidsummer Night s Dream. Although it saddened us to see your Queen in the endhumiliated and defeated by her unsavory husband. It seems to us that she,Titania, had the right of it, and that is not merely our sympathy for asister Queen.Will frowned, tasting the unfairness of his own life in the irony of hiswords. It is the experience of this poet, Your Highness, that just women areoften misruled by their husbands.And just peoples misruled by their Princes, by extension?Too late, he saw the trap. He nodded. And yet such is the way of the world:many a man abuses the trust of a woman who deserves better, and yet they andthe world are so made that they must accept the dominion of men. Many aPrince abuses the trust of his subjects, and yet how few men are born torule? She rolled her silver-handled knife between fingers white and soft ascambric. And yet thou dost serve a woman who is also a Prince. Is shedeserving of thy sacrifices?Your Highness, aye.Why is that?Because He shrugged. Because she has made her own sacrifices, to keep herpeople safe.Ah. The Mebd closed eyes that had shifted from green to lavender and thento gray. When she blinked them open, they were the color of thistles undergold lashes worthy of a Hero. So the sacrifices a husband makes for his wife earn her loyalty.If he is worthy of her. He lowered his eyes, unable to support her inquiry,and dissected a morsel upon his plate, sopping the meat in sweet-spiced 
gravy. The flavor cloyed.
And are you worthy of your wife, Master Shakespeare?
No, he answered, without looking up. Madam, I am not.
And yet she serves you as you serve your Prince.
Aye.
This is what we adore our poets for. He was surprised by the tenderness inher voice into glancing up again. They lie with such honesty.
Lie, Your Highness?
Aye. A smile on her lips like petals. Sweet William is a flower. Didst know it? 
Aye, Your Highness.
Perhaps we shall have some sown.Will nodded, dizzied. Emboldened, a little, by the frankness of herconversation, he asked a question. Your Highness. Like Gloriana, you have noKing
I will be subject to no man, she answered. Even a God. 
And yet from what Morgan tells me, Faerie is subject to Hell and its Lord.
Women, she answered, extending her white-clad wrist to pour him wine withher own pale, delicate hands, have long learned to simper in the presence oftheir conquerors. And not only women, Master Poet.
No, he answered, tipping his goblet to her in salute before he drank. Not women alone. 
We are glad, the Mebd said, you have agreed to dine with us today. Wetrust you will never find yourself bound in an unpleasant subjugation.
Your Highness.
Yes. She smiled as she touched his sleeve. I am. 
Act III, scene x
Had I as many souls, as there be Stars,I d give them all for Mephostophilis.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Faustus Kit unhooked his cloak and threw it over the high back of his chair. Heleaned on Murchaud s velveted sleeve and watched the dancers eddy across therose-and-green marble tiles, wondering if he could afford another glass ofwine. The way Will s head bent smiling as he whispered in Morgan s ear wasmaking him want one, badly, but he suspected that it would be unwise toindulge.
It looks as if thou mightst have room in thy bed tonight, Murchaud said conversationally, drawing his arm from under Kit s head and dropping itaround his shoulders. 
Aye. I LL sleep alone tonight. And in the morning, Morgan will find me. Sweetbuggered Jesus, how have I come to this?
If thou wouldst wish companionshipPerhaps, Kit said, and poured water into his glass. He sat upright to drinkit, as Murchaud played idly with the strands of his hair. Aye. Dice andwine, perhaps a pipe?To begin with. Thou canst defeat me at tables again.Kit chuckled. Murchaud s luck with dice was abysmal enough to be notorious.For a start. Murchaud reached past him for a tart and leaned forward to eat it over thetable, scattering crumbs. Hast spoken more with Geoffrey?Words in passing. Kit drew up a knee and laced his fingers before it.Wilt give him thine answer?It wasn t really a question, Kit knew. Shall I offer to betray you, then?That would be kind. Murchaud leaned back beside him, crossing long legs,his right foot flipping in time with Cairbre s fiddling. The song wound down;the dancers paused. We need to know the nature of the plotting.Ah. Yes. Kit stood and glanced over his shoulder at Murchaud, sweeping hisgaudy cloak around his shoulders as he did. Thy mother seems to haveabandoned my poet, he said. I m off to comfort him. And yes.Yes? Kit turned away. By all means, come and see me tonight.The stairs were less trouble sober, although he cursed the lack of a railingunder his breath. He skirted the applauding dancers on the side away from themusicians, not wishing to capture Cairbre s eye and be summoned to perform.Will must have seen him across the floor, because he met Kit halfway.Kit ached to look at him, giddy with dancing, color high and eyes sparklinglike the gold ring in his ear in the light of the thousands of candles andtorches. They Love him because they cannot keep him, he reminded himself, andforced himself to smile. Will. Come have a drink with me. No dancing for you, Kit?I don t pavane, Kit said dryly. Neither do I galliard. Stuffy dances forstuffy dancers. Come, there s spiced ale by the fire. He led Will to the corner by the tables and filled cups with the steaming drink, redolent ofcloves and sandalwood. They leaned between windows, shoulder to shoulder, andKit buried his nose in his tankard, breathing deep.The Queen wants us collaborating, Will said, swirling his ale to cool it.A play by Hallowmas, it seems.A play? Kit turned to regard Will with his good eye. Did she assign atopic?Not even a suggestion. Please, overwhelm me with your brilliance.The Passion of Christ, Kit answered promptly, and was rewarded by a gurgleas Will clapped a hand over his face to keep his mouthful of ale fromspraying across the dance floor.Choking. Seriously. 
Damme, Will. I don t know. Thou hast had longer to think it than I have.They won t care for English history.I left my Holinshed in London, in any case.Coincidentally, so did I. I wonder who has it now?Tom, Will answered. Unless he burned it. He was very angry with you forsome time. Only fair. I was very angry with him.Silence for a little. They drank, and Will took the cups to refill them. Whenhe returned, he rolled his shoulders and kicked one heel against the stones.Why the Passion?Suitably medieval, Kit replied. Like so much of our religion.Still no faith in God, my Christofer?Faith, William? Kit tasted the ale; this cup was stronger. Died blaspheming, indeed. Do you suppose He eavesdrops on those who call His namein passion? Oh, God! Oh, God! Mayhap He finds it titillatingKit! Kit snorted into his cup. Faith. I faith, the Fae, who ought to know it, sayGod is in the pay of the Prometheans. I imagine He d little want me in anycase 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 wranglingover 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 theQueen s man, and the Queen s church suits me as well as any, and I should notlike, I think, to live in a world without God.An admirable solution, Kit said. I flattered myself for a little that Goddid care for me, but I felt a small martyrdom in His name was enough, and Hehas never been one to settle for half a loaf. And I am maudlin, and talkingtoo much. I do not think your martyrdom little.Sadly, it is not our opinion that matters. Kit had finished the ale, herealized, and felt light-headed. He set his cup on the window ledge andleaned against the wall, letting the cool breeze through the open panes stirhis 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 gohome. If I knew a way to bargain for yoursPoley 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 knowingas 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 Londonoverall. Our epics are not in fashion any longer, Kit. Shallow masques andshallower satires, performances good for nothing but jibing. Morebackstabbing and slyness than old Robin Greene ever dreamed of. Stuff andnonsense, plague and death. Stabbings in alleyways, and I m as much to blameas any man, because my plays do not catch at conscience as they once did. Mypower is failing with the turning of the century.Failing? Kit laid a hand on Will s shoulder and shook him, not hard butenough 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, andshrugged, and let his hand fall in abeyance. Because it depends, in somemeasure, 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 thevirginals. At least our feathers glisten. Look, Will. Smile, go danceattendance. Your lady takes the stage.Will looked him over carefully, boots to eyepatch, a frown crinkling thecorners of his eyes. Kit held his breath as the poet leaned so close that Kitalmost thought his lips might brush Kit s cheek. But his hand fell heavily onKit s shoulder, and his frown became a smile. I ll see you.Kit turned and took himself upstairs, to wait for Murchaud and the backgammonboard. 
Act III, scene xi
A woman s face with Nature s own hand paintedHast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;A woman s gentle heart, but not acquaintedWith shifting change, as is false women s fashion;
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet 20Atankard of Morgan s brew bittersweet and redolent of ginger andlemons cooled by Will s elbow. He dipped his pen in raven-black ink, sodifferent from accustomed irongall, and watched it trickle, glossy, down thecrystal 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 thechill breeze through the sash. Commit mine immortal words to paper
Thine immortal words? Will smiled. He touched pen to paper and let the inkdescribe the arcs and knots symbolizing Kit s immortal words. I was justthinking, 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 didstthou think to return to London? A little too casual, that question. Will laid the pen down and turned toregard Kit, silhouetted against an autumn light. I ve been here three, fourweeks now? I thought I might stay another month, perhaps, and go home toAnnie before Christmas. Will thought of Morgan, and the way his hand was steadier on the pen than ithad been in years. He d stay as long as he could. He tried not to think thatonce 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 inLondon. Difficult to find a centaur to play the lead. Kit s gaze unsettledWill. He looked down at the paper again. I think it might prove a challengeeven 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 thenib and searched out his penknife to recut it. He couldn t quite forget thestiffness 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 lookeddown again quickly. Archery would give us a chance to bring Hercules inearlier, and show him at play with his arrows.
Aye. WillThe 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. Atithe 
The teind. Morgan told me. No, no mistaking that flicker of Kit s lasheswhen Will said Morgan s name. Nor was there any mistaking the relief on Kit sface 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 amoment, stood abruptly and began to pace, almost walking into a three-leggedstool 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 offverses, 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 contemplationthat told him Kit was framing some bit of wit or evasion. But then Kit lookedhim in the eye and frowned, and said straight out, I m jealous.
Of Morgan?Dost love her, Will?Will picked up his cold tisane and gulped it, almost choking. Love is not a seemly word, where vows are broken.Kit s lips thinned. Grant I forgive thee for Annie s sake.Will stood and crossed the room, crouched by the cold, dead fire. Kit yes. Ilove her. Then I am jealous. Of thee, not Morgan. And canst swear thou feelst nothingof the like? Will stopped. Thought. Closed his eyes. I could Lie. Could he? What I feel frightens me. I love theeIs my love for thee less than thine for me, that I would kiss thee? You venot held a rose unless pricked by a thorn, sweet William.Will shot Kit a hard look; Kit s eye shone with his silent cat-laugh. Willspread his hands wide and swore, then: Here. He kicked the stool toward Kit, and tossed a roll of papers tied with ribbonat him. Kit more batted them out of the air than caught, but wound up holdingthe roll securely.What? Read. He turned his back on Kit, and the stool, and the golden Faeriesunlight that poured over both. The light illuminated Kit s flyaway curlswith the sort of halo usually registered in oils, dry-brushing the darkmulberry velvet of his doublet, making the crumpled sheaf of papers in hishands shine translucent. Will slapped wine into a cup perhaps overquickly. You may skip the first he counted on his fingers seventeen. Or so. Starting from Shall I compare thee . . .? But then Kit s voice trailed off into the rustle of thick pages, and Will stared out the window over Kit sshoulder and drank his wine without tasting it, small sips past the tightnessin his throat, until enough time went by for the sun to shift and warm therug between his boots. He didn t dare look directly at the young manreading surely Kit hadn t aged a day in six years but the calm expression ofconcentration on his face dizzied Will more than rejection or horror wouldhave. Finally, Kit looked up. There must be a hundred of these. 
One hundred and two. So far. Not counting those terrible ones I wrote forOxford. One hundred and two. Kit cleared his throat, and read
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,And found such fair assistance in my verseAs every alien pen hath got my useAnd under thee their poesy disperse
that says a dozen things, all different, half of them bawdy. These arewonderful, Will.They re yours, Will answered carelessly. He brought a second cup to Kit. I have perhaps been cowardly.These Kit lay the papers on the floor and his cup on the windowsill,expression neutral as Will sank down on the floor nearby. Shades of redcolored Kit s cheek in waves. I am not accustomed to being the subject ofpoetry.Are we not as brothers? Like Romeo and Mercutio Kit stood with a young man s nimbleness and knelt in the same movement on thefloor before Will, who set his cup aside. 
I should not use a brother thus, he said, and knotted his right hand inWill s hair, meeting Will s gasp with a wet, swift kiss. A kiss that boreWill over, slowly, with perfect control, until he lay flat on the carpet, Kitstraddling his hips. Kit s lips moved on his lips, his cheek, his eyelids: alittle tickle of mustache, the lessened ache and stiffness in Will s musclesforgotten as he raised his hands to encircle Kit s waist. Kit leaned forward,slick mouth wanton on Will s ear and then his throat, until Will felt theflutter of Kit s heart, the bulge of his prick, and the pressure of histhighs. The velvet covering his body was warmer than the sunlight
What of thy Prince? Soft, afraid to startle Kit away.
He is in no position to bargain for fidelity, Kit answered, between kisses,deft fingers unfastening Will s buttons in a manner that presumed noargument. And I would rather thee than he, my heart, on a thousand stormyafternoons. Ask me to choose, Will.
I ve no right, Will answered, and swallowed around pain.
Fear not, Kit said, drawing back as if he saw the discomfort twist Will sface. No harm will touch thee at my hand. He stroked Will s breast as if he could feel the rigidity in those muscles, locked so tight they trembled.Finishing the buttons, he began to unlace Will s points. Love, and Will closed his eyes as Kit quoted his own words back to him Then give mewelcome, next my heaven the best / Ev n to thy pure and most most Lovingbreast. Kit was bent over him, Will saw when he opened his eyes again, and Kit shands were nimble at their undressing. This will require conversation,William. With a little shiver, Will identified the emotion that pinned him to thefloor: it was fear, a cold knot of terror that blended with the honeyed rushof longing to render him helpless. I am not certain I am capable.
Well Kit opened Will s doublet and slid one rough hand under his shirt,letting his warm palm rest under the arch of Will s ribs Will, you re toothin. 
Aye, he answered, at last able to laugh. Too thin, undereducated, setabove my station, and disinclined of writing the sort of masques and humorsin fashion in London, for all Faerie loves me. Chapman or Jonson will behappy to tell you more of my failingsBut there was a sort of magic in that unmoving hand. Its warmth spreadthrough him and unlocked the chains that held him taut, unknotted the fear inhis belly. Will let one hand slide down Kit s leg, thumb caressing the insideof his thigh.
Undereducated? Kit leaned forward to claim another kiss. I had promised toimprove your understanding of classics. Shall we start with some Latin, then,before we move on to the Greek? 
Think you my Latin insufficient? Will opened his mouth for the kiss.Kit hadn t touched his wine. His mouth was flavored with traces of pipetobacco and the fainter bitterness that was just Kit. He stroked Will s hairas if gentling the wild thing Will suddenly felt himself to be.Kit stretched like a cat while Will unlaced his collar and then stopped, assunlight caught the shiny unevenness of old scars. Will pushed the edges oflawn apart and reached up to brush Kit s breast with his fingertips,outlining a shape that had the look of a sigil in some arcane alphabet.
Christ, Kit.
Ancient history, Kit said, and kissed Will s fingers. Thou rt trembling.Art certain . . . ? 
Aye, Will said, and put his fingers through Kit s hair. I hate to think of thee 
Peace, Will. There s less that s pretty, I m afraid. Kit shrugged out ofhis shirt, biting his lip, refusing to meet Will s eyes while they made afresh inventory of his scars. And then Will reached for him, and it was allright, after all. 
Someone s foot scattered papers across the jewel-red wool rug, and mismatchedscraps of parchment and foolscap crinkled and adhered to skin. Will laughed,and Kit bit his shoulder gently, sliding up to cover him. Skinny and furry,he said. I apologize for the state of the poetry.
I needed to make a fair copy anyway.The words could hardly be fairer. A lingering kiss, fraught withintricacies. Will ran a slow hand up Kit s spine, enjoying the abandoned expression thatfollowed his touch. Fear filled his throat, but he said, Thou offer d to instruct me 
Tis not often I m privileged to instruct thee. Other than blank verse and buggery?Kit choked, turning his face aside until he mastered the giggles that warmedWill s throat. Buggery, he recited, lips twitching with the effort tomaintain a bored pedant s tone. So-called in reference to the purportedpractices of the Bougres, gnostics of France, who held the world so evil thatprocreation was a sinKit, Will interrupted, surely you are the most erudite of sodomites.Kit wheezed laughter. Been said. Art . . . willing? he asked when Kit s shoulders stopped shaking.Willing and more than willingWill caught his breath. Work thy will on thy William, then.Kit, regarding him seriously, touched the tip of his nose. Still frightened?Not enough to matter, Will answered, and let Kit lead him to the bed. 
Act III, scene xii
Mortimer: Why should you Love him whom the world hates so?Edward: Because he Loves me more than all the world. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Edward II Much later, they dressed and trussed and sorted the scattered sonnets insilence and the morning light. Kit was concerned to see Will moving withstiffness as he crawled beneath a bench to reach out papers. Will . . . have I hurt you? Possibly we could have exercised more restraint but Kit s lipstwitched as he went to help. Carpe noctem, after all. Will sat back on his heels, holding a bit of foolscap in a hand that shookenough to flutter the edge of the paper. He laid his left hand over theright, as if to silence the trembling. Tis just a palsy, Will said. Such as my father suffers, and one of his brothers had. It comes with aches andclumsiness, worse when I m tired. He smiled, then, and pushed himself to hisfeet. And I am very delightfully tired. And thank you for it.
You re young to be trembling, Will. Thirty-four is not such a great ageThe words seemed to swell until they stopped Kit s throat, and he couldneither swallow nor speak past them. His fingers tightened on the sheaf ofpoems in his hand as the meaning of the words came plainer. Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, / Thou gav st me thine not to give back again.Will handed papers to Kit, which Kit took to the table they shared. Shared.
 Tis a fancy, Marley. He Leaves thee soon. To return to London and his wife,and even here, he is not thine alone. Oh, but it was a pleasant fancyAnd thou wilt outlive him, too.But not in name, an he s writing poetry Like that.
Will you lie to me?Fear not. Morgan s helping me. And I ve decades left, Will answered, andlet his shoulders rise and fall in a shrug as he stood. More, if like myfather Well, tis not a bad death. The trembling grows, and the bodyperishes in the end for want of breath. Sir Francis died far worse. And Imight still, on the path I walk. If Oxford has his way.
Decades. That time of year you may in me behold / When yellow Leaves, ornone, or few, do hang / Upon those boughs which shake against the coldYour poems don t speak of decades, Love. If I have mine, Kit replied, andlifted a candlestick to weight the poems. Gloriana will protect you. Butcome. This is not an hour for such thoughts.
No, Will said thoughtfully. It s an hour for breakfast, I think. Andperhaps I owe Morgan a little grovelingDoes she expect your attendance every night? Kit regretted the words assoon as they left his lips, and fetched Will s boots to cover his discomfort.Will laughed, paying with a kiss as he took them from Kit s hand. No. But I rather suggested I would meet her for supper.And she no doubt thought to find me this morning. There had been a tapping atthe door a little after sunrise, which had not awakened Will and which Kit,roused by dreams, had ignored as unworthy of the price of lifting his headfrom its throne on Will s shoulder. Well, we can t hide here forever, livingon love. Kit sighed and shrugged, his doublet settling onto his back likeduty. I suppose tis brave the day and regroup when the enemy gives up anadvantage.
I ll see you at dinner, Will said. And then this afternoon, morecentaurs. Kit opened the door, turned back, and smiled. And satyrs?Christ, Will grumbled, following. A little pity on an old man.Kit laughed as he left, bracing himself for the knowing smiles that certainlywould greet his and Will s simultaneous reappearance after eighteen hours ofsilence and a locked door. Things were different in Faerie, aye; for onething, the gossip galloped three times faster.He picked his way down the stairs, one hand on the railing, as Will went up,and tried not to frown. Trouble thyself not with that thou canst not command. 
Thou Lovest, and art Loved. Twill serve. 
Breakfast had no more formality in the Mebd s palace than it had at Cambridgeor in a shoemaker s house in Canterbury, but Kit had paid in two missed mealsfor the pleasure of an uninterrupted afternoon and evening, and he made hasteto the hall in the hope that there would be bread and butter and small beerleft. The tables had not been cleared for dinner, but there wasn t much leftto choose between. He piled curds and jam on thick slices of wheat bread withgloriously messy abandon, balancing two in his left hand and the third atophis tankard until he found a place at a crumb-scattered trestle and fell towith a passion.He was halfway through the second slice, leaning forward over the board tosave his doublet the spatters, when a shadow fell across the table. He lookedup, chewing, into Morgan s eyes and swallowed hastily. Your Highness.Her smile had a flinty glitter as she hiked up her skirt and stepped over thebench opposite. Sir Christofer. I see you re in good appetite.
I missed my supper. Will was looking for you just now.I shall seek him. I trust you had a productive eveningMost. Oh, that smile. Deadly. She helped herself to his tankard, sipped,and frowned over the beer before pushing it back at him. Kit never droppedhis gaze as he drank.One can send down to the kitchens for a tray, if one is indisposed.If one wishes the distraction. Poetry waits for no man.Now she gave him a better smile. And was it poetry?Of the sheerest sort. I expect you shan t be calling upon me this morning, in that case. Now thatthou hast had thine use of me The wrong tack; Kit tore bread with his teeth and swallowed more beer,giddiness in his newfound power. Consider all debts paid for the use you hadof me. Touch . You won t take him from me, you know. A possessiveness he wonderedif she d ever shown over him flickered across her face. The jealousy he d thought well-sated flared, and he chased it down with beer.
Must she own everything she touches?
The question was the answer. Madam, he is a married man, with a home andchildren. I won t see him bound to you.No? How will you stop me? If I offered him surcease from pain and a place inFaerie at my side? At your side too, Kit. Help me. He d half like to stayhere. He wouldn t deny us both.
Will. Here. Alive, not ill any Longer.
He d have to become like me. A changeling.An Elf-knight, Sir Kit. Where s your blade, I wonder?In my room. An Elf-knight?And yet you wear your rapier wit. She shook her head. What else did you
think you were become? Help me, Kit. Help me save your true love s lifeOh. Oh. He thought of Will s hand shaking. Knew Morgan had been waiting,lying in wait, and this was the opportunity he d given her. Closed his eyefor an instant, and covered his mouth with a hand that smelled of sugar andblackberries. And damn his soul? He watched her face, the thin line between her crow-black brows, the way hereyes went green in passion and the mounting morning light, and realized he dmisjudged and misunderstood her again. Morgan. She startled at her name,and at the tenderness in it, which startled him as well. Wouldst take his family from him, my Queen? Bind him as thou hast bound Marley, and Murchaud,and Lancelot, and Arthur? Should the list of names continue? Accolon,Guiomar, Mordred, Bertilak. How many great men hast thou destroyed?
How many have I made greater than they were? How many have I healed anddefended? I am not merely that evil that thou wouldst name me, Christofer. 
Morgan, he said, understanding. He took her immaculate hand and cupped itin his own. I know what thou art. She blinked. The tone in his voice held her; the revelation un-scrolled.Thou art that which nourishes and destroys: the deadly mother, the lover whois death. Because that is what we have made thee, with our tales of thy witand sorcery. Thou art too much for mortal men to bear.She sighed and sat back, but did not draw her hand away. Wouldst see him die? Kit stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth with his left hand,refusing the bait. Morgan. You re a story. 
Aye, Master Marley. Poet, Queen s Man, cobbler s boy, she said. I m a story. And now, so art thou.He sat back. He would have let her fingers slide out of his own, but she heldhim fast and looked him hard in the eye. A story who ll live to see hismortal lover grow old and gray, totter and break. Canst bear it, Kit? Canstthou bear to see that light extinguished in a few short years?He shook his head. No. I cannot bear it. But I rather imagine Will couldn tbear to bury his son, either. And Morgan, I will not see him owned. Mortal men are not meant to live in your world; we cannot bear that either. Heads were turning around the hall at the intensity of the whisperedconversation, the white-knuckled grip across the table. Kit breathed deep.
Morgan. Tis true what I say.Aye. And it was a curse when she said it, and her eyes were blacker than hehad ever seen them. I was a goddess, Kit. Madam, he said with dignity. You still are. 
Act III, scene xiii
Rosalind: Oh how full of briers is this working-day world. Celia: They arebut burrs, Cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday foolery, if we walk not in thetrodden paths our very petticoats will catch them. Rosalind: I could shake them off my coat, these burrs are in my heart.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, As You Like It Will s days seemed longer than the span of their hours, a languorous blur oflovemaking, companionship, and poetry that expanded to include time for everyeventuality and sunsets too. The nights he spent with Kit or Morgan by turns,the days in rehearsal for Chiron planned for the Hallowmas entertainment orwith his lovers. He hadn t felt anything like it since the first flush of his affair withAnnie. It cannot Last. No, only through the autumn, and when winter came to England Will must behomeward bound. Still the days were endless, the weeks longer than months,the perfection of his happiness such that he almost did not move himself toask how time passed in the mortal world. Worry not, Kit assured him as theysat on rocks over the ocean, watching sunset stain the white manes of thewaves, listening to their whickering. Hallowmas will be Hallowmas, here asthere, and then
We ll have the bloody slaughter of the noblest of centaurs under our belts,and I will bid thee adieu. Will pulled a stalk of salt grass and slipped thetender inwards from its overcoat to chew. He gave the dry brown husk to theair; the sea wind blew it back over his shoulder. Kit, what will we do?Kit tugged his slowly growing cloak around his shoulders and bumped Will sshoulder with his own. Ford it when we come to it, he said. We should 
Aye. We should.It will only grow harderThe wind stirred Will s hair. The locks had outstripped the length theyshould have in the time he d been in Faerie. I can picture myself pining bymy window for my Faerie lover, growing gray and sere. A legend will grow up"Will! Kit grabbed his wrist, and jerked it. Will turned, startled; Kit sexpression was wild. Don t joke about such things. Never joke about suchthings; you re on the edge of legend here, and names have power, and thingsListen. His plain fear brought an answering tingle to Will s spine, to hisfingertips. Morgan wants me to stay. The chewed stem grew bitter. Willtossed it away.
I want thee to stay, Kit said, still staring. And Morgan wishes me toplead with thee as well. But I will not permit it.Kit s pulse flickered in the hollow of his throat. Will wrenched his eyesaway. Art my sovereign, Marley? Soft as the ocean s breath playing overthem both.
 Aye. The fingers on Will s wrist tightened. Aye, in this thing, I am. Whatwould thy girls do, without thee?What they do now, I expect. I ve hardly been an exemplary father andhusband. Will kissed Kit s brow, by way of example.Kit released him to pluck a smooth, moon-white stone from a crevice in theirsand-worn perch. He tossed it thrice before it slipped between his fingers,rattling on the rocks below. Blast. Thou hast the chance to be better at both, at least. His gaze lifted to the darkening horizon.Abruptly, Will understood. Kit, forgive me
There s nothing to forgive. I d live to bury any wife or child I d leftbehind; aye, and their grandchildren, too. If I m fortunate enough that noone puts a knife in the other eye.The wind freshened. The day s warmth soaked the stone they sat upon; Willpressed his back against it. After Chiron, he said, dropping his arm aroundKit s shoulders, I suppose I shall go home. 
I suppose that s best, Kit said, and leaned closer as the light drained thesky, replaced by the slow unveiling of the stars. Hast heard there s an astrologer in Denmark claims the stars are not settled in crystal vaults?That they float unsupported, and other stars comets and stella novae move through them?
I imagine the Pope hates him.Not as much as he hates Copernicus, I imagine."O, thou art fairer than the evening air / Clad in the beauty of a thousandstars Kit laughed. I should write you a poem. Something better than that.Better than Faustus? Christ wept, I hope I ve improved.Will earthed himself under the warm edge of Kit s cloak, kissed him where histhroat blended into his jaw, the sticky musk of the ocean rich on moist,salty skin. Thou rt all the poetry I need.Sweet liar Sweeter when you know it cannot last. Will s voice shivered with his whisper. Kit s answer was slow.Christ. Damn me to Hell. Yes, Will. Tis sweet. The old moon rose in the new moon s arms. The rocks grew cool around them.Kit s cloak concealed a multitude of sins. And over the water, something listened and understood. 
Act III, scene xiv
And here upon my knees, striking the earth, I ban their souls to everlastingpains And extreme tortures of the fiery deep, That thus have dealt with me inmy distress.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, The Jew of Malta Kit rubbed a corner of his eye in the dimming room and thought of candles. Hestretched against the back of his chair, his spine crackling, and stood amoment before a hesitant knock rattled the door. Come! He crossed to the fire to light a rush. The door swung open,revealing Murchaud leaning against its frame in a pose at once consciouslyarrogant and restlessly self-aware.Christofer. The prince flipped a stray curl behind his ear, anun-characteristically tentative gesture. Art thou . . . ? Alone? Aye. Kit touched his spill among the embers, then stood to apply theresultant flame to a lamp wick. Come in. Murchaud stepped onto the jewel-patterned carpet, cautious as a stag. Kitblew out the rushlight, adjusted the lamp, and fitted its chimney, carryingit to his table as a scent of char filled the room. It spilled golden lightacross his poems and paper, and Kit slid them aside until he found pipe andtobacco pouch among the clutter.Filthy habit, the Elf-knight said, latching the door. I d thought theequit of it.Kit turned to face Murchaud, tamping the pipe with his thumb. I was. He didn t know how to explain that he woke from his dreams of late with thesmell of tobacco and whiskey clinging to his skin, full of strange cravingsnothing would assuage. He dipped a second spill down the chimney of the lampand lit his pipe from it. Settling down on his stool again, he let the firstbreath of smoke drip down his chin.Murchaud leaned against the locked door and crossed his arms. I came to wish thee well tomorrow. 
The Chiron? Thank you. Will needs your luck more than I do; my part isfinished. He ll be on the stage."Will Murchaud grimaced is with my mother tonight.In rehearsal first. I know. And so I came to thee. I expect thou planst to be with him after theplay.So I had anticipated, Kit answered slowly, cupping the warm bowl of hispipe in his hand. The embers had gone out from inattention: he reached for arush. He returns to London on All Saints Day.Murchaud straightened away from the door. And will your cruelty to me endwhen he is gone, my love?Kit froze with the pipe between his teeth, the relit spill pressed to theweed within it. The poet forgot to draw; the flame flickered out and he laidpipe and burnt rush on a shallow pottery tray. Cruel? To thee? As if I had the powerThou goest to Morgan still, and dost hide it from thy mortal lover, whosports with her quite openly. And yet to me, who was more a friend to theethan ever my mother proved, thou wilt barely speak in passing.Kit pushed his stool back and stood as the Elf-knight came to him. The roomwas growing chill; he thought absently of tending the fire. He lifted hischin to meet Murchaud s gaze directly. What couldst thou wish of me? Murchaud s fingers slid under Kit s hair, caressing his neck. Tell thou me,O Elf-knight with thy human lover
I m not 
what does he give thee that I cannot? Murchaud s breath was warm on Kit s skin. Kit swallowed, and considered. The Fae are very cold, he said at last,hopelessly.
And mortals a flame we warm ourselves upon. 
Kit turned his head to avoid the kiss, but did not pull away as Murchaudbowed his face against the poet s throat. I ll be thine again aftertomorrow. Oh, Murchaud said. I rather think thou wilt not. There was grief in hiswords; so much pain that Kit shivered in reaction. Why Morgan and not me?I do not know. Liar. Murchaud breathed deep, as if fastening Kit s scent in his memory,and stepped away unruffled, his pale eyes chill. Is it vengeance upon thypoet, for not loving thee alone?Kit shivered and shook his head. The words came strung on knotted wire: eachone tore his throat. Kissing thee does not hurt enough.Murchaud chuckled, his hand on the door. Half Fae already, he said, andleft Kit alone in the lamplight, unkissed.
Do I envy those jacks that nimble LeapTo kiss the tender inward of thy hand,Whilst my poor Lips, which should that harvest reap,At the wood s boldness by thee blushing stand!
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, from Sonnet 128Will poured golden wine into Morgan s glass and then his own. It filled thefire-warmed air with a scent of summer, grape arbors, and clipped grass. Hecupped the glass in both hands, leaning against Morgan s chair, stretchinghis feet to the fire. I ll miss thee. Without looking at her. And thou me? She leaned forward, knees pressing his shoulders, and took her glass from outhis hand. Her lips brushed the top of his head; she sat back. One becomes accustomed to loss. 
That is not an answer, my Queen. The rug beneath him was soft, her fingerskind in his thinning hair. Fine ripples trembled as he raised the wine to hislips.I will miss you. If it is important to you to be missed.To be missed? To be loved You are loved. Something in her voice reminded him of when she had read hispalm: an assurance like prophecy. And shall be more loved still. By whom?One can never tell, until it is too late to do anything about it. A lightclick told him she set her glass on a low table. Her fingers found hisshoulders, sought deep into his tension. Do you regret this, Master Poet?Regret leaving? Or regret Faerie?If we shadows have offended He laughed, and then her touch made him sigh. It is rather like a dream. A dream of peace and healing. Is it your medicines or is it Faerie that mendsme so well? Both, Morgan answered. Time stands still for thee here. And my herbwiferylends some relief. But when thou goest back to the world, thou wilt begin todie again.You still wish me to stayThou hast ten years. Perhaps as much as fifteen. She bent and kissed his forehead, tilting his face up with a hand under his chin. Go to him, Morganle Fey whispered. Her lips brushed the heavy earring. He shivered.Tomorrow nightTomorrow is too late, she said, and stood out of her chair. She steppedover Will lightly, her kilted skirts sweeping his shoulders. Go now. Tell him to wear his boots and cloak tomorrow, and his sword.Will pushed himself to his knees. I had written something for youShe stood facing the fire with squared shoulders and softened hands. A sonnet? About your musicI do not need your poetry. It belongs to the mortal world. I have a poet ofmine own. 
Silence. Will rose to his feet. The fire popped, scattering coals on thehearthstones; Morgan s precisely applied shoe ended their escape. MorganI have a poet of mine own, she repeated. If you are wise, you ll go to himnow; you have so little time left before I reclaim him.The cruelty in her tone left him gasping. His lips shaped her name again, butthat very breathlessness kept it mercifully silent. She stood before the fireand did not look at him. He turned and left her presence.The door of the room he shared with Kit was unlatched. Will pushed it opengently and found Kit bent over papers on their table. Kit s table, Will thought as the poet looked up.
Forgotten something?Will hoped he imagined the chill in Kit s voice. He latched the door,breathing deep the aromas of woodsmoke and cold tobacco. Morgan s finishedwith me: she couldn t make me stay. You said that quill was too beautiful touse. Kit glanced at the gorgeous alabaster feather in his hand. I changed mymind. It writes well. You have a play tomorrow: come to bed.
You re working. But Will unfastened his doublet as he argued, strugglingonly a little with the golden buttons.I can work in November. Kit dropped the quill into jet-black ink and stood.He came around the table. Will, I m frightened.Frightened?I think He shook his head. If you stayed in Faerie, love, you couldlive I want to see my son again, Will said quietly, knowing Kit would not arguethe point. That s not what scares you.Kit tugged the doublet from Will s shoulder and took it to lay out to air.Murchaud was here. And very fey.He is No. Will, I think he s going to the teind.What do you mean? Will laid his hand against Kit s cheek. The skin was coldand damp. Kit let the doublet drop on the floor and Will pulled him close,feeling Kit s heart like a terrified sparrow trapped in the cage of his ribs.I mean, Kit said, I think it was farewell. And he ll be gone, and you llbe goneI ll write, Will said. You ll visit. Kit turned around and looked at him, unapproachably distant from inches away.You ll die. I ll care for you. Morgan said she would have you backI have no plans. To return to Morgan.So they were Lovers, then. Will laid his hand on Kit s cheek. I wonder who ended it. I misspoke. Take you back.I ve worn her collar enough for one lifetime. Kit shivered and drifted away, running his fingers inside the band of his ruff, disarraying thecareful pleats. Abrupt gestures betraying annoyance, he untied it and tossedit on the chest. Morgan is a fool.The thing on Kit s face approximated a smile, Will decided, but it wasn t,really. Shakespeare is a bigger one, he answered, and was glad Kit kissedhim before he could compound that foolishness somehow. 
Act III, scene xv
Hermia: Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivest me past the boundsOf maiden s patience. Hast thou slain him, then?Henceforth be never number d among men!O, once tell true, tell true, even for my sake!Durst thou have Look d upon him being awake,And hast thou kill d him sleeping? O brave touch!Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?An adder did it; for with doubler tongueThan thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, A Midsummer Night s DreamWill s role was small Asklepios and he d written it so intentionally. Afterhis own sad death, struck down by Zeus thunderbolt, the erstwhile physicianscrubbed the paint from his face and made his way into the audience, seekingcompanionship.The revelers were masked and gowned as gorgeously as Will had ever seen; theybowed or curtseyed graciously or, pleasing him more, failed to, rapt in theperformance as he walked among them, seeking Kit or Morgan.He found neither, but Puck s small, twisted form beckoned among the windowdraperies, and Will went there. The sounds and scents of Faerie surroundedhim; he sighed, settling into the window seat. Master Goodfellow, well met.
Master Shakespeare, as well. Spry as a goblin, Puck swung up the draperiesand clung to them lightly, at a height from which to hold comfortableconverse with a seated man. They approve of your work.They seem to, Will answered, over the hollow clatter of hooves as thecentaur playing Chiron took the stage, remonstrating with the Gods overAsklepios death. Kit and I put some magic of our own into the ending. WhenPrometheus takes Chiron s immortality, to permit Chiron deathI should think our enemies would find that more to their liking than ourallies, Master PoetWill grinned and tilted his head to look Robin in the soft, goatlike eye.Ah, but Prometheus dooms himself in doing so.Dooms to eternal torment, Puck answered, nodding. Clever. But surelyoutside the scope of the play?There is an epilogue.Silence, and then Puck tittered: a high fey giggle like a child. Speaking ofeternal torment Aye?What think you of the teind?Will swallowed hard and looked away from the Puck, running his eyes once moreacross the crowd. Neither Kit, nor Morgan, nor Murchaud could be seen. Kit thinks it will be Murchaud, he said. I imagine he is making his farewells.Think how glorious the pain will be. How deep, how lasting. There s poetryin that. Pain? Will hauled his legs up onto the window seat and hugged his knees.Glorious pain? If you think pain is glorious, perhaps you have never knownit practically.When you live as the Fey live, any sensation is precious.I see Not yet. Puck smiled. But you will.I ve had enough of prophecy, Will said. He sighed and stretched and stood;Robin swung on the drape and hopped to Will s shoulder, no more than afeatherweight, holding Will s ear with his long bony fingers.Then don t listen to it. A jingle of bells, the tangling and untangling ofimprobable limbs. Puck shifted on the bones of Will s shoulder and madehimself as steady a place as any horseman well accustomed to the saddle.Tis not Murchaud going to the teind tonight, Will Shakespeare. And asacrifice gone willing to Hell buys not seven, but seven times seven years. 
On the stage, Chiron was dying, beasts and mortals gathered close about. Willstopped and watched as the noble centaur went to his knees, a majestic fall.How do you know? It is kept close secretWill, the Puck said softly, I m the Queen s Fool. I know everything . I am just not often privileged to speak on it.Then who will it be? Crowds have a way of moving, of breathing, of falling silent at once as ifthey were some giant dreaming animal. Will looked up as the animal sighed andstretched and turned in its sleep, as it rolled and broke open along his lineof sight. A tingle ran up his skin; he felt the nail that Kit had given himgrow hot in his sleeve. Sorcery? But the thought was lost as a drape blewback from the curtained shadows of a window embrasure like the one he had just left, one toward the back of the hall and away from the crowd gatheredbefore the stage.Will, slowly walking, froze so abruptly that Robin clutched at his head in amost undignified manner. Oh, Hell, Will said, reaching out a hand blindlyfor balance. For Will recognized the figures intertwined within its moon-touched shelter,caught a kiss that seemed sheerest delight the smaller all in black excepthis ragged cloak, his fair hair gleaming; the taller in a gown of palestgreen, her black hair tumbling over her lover s hands like a living thing.
Kit, Will said, crossing his hands over his belly as if to press his vitalsback inside. Ah. No. On his shoulder, Puck slid down, flexible as a squirrel, and threw both armsaround Will s neck. Yes. I m sorry.
Sorry? Will mouthed. He was staring; the curtain fell back, mercifully, andhe managed to turn and look away. The chorus took the stage for the epilogue.He raised his eyes. You have no cause for sorrow, Master GoodfellowSorry I could not tell you sooner, Puck said, as Will closed his ears onthe savage poetry of the thing that he and Kit had created together. Thewords left a taste like vinegar in his mouth; if the floor were berushed overthe soft-sheened marble, he would have spit the grit and savor of bitternessout.
 It was hardly your place to tell a man his loves betrayed him Even as he said the words, Will tasted their hypocrisy. Puck slid down his shoulder. Hewobbled, half realized he was sitting on a bench when Puck thrust wine intohis hands. Will drank it greedily and put the goblet under the bench; hisfingers itched to hurl it, hard, against the wall. Oh, Robin. I ve nothingto complain.
You feel betrayed? Then why not sing it?Because, Will said around the taste of ashes that the wine could not rinse from his tongue, tis neither Kit nor Morgan who broke a bed-vow to awedded wife, is it?You know he went back to her bed almost as soon as she took you into it.Dear God in Hell. But Will kept enough control of his tongue not to say it.Then what did either one of them have to do with me for? Unless twas pity. Yes, pity. For poor, inept, sickly Will. How could abalding poet hope to content things out of Legend
But Robin was still talking. and that s not what I m sorry for.Hopelessness, and the void in his belly sharp-edged as a fresh-dug hole. Hiseyes burned. His knees would not support him when he tried to rise.Somewhere, Will thought he heard a bell pealing; Chiron resurrected bowed for the end of the play. And the cold voice Will recognized as his ownaggrieved conscience: Say you deserved it not. Say Annie s courage in theface of your misbehavior was nothing. Then what? Robin sucked his wide lips into his mouth so that every rosy trace of colorvanished from them. Will, he said. Murchaud isn t the teind. Sir Christofer is. 
Will blinked, demanding that his ears report some other phrase. Kit, he repeated, stupidly.Robin laid a twiggy hand on William s arm. I don t think he can bear it Somehow, Will found his feet. I know he can t. Robin Enormous brown eyes turned upward, seeking Will s expression. Will schooledit to impassivity.
Master Shakespeare?All a player s urgency and power of command imbued his tone when he found hiswords again. Robin, what must I do?
Faustus: How comes it then that thou art out of hell? Mephostophilis : Why this is hell: nor am I out of it.Think st thou that I that saw the face of God,And tasted the eternal Joys of heavenAm not tormented with ten thousand hells,In being depriv d of everlasting bliss?
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Faustus There in the shadows of the embrasure, behind the bowering curtains, Morganput her arms around Kit and kissed him lingeringly. Blood rose in his face,ran singing through his veins. A storm-prickling wind swirled around them,rustling his cloak, lifting his hair like a lover s fingers. He pressed hisbody to hers, drunk on the heady beauty of the words that flowed from theincomparable players at the far end of the hall.A measured cadence of church bells pealed close enough to reverberate in hishead; Morgan s lips firmed and yielded by turns. A bone healed twisted must be broken again, she murmured without pulling back. What I do I do out of necessity, and I hope you find the courage to forgive me, someday. You haveyour boots and sword, your cloak and your wits. And now a lady s kiss. Itwill suffice. Murchaud, he thought, panicky. Morgan He pushed her back a moment beforeshe would have stepped away on her own. Your own son? She shook her head. It is done. The bells were hoofbeats, he realized; the tolling of silver horseshoes onthe flags. He turned and looked up, stepping past the curtain, out of therecessed gap before the window, and into the suddenly silent hall.A milk-white mare, caparisoned all in silver and blue, bowed her snow-softnose before Kit and blinked amber eyes through the froth of her mane.
Oh, Kit said, as Morgan moved away from him. Of course. It s not Murchaud;it s me. And laid his hand quite calmly on the pommel, fumbling for thestirrup with his left foot.
Him have I Lost; thou hast both him and me:He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, from Sonnet 134The white mare s hooves rang on the cobbles; she shifted restlessly as Kitswung into her saddle. Will limped up with dreamer s footsteps too slow, tooslow and came forward as Kit settled himself, feeling under her pale mane forthe reins. She was white, stark white to the tip of her nose not a pale gray at all, butsome Faerie breed and she gazed at Will with a knowing eye as he came up toher. Kit s dark suit outlined him like a pen slash on the paper-white of herhide, his jewel-colored cloak spreading over her rump. The Fae parted beforehim, opened like the Red Sea before Moses, and Will stumbled forward andgrabbed Kit s boot at the ankle. No. Kit looked down; looked Will in the eye, the strap of his eyepatch starkagainst the pallor of his brow. That grimace must be meant to be a smile.
Gentle William, he said, transferring the reins to his right hand andlaying the left on Will s shoulder for a moment. I must. I have no choice. No, Will said, a second time. And No. A third, and he reached up andyanked the reins from Kit s hand as Kit was shifting them again. A sacrifice gone willing, he thought, a sacrifice gone willing to Hell buys not seven, 
but seven times seven years.
Dammit, Will. Kit knotted his right hand in the white mare s mane, reacheddown to pluck the reins back. Will shivered as the mare sidled and shied,jerking against his inexpert touch. Kit slid and bit back a curse, strugglingto regain his stirrups. It s my place.Will tilted his head back to look Kit in the face. He s immortal. I m dying.Why should I not do this thing? Annie would be better off a widow, given thehusband I have been. Although I wanted to see Hamnet again.And didn t admit even to himself he thought, And Let it punish him for LovingMorgan more than me
I understand. Will laid his hand on Kit s knee and offered up the reins,straight over his head. Kit leaned out to reach them; just as heoverbalanced, Will let them fall. Will s right hand darted to Kit sswordbelt. Will s left closed on the cuff of his boot. I understand tis not your place at all.The mare shied in earnest as Will leaned backward and yanked, Kit s faceblank with sudden panic. Leather creaked in Will s hands, velvet soft againsthis knuckles. The white mare sidestepped, and Kit tumbled all elbows andflailing into Will s waiting arms.Will rolled with it, prepared, a stage fall that nonetheless knocked the windout of him though he made sure Kit landed on the bottom. They fellface-to-face for a moment, and Will pressed breathless Kit hard against theharder floor. Mine, Will said, and kissed Kit roughly, briefly on themouth. He pushed himself back with both hands on Kit s collar, a knee still on thesmaller man s belly, shoving him down, looking up into Murchaud s eyes andthe amused, changing eyes of his wife. Puck stood between them, tugging themforward by their sleeves. Kit reached with both hands to clutch Will swrists, opening his mouth, unwilling to strike Will hard enough to hurt him.Will doubled his fists and lifted, and banged Kit once against the floor.
Your Majesty, Will said, with what dignity he could muster over Kit sbetrayed shout. I claim the right to go as your teind to Hell.The Mebd s lips pursed. She stepped away from Murchaud and from her Puck,while Kit raised his voice in a string of incoherent objections. She crouchedbefore Will, her skirts a pool of green water tumbling around her, andsilenced Kit with a brush of her fingers across his angry lips.He must have longed to shout, to rage. Will felt Kit s voice fluttering inhis throat. But her magic held him silent, and seething he fell impotentlystill under Will s hands. And then Kit s trembling started in earnest, bothhands pressed against his mouth, and Will thought, Oh, Jesus. Rheims.
William Shakespeare, she murmured. Dost know what thou offerest? Nay, he said, sick in the bottom of his belly and determined nonetheless.Kit surged against his grip, and Will kneeled down. But I am willing. Onlytell me, Your Majesty, that you will spare my love.Kit was weeping. His hands dropped from his mouth and circled Will s wrists,jerking, chafing, but he fought no more. The Mebd smiled, and nodded, andclosed her eyes; Will thought they shone more than they should have. Kitpulled Will s hand to his mouth and kissed the fingers, a pleading gesture,even his hot gasping breath coming silent through the potency of the Mebd snegligent spell. Will tugged his hand free, the image of those lips kissingMorgan hot behind his eyes.You do us honor, the Mebd said softly; Will did not miss that she addressedhim as an equal in that moment, before she rose and swept away.Kit slumped as Will pushed himself to his feet; Kit pressed his fist againsthis mouth and curled on his side, dragging his face down to his knees.Jesu, Kit gasped, and Faeries ducked away, wincing; one sprite covered herears and dropped to the floor. A circle had grown around them. Will stood atits center, turning slowly, and none of the Fae would look down from his 
regard, and none would quite meet his eyes.Except Puck, and the Prince.Robin Goodfellow stepped forward, and Murchaud followed him a half stepbehind. Murchaud bit his lip and nodded to Will. His lips parted as if hewould speak, and Will, trembling now, stepped back from Kit s huddled form.Murchaud knelt, gathering him close, and Will turned away.Puck laid a hand on his wrist, fingers dry as kindling and as knobby asknotted rope. Master Shakespeare. He drew Will s attention to the wild-eyedmare. You need to go now.Will bit his lip, trembling harder under the mare s amber regard. She proddedhim with her nose; he fell back. Robin. His voice broke; he pretended hedidn t see Kit s shuddering flinch at the sound. I am at a loss. I do not ride 
Fear not, Puck answered, taking his elbow. Thy steed knows the way. 
Act III, scene xvi
I am a Lord, for so my deeds shall prove,And yet a shepherd by my Parentage . . .CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Tamburlaine the Great, Part IMurchaud knotted his fingers in Kit s hair and dragged Kit s face against hisshoulder, whispering something that might have been intended as comfort. Kitcouldn t understand over the tolling of somber bells, the jingle of the whitemare s harness or, more precisely, he didn t care to try. He stayed frozen,curled so tight in pain that his chest and shoulders ached. No. Whatever Murchaud said, it vanished in the vanishing hoofbeats, and when Kitraised his head, avoiding the prince s face, both Will and his white steedwere gone. Murchaud clung to him, trying to draw him close. No. Kit pressedhis knuckles against the floor and got one foot under himself, and tore freeof Murchaud s embrace. He turned to survey the room; every Fae watchingducked his eyes and withdrew. Where is Morgan?No one answered. Kit reached across the ache filling his belly and graspedthe hilt of his sword. Where is the Queen? She d silenced him, a finger tohis lips and his voice had swelled in his throat and choked him. He tastedblood.
 Gone with Will, Puck said quietly, when no one else would meet Kit s gaze.Two Queens to guide himto Hell. Christ on the Cross! Satisfaction heated the emptiness within him
as every Fae in the room cringed as if he d kicked them. Damn every one ofyou, Kit said, enunciating, the sweat-ridges on his swordhilt cutting hotwelts his palm. Damn you each and every one to Hell. He looked at Murchaud as he spoke, and the taste of smoke and whiskey filled his mouth.Murchaud only blinked without dropping his gaze. No doubt, he said, it will be as you prophesy.The silence lingered until Kit turned. I m going after them. He dropped hishand from the blade and shrugged his cloak back from his shoulders,sustaining rage lost. It s in the songs, after all.
Oh, yes, Orfeo. Not Murchaud s voice but Cairbre s, mocking. Go win thou thy love back from Hell. It should be just a little task for a journeyman.Kit didn t even trouble himself to turn. He kept his eyes trained onMurchaud, and smiled. Someone has to. 
I forbid thee to leave this place, Murchaud said slowly, power and theright of command imbuing his words. The geas struck Kit like a backhandedblow; he rocked with it, felt it break on the protection of his iron-nailedboots and his patchwork cloak. Thank thee, Morgan. And how did she know? Kit lifted his chin, hooked his fingers through his belt to keep them off therapier s hilt. Try again?His throat ached with something pride, anguish as Murchaud stepped socarefully between him and the door. If thou wilt walk through me, Murchaud said, wilt need thy blade.
Good my lords.Kit looked down reluctantly. He owed Robin the favor of his attention evennow. Puck Your Highness, the Puck said, bowing, ignoring Kit with pricked ears and astiffly erect spine. Prince Murchaud, an it please you Sir Christofer mustdo this thing.There s no covenant to protect him if he goes.No, Puck said, shuffling a half step away from Kit. But we need Shakespeare in the world more than we need Marley in Faerie. And furthermore,you cannot gainsay him.Thou darest tell me what I can do, and cannot, fool?Robin waggled donkey s ears. Soft bells jingled, like the bells on the whitemare s harness. He realized that every other Fae had withdrawn; only Puck,Murchaud, and Cairbre remained.Puck abased himself. It is in all the songs. 
"BLast! Kit jumped at the outburst before he realized it was his own. Am I to make my destiny as dead singers direct?Exactly.Kit glanced over his shoulder at Cairbre, finally, and was surprised to seethe master bard grin. The Puck s right, Your Highness. Kit has to follow hislove to Hell. Kit leaned his forehead against the gelding s sweet-smelling sorrel neck,coarse straw rustling about his ankles, and steeled himself to swing into thesaddle. All hope abandon, ye who enter here.
Nay. You can save him, Robin said from his perch on the stall s half-door.The sorrel snorted, shaking his head as if in annoyed agreement. Pray stopteasing me with the prospect of an outing, Master Marley, and Lead me fromthis stall, Kit extemporized. He chuckled bitterly under his breath, and thencaught a glimpse of the gelding s expression. Damme if he isn t thinking justthat.
 I can t even save myself, Master Goodfellow.Who among us can? The Puck slid down from the door and came forward to tugthe reins from Kit s hand. Kit gave them up, and the little Fae led bothhorse and man out of the stable and into the courtyard. Silver shoes and ironbootnails rang on the pale cobblestones. The courtyard was empty in themoonlight except for the two of them and the gelding; Kit refused on hispride to crane his neck to the windows to see if Murchaud might be peeringout. Bargain well, Puck said, and held the stirrup.Grief and gratitude welled into Kit s eye. He blinked them back and took thereins when Robin held them up. I know not how to thank you.The Fae skipped away from the gelding s hooves. Come home safe, ChristoferMarley. He stepped into a shadow and was gone.Kit tucked his cloak about him to keep it from flapping, turned his mountwith his knees, and urged the sorrel toward the palace gate.
What do you tremble, are you all afraid?Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal,And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil.WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Richard III The road stretched broad and easy before Will and his docile, mannerly,ghost-colored mare. Her shoes chimed carillon on the smooth cobblestones. Shearched her neck as if proud of her burden, for all he slumped on her backlike a bag of fresh-killed game. The stirrups cut through the arches of hiscourt slippers; he did not even attempt to ride over the beat of her stride,as the women riding astride did.The Mebd rode on Will s left side and Morgan on his right; as they had passedunder the archway of the palace gate, Morgan caught his sleeve. When he hadturned to her, unwilling to meet her eyes, the Mebd had reined her ink-blackgelding shoulder to shoulder with the milk-white mare and reached over Will sbowed head and hunched shoulders to press something onto his brow. A circlet,a band of resilient gold; he saw its reflection in Morgan s eyes.
You knew, he said to the woman he had loved. She nodded and swept a hand through the wire-curled tumult of her hair. I chose, she said simply, turning away again. Her bay horse dipped awhite-blazed face as if to crop the grass at the roadside; Morgan twitchedthe reins and the mare snorted, soft purls steaming from her nostrils. I thought it would help him, in the end. We need your Christofer whole, sweetWilliam. 
Do not The mare tossed her head as his hands tightened on the reins. Heforced himself drape them loose against her neck. She settled into her easypace again. The horse knows her own way home.Don t . . . what, my love?The Mebd rode close, within hearing of the softest murmur. Shadows seemed tograsp around the edge of things. Clutching branches and rustling limbs.Willow be walk, if yew travels Late. Don t call me pet names, he said, 
hoping his voice sounded disinterested. I saw She smiled. White teeth winked in the corner of his eye. Kit and me? Aye. The heat of his furious blush. And what did it matter now, lust orlove, fornication or sacrament? He was damned. The clawing shadows crowdedcloser to the road; Will, with ease, could imagine them pitchfork-wieldingdemons. Ah, she said. Yes. Lovely boy. Very sweet in bed. Far too easy tomanipulate. Twas one of the flaws I had hoped Lucifer could correct in him.As if Hell were a schoolboy caning.But Master Shakespeare honest startlement, her gray eyes wide in themoonlight it is. Whatever he might have found to say in response was ended by the flicker of alantern a few hundred yards ahead, emerging through gaudy, rustling Octoberleaves. The low yellow flame rested at ground level, silhouetting a square,glass-sided frame, the interleaved cobbles of a crossroads, and the shiningdark hooves of a massive steed. It limned the figure on the stallion s backfrom beneath the soft black velvet of his doublet, the sovereign shine of hishair. The kind alabaster arch of his enormous wings cast their own pale glow,feather edges stained gold over silver by the candlelight.For Kit, Will thought, as Lucifer Morningstar lifted his chin and regardedthe approaching trio.His wings fanned softly; he leaned back in his saddle in feigned surprise.:Why, tis not the soul I was bid expect. Good even, Master Shakespeare. Howpleasant to make thine acquaintance again:Morgan placed a warm hand on the small of Will s back. He rode forward asmuch to elude the touch as because that was where his white mare took him. From the corner of his eye, Will thought perhaps he saw Morgan s cheeksshining. Ridiculous that Morgan Le Fay should weep for meAnd then he smiled. As ridiculous as that she should moan for me. He turned back over his shoulder. Distantly, he thought for a moment he heard the echoof galloping hooves. Morgan wept indeed: Will forced himself to meet her eyesand speak coolly. Love her all you will, foolish heart. She LL have no morekindness from thee.
 Tell Kit, he said, his voice cracking. Tell Kit I bid him care for myAnnie and my girls.Whatever she might have said in return died on her lips, or under the pealsof the white mare s hooves as she bore Will forward beneath the mighty wingsof the Prince of Hell. Lucifer turned his horse and, leaving the lanternwhere it lay, led Will and his strange knowing mount into darkness and down.:You have the look of a man who will be hard to buy, Master Shakespeare:
Buy, and not break?:And yet you have an imagination. That is well. I invite you to contemplatethat we will be together for eternity. Will you serve willing?:I came willing, Will answered. :No one comes willing: Lucifer said. :They come because they have no otherchoice. Or because they will accept no other choice presented them. Orrarely, as thy lover Marley learned, because they have come to understandthat Hell is all around them, and that they have never been out of it once:Will blinked. The sway of the white mare under him was growing comfortable.He forgot himself enough to turn in the saddle and look up at Lucifer s face.The rebel angel smiled down slantwise. This is Hell? I had expected:Torment. Aye: Lucifer hesitated. Will realized that his black steed wore noreins. :What torment, Master Shakespeare, could I heap upon thee worse thatthat which thou hast chosen for thyself?:
Your . . . Highness?:Really, Master Shakespeare. How dost thou think thou can serve us, poet,when thou canst not keep even thy troth to thy wife, or thy Ganymede, or thymistress? All three at once thou hast betrayed : 
Stung, Will reined his mount further from the Devil s side. She protestedwhen he tried to bring her too far, and afraid of being thrown, he desisted.Kit lied :Nay: Lucifer s sky-blue regard spurned him. :He told thee whatever truththou wouldst hear. How darest thou press thy lovers, thy wife to meet astandard thou canst not uphold?:Will raised his right hand to his mouth, feeling the moment of realizationlike a dagger in the breast. This is what Annie felt, he realized. Felt and forgave. And as I cannot Love Less
neither then can she.
 I have, he said, the reins tumbling from his fingers. The white mare sidlednext to Lucifer s black stud, rubbing her shoulder against his, brushingWill s knee against the Devil s with a tingle Will would have preferred todeny. I have made mine own Hell. I deserve it. :Every creature does: the Devil answered, and they rode on in silence for onehour or a thousand, until they passed the low-arched gates of Hell. 
Act III, scene xvii
My bloodless body waxeth chill and cold,And with my blood my Life slides through my wound,My soul begins to take her flight to hell:And summons all my senses to depart.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Tamburlaine the Great The red gelding ran hard. Kit bent low over his neck, mane stinging his face,and did battle with the impulse that would have had him clutch the reins likea fool and kick the willing horse faster. The gelding s hooves rattled ongravel and then thudded on packed earth; the way grew narrow and dark. Kithunched closer to his horse and reined the gelding back, swearing, as thelong angry claws of leafless oak trees reached across to bar the path andscrape his face, yank at his cloak and hair. This should be the beech wood. I should smell the sea. 
Somewhere ahead, unwavering, growing more distant despite their deliberationand Kit s weeping haste, he could hear the even pace of hooves laid againststone like church bells. Trees closed across the path. Kit bulled the sorrelthrough branches; the horse went snorting, plunging, shivering with eagernessto be free of the trees and run. Kit closed his eye against welling tears of frustration, could do nothing forthe ones that soaked his eyepatch. He pulled his cloak around his sorebruised body against a chill; Morgan s patch, and the troll s. One from theMebd and one from Will. Cairbre, Geoffrey, Puck
The wood was dark as the bottom of a well. Even the sorrel shivered. A good gelding, steady and swift. Kit patted his neck. I wish I had thoughtto ask your name.Low and distant, a croak. Froggy frogs.
Master Troll? How odd, when I was just now thinking of himTrust the horse. 
The voice came from the left. If it was a voice, and not Kit s desperationand the wind. He can t possibly do a worse job of it than I have. Kit swore one more time,for good measure, and let the gelding have his head. He stroked the sorrel srough mane and looped the reins around the pommel, then leaned forward tospeak into a swiveling ear. Find him for me. Please. The red horse snorted, both ears back briefly, then switched his tail andwalked boldly forward through the thickest stand of oak. The road lay beyond,broad and shining in the starlight. Kit reached for the reins again, let themfall when the gelding tossed his head.
If you know what you re doing He caught the mane in both hands. Well, letus make haste. The horse struck out at an easy canter, clatter of hooves on stone. Over itKit heard that pealing, tang tang tang, measured as a pavanne. I don t pavanne. But he kept up now, never gaining, rising in the saddle to seefarther ahead. A glimmer of golden light shone on the pavement: acandleflame. 
A Lantern. A crossroads. Bloody Hell. Where went they?
The sorrel never hesitated. Kit touched the horse with his boots; he sprangpast the abandoned light as if it had caught his heels on fire. The way wasdarker here, tending downward. Relief and horror did battle in Kit, and for amoment he thought he caught the acrid scent of whiskey and char. The treesfell back from the roadside. Alone in the night, Kit heard something hugerustling through leaves. Just the wind. Of course. But there was no breeze on his neck. And now the road descended throughnothing at all but blackness to either side. 
By the time he saw the broad-pillared gate, his tears had dried, leaving thetaste of salt on his tongue. The sorrel snorted and struck sparks from theroadway, refusing the passage. Kit nodded and checked to make sure the reinswere knotted so they wouldn t foul the horse s legs. Brave enough, Kit said, swinging down. He rubbed the sorrel s nose, turned him back up theroad, and slipped his bit. I could not ask more. Go, get home. There s awarm stable for thee. The gelding looked over his shoulder dubiously. Kit raised his left hand overthe animal s lathered flank, trying for menace; the sorrel shrugged andambled back up the road as if to say, I might have waited a bit. Just to seeif you were coming back. But if you insist
Kit squared his shoulders, turned his back on the sorrel, and walked quicklytoward the gate. Quickly, because if he let his feet drag he would never passunder that plain black archway, no higher than the overhead reach of hishands. It was as well he d left the horse behind; within the gate the road turned toa narrow stair, and Kit fumbled down in the chill, over dank, slick stones.He leaned on the wall, sweat freezing in sequins on his skin, and willed hisheart to beat. Cold, searing cold, and he chuckled nastily in memory of ascene he d written so many years before, Mephostophilis warming Faustusfrozen blood with a brazier so that it would run through a pen.This place smelled of leaf mold, of earthworms, of fresh-turned earth. BehindKit, a gray light like morning was growing; he noticed when he glanced overhis shoulder to see if the archway was still in sight, and did not look backa second time. He feared if he did turn he would keep turning, and keepwalking, and never force himself downward again.He counted as he descended. On the one hundred and thirteenth step he lost the sound of hoofbeats. On thethree hundred and eleventh step he lost the light. There was no railing; heleaned on the wall and felt for the edge of the step with his toe. The rattleof the iron nails in his boots gave him hope.My father s hand. In hope. And then, bitterly, I saw the back side of it often enough.
He lost count. His left hand fell on something leathery in the darkness; Kit jumpedbackward, squeaking like a wench who s brushed up against a rat in thecellar. He would have fallen Jesu all the bottomless way, but something moistand strong wrapped his wrist and pulled him hard against the wall. Hegrunted, scrabbled, found his footing with a twisted ankle that would havebeen much worse without the bracing of his boots.A cold exhalation pressed his ear. The smell of loam and leaf mold redoubled;Kit held his breath until his heart no longer felt fit to leap through hischest. The predatory grip on his wrist never eased.Another exhalation. A slow voice, inflectionless, half rumble and half hiss.
Who passes, and on what errand? The demon s maw gleamed red when it spoke:the only light in the world, silhouetting serrated teeth as if on coals.Kit swallowed. This is real. Now. Marley. The smallness of his own voice angered him. I come to bargain with your master. Let me pass.
My master? Silence, that Kit somehow knew was laughter. He wondered if thething saw his own face lit red when its mouth opened. My master treats withnone that can not pass by me.Kit himself glimpsed nothing but the fangs. It can see in the dark, he realized. Must I fight you, then?
You must pay the toll, the demon said, releasing his wrist quitenegligently. What will you pay it with?Kit crowded back against the far wall of the narrow stair. He laid a hand onthe hilt of his blade, did not yet dare draw it. Well, I won t offer you thepound of flesh nearest my heart, and that s for certain. That depends on thegoing rate. It was eerie speaking so, as if the blackness itself could hear 
him and answer.
 Tis easier to buy thy way in to Hell than out, the demon allowed. Your remaining eye, perhaps? Your good right hand?Kit blinked, understanding. Just Like bargaining in the marketplace. I LL notbe thee d down to by demons, either I m surprised thou didst not commencewith mine immortal soul. 
Ah, the demon said, casting a glare as it licked its maw with a lingeringtongue. Light between its teeth like pipe smoke; Kit caught a swiftimpression of clawed leathery paws, of scaled masculine tits and paunch overhair-thatched legs. The demon was impressively, unpleasantly male. No such delicacies for me. But a taste of sweet man flesh It shrugged. Or of a sweet, tight arseKit pressed himself against the wall and pulled his sword into his hand, thescrape of metal on scabbard reassuring. My flesh is not for dining on.Scales rasped on stone; hair rubbed on hair. Kit forced himself to look wherethe thing s mouth and, he supposed, its eyes would be, and not strain at thedarkness for another glimpse of its talons or its forked, knobby member. Itchuckled through its nose, a dying-ember glow limning its nostrils.Kit swallowed hard. Or any other sport thou mightst desire to make upon it.
Pity, the thing said, its voice very close, the coals in its belly glaring.Kit tasted its cold breath on his face. That blade is Faerie silver, mortal man. Aye. Kit brandished it at nothing, felt the tip prick nothing and slidethrough. A heavy slick sound, and he knew the thing had sidestepped upward.Kit turned to cover it with the blade, boots clattering on the steps. He kepthis blind eye to the wall, although it restricted his sword arm; he suspectedthe sword wouldn t help him much, all in all.
The sword will do for payment. The demon opened its mouth wide, the glowrevealing more than Kit desired to see.And when thou hast it? Thou mayst pass freely.And return? That silence that was laughter; the tilt of the scaled, fanged head. Hornsbroad as a bull s caught the unholy light. That, the thing said, is mymaster s to decide. Well enough, Kit said, and reversed the sword in his hand to offer it to thedemon. Pass, the thing said, and struck its fist against the wall.Pallid and silver, starlight spilled through the opening. A doorway, Kit realized, and started forward, curiously lighter without his rapier.He half expected the demon to snatch him back by the scruff, but he passedthrough unmolested and the stone of the wall ground closed like a prisondoor. Kit found himself standing in the midst of a vast blank plain, hisnailed boots his only security on the slick surface beneath him. He could nolonger hear the gay peal of hoofbeats on stone, and an ashen glow likestarshine filled the air from no identifiable source, omnidirectional,shadowless. Some distance ahead, he saw the rippling movement of waterbetween smooth, low banks. Styx? he wondered. Acheron? Cocytus or Lethe,perhaps; not Phlegethon. No sign of fire.
A shadow moved across it; the outline of a ferryman, tall and stooped, bentto the pole. Kit felt for his purse; there was gold in it enough to pay thepassage there and back, he hoped. Boots skidding on the glasslike landscapebeneath his feet, he struck out cautiously for the water s edge.
Whatever river that is, I know I don t want to fall in.
Kit watched his feet at first, until he saw vaporous things moving beneaththe landscape like drowning men clawing under clear, thick ice. He wrenchedhis eyes upward; the shadows flinched when he walked across them, and yetthey pressed their vaporous hands, their hollow-socketed faces against thebarrier. He almost thought he heard them pleading, screaming. They swarmed 
after him like trout swirling toward crumbs cast on water: arms outreached insupplication, faces averted in pain.He slipped sideways, almost went down. Then placed his feet the way Will didwhen Will was tired and staggering; short steps, straight up and down likewalking on icy cobbles. He fixed his eyes on the ferryman poling to meet himand found his lips shaping Latin words. Pater noster qui es in c lis,Sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut inc lo, et in terra He bit his cheek until blood flowed, and couldn t silencethe litany. Panem nostrum quotidiamum da nobis hodie et dimitte nobis debitanostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas intentationem. Sed Libera nos a malo. Oremus.
 Christ on the cross. 
Kit. Ridiculous. Thou rt in Hell, boy. Here to trade thyself for the freedom of your Lewd,your unclean, your bestial and unnatural Love. What maketh an abominationLike thee to think thou Lt get any good from an Our Father?
Kit walked, exertion warming his body, failing to numb his thoughts. Thewords were as unstoppable as the gray water rippling in the haunting light sofar ahead. He heard both parts of the litany, prompt and response, as if twovoices spoke within. He hadn t prayed so in Hell, in eleven years and more.
Domine salvum fac servum tuum qui suam fiduciam in te collocat. Mitte eumDomine angelum de sanctuario tuo. Et potenter defende eum. Nihil pr va-Leatinimicus in eo Et fiLius iniquitatis non noceat ei. Esto ei Domini turrisfortitudinis a facie inimici. Domine exaudi orationem nostram et clamor noster ad te veniat. Oremus. Oremus.
 Deliver us from evil, Kit scoffed aloud. Useless, methinks, when I m plainwalking into it. And yet he stopped and looked about, there on the barrenmoor of Hell, the damned writhing under his feet. What, Kit? Art waiting foran answer?
 Oh, Sweet Christofer.An infinitely welcome voice from over his shoulder, and he closed his eye amoment in joy and relief, unwilling to believe.But the voice continued. My love, you came.
Will. He turned, and looked up into his lover s face. I can t believe it. It worked. Will s smile folded the corners of gray-blue eyes. He raised his arms, andKit came into them, lifting his mouth for a kiss that was suddenly the onlything in all the world he wanted.
Thou hast forgiven me, Kit said, when the kiss was ended and still hislover held him tight.Thou dost taste of ashes, Will said, stepping back. Was the way very long?Thou shouldst drink Ashes to ashes, Kit answered, releasing Will only with reluctance. Drink of that river? I think not. Kit turned to look upon it, putting Will on hisblind side. Kit frowned with cracked lips, scrubbing sore, itching palms.What river is it? What does it matter? Thou must drink 
nay
else thou canst not stay here with me.Kit blinked. He tasted blood from his bitten cheek. Deliver us from evil. He rubbed his hand across his lips, startled when red blood streaked his glove.No. Not from his cheek. From his lips, from his tongue.He turned his hand over, gasped when he saw the burned-through palms of hisgloves, the blistered flesh of his palms, the smoldering scorches on hisdoublet where it showed under the patchwork of his cloak. His cloak smokedtoo, but seemed unharmed, and the flesh beneath it was not burning. Kit 
raised his eyes; something red and supple as a lizard winked at him with aslitted yellow eye, gleaming in colors like fire.Salamander. Ifrit, it said with a mocking bow, flickering through shapes like awindblown torch a red-haired woman, a stallion with a mane aflame, a dragonno bigger than a hummingbird. I am the second guardian. I ll have your cloakbefore you pass.Kit drew it close about his shoulders with his blistered hand. This cloak that saved me from you?Aye, well, the ifrit answered. There s a price for everything. You ll alsoneed to pay the ferryman.Kit thought of edging past it. Sparks flashed from its eyes; it grew againinto the image of Will Shakespeare, but flames flickered at its fingertips.He saw that the damned underfoot squirmed away from its footsteps, huddlingbehind Kit as if Kit could defend them. This cloak is valued of me, Kit said. That s why it buys you passage. The ifrit extended an imperious hand.Tis that, or thy smoking heart. Thou goest before my master clad in thineown power only, and nothing borrowed may come.Ah, Kit said, and shrugged the heavy cloth off of his shoulders. He foldedit over his arm, twice and then again, running his fingers over scraps ofvelvet and silk and brocade. Thank you, Morgan. Thank you, Master Troll.I ll have it back when I return. Perhaps, the ifrit said, and plucked the cloak off Kit s arm. Both cloakand spirit vanished in a swirl of hot wind and shadows, and Kit swore underhis breath. Lighter still, he walked to the ferry. It seemed easier now; he closed thedistance in the space of a few heartbeats, and stood waiting while the boatgrounded on the glassy shore and the ropy, bare-chested figure at the polebeckoned. Kit stepped over the gunnels and found a place near the prow, facing thepilot. What is the fare, Master Ferryman?The thing that you can least afford to lose, the figure answered, scrubbinga hand over his bald scalp before pushing off. His trews seemed gray in thedim, directionless light, and they were rolled almost to the knee and beltedwith a bit of ivory rope. His horny feet were bare.No rope bound the ferry on its path too and fro and yet the boat cut clearand straight across the rushing river, making a clean angle to the farthershore. What river is this? he asked, once the ferryman had settled into arhythm.Lethe. Kit licked blistered lips. So the ifrit urged me drink.Drink, and forget all pain.Kit leaned back against the bow. The bank they had left retreated rapidly. Heturned to look over his shoulder; the far bank seemed no nearer. All pain.All joy. No, thank you.The ferryman poled in silence for a little. You were eight years old in1572. I turned nine At the end of it, aye. But in November? December?I had measured eight summers. Aye. How do you know me so well, MasterFerryman?It is my task to know. Do you remember what was special about thatChristmas, Master Poet?Kit thought back. The new star. Bright orange, it was. Visible by daylightAye. A new star in the heavens. A change upon the face of what many said wasineluctable destiny. It tormented the learned astrologers greatly.Kit swallowed frustration; even though he spoke, the man poled fast. Surelythey must be nearing the far bank shortly. He turned, and was surprised by 
the distance still to cover. What purpose these questions?Idle conversation, the ferryman said, and fell silent.Kit glanced over his shoulder again. How wide is this river, MasterFerryman?As wide as it needs to be. The steady rhythm of the pole continued, alittle wake lifting in curls beside the bow. You cannot land until you pay.Kit pressed his blistered palms together. He needed the gloves off, and tobathe his hands; not in this water, but he started peeling off the ruinedkidskin anyway. The thing I can least afford to lose? My life? I cannot paythat There s something that has done you great service in your life, though youoft have denied it. The ferryman never looked up from the water.Not Will either You lost that yourself. Hell had naught to do with it.Lost. Kit threw his gloves at his feet. Blood welled from his burns; he dtorn the skin. Lost. Then what? The ferryman kicked the soles of Kit s boots, never skipping a beat with hispole. The river made sounds against the boat like a maiden s kisses. Those will do for a symbol.
Because it is. It s symbols and the manipulation of symbols. Names andpoetry. Even here. Kit s brows rose in comprehension; the band of hiseyepatch cut his forehead. Those are all I have from my father.No, the ferryman said. You have also his love, which led him to let youbecome this thing he could not understand. Because you needed it sodesperately, my boy.
Oh, Christ.
The ferryman shrugged. One thing is the other.Kit hesitated. My father did not love meDidn t he? Doesn t he? In his own narrow, thoughtless, assuming tradesman sway? Hast never wished thou couldst love so, without the burden of thinking?Always thinking?Silence. And then, Aye.Hast never wished to be free of his love, his demands? . . . aye. Kit s voice had gone small again. He didn t bother, this time,to correct it. Then take off his boots. Kit lifted his foot across his knee and touched the leather. It smelled of saddle soap and bootblack. The old hide was supple and well-worn under hishand. His wrist had no strength suddenly; he hooked his fingers around theheel and wriggled his foot, and the boot would not shift.Or perhaps, more precisely, Kit would not shift it.He looked once more. The shore was no closer.
 Tis the same to me if we never arrive. I pole eternally.Will. Kit closed his eye and jerked the boot hard enough to burn his foot. Heyanked the other one off as well and tossed them at the ferryman s feet. Is that all? 
Get up, the ferryman answered as the prow of the boat ground on the rockyshore. Get up, Kit Marlowe. His eyes flashed blue, amused.Kit shuddered. Get up. Go in.Socks on his feet, hands reddened and weeping, mouth split with fiery kisses,Kit stood and turned in the ferry and did as he was bid. 
Act III, scene xviii
Let me excuse thee: ah! my Love well knowsHer pretty Looks have been mine enemies;And therefore from my face she turns my foes,That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,Kill me outright with Looks, and rid my pain.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet 139Lucifer s own long hands steadied Will down from the white mare; Willstaggered as someone stroked brands of fire up his thighs, and Lucifer caughthim. :Pained by the ride?:"Excessively. Will forced his body to straighten and limped away. By mytroth, if I never set arse in a saddle again, it will be sooner than I like.The white mare regarded him expressively from under fringed eyelashes. Hebowed a pained apology, spongy pine needles squishing under his feet. No offense intended, madam.Lucifer folded his wings tight against his doublet and slanted the identicallook at Will. :None taken, I presume:The angel patted her on the shoulder. She leaned against him briefly,smearing white horsehairs on the black velvet of his doublet, and trottedaway through the pines. Drifts of needles thicker than a rush mat muffled herhoofbeats to a rainy sound, and then she was gone, trailing the tinkling ofbells behind her. Lucifer s black stud followed. Will closed his eyes and breathed deep of still. A forest? In Hell? :They call it the Wood of Suicides:Will turned quickly to catch Lucifer s expression, but the Devil s faceremained placid. It s so serene. I thought the trees Will looked up attheir soaring heights, at the greeny-gold light that filtered through theneedles. He heard the ridiculousness of his own unconsidered words. You re talking to the Father of Lies as if he were a familiar friend, as if thouwert on a country outing. would be sad. :Why?: Lucifer s wings resettled. Will wondered whether the fidgetingreflected the angel s emotions. :They have what they wanted. I imagine theyare as content as such folk may ever be. Beside that, tis oaks who hate and oaks who act. As thou well shouldst know by now:
Oaks who Lucifer smiled. :Surely thou knowst the rhyme. The Faerie trees: Ellum grieve, and oak he hate : "Willow he walk, if yew travels Late, Will finished, and sank down on theground with his head clutched in his fingers, his eyes shut so tight theypained him. It didn t hurt enough to satisfy; Will ground the heels of hispalms into his eye. The Faerie trees. Oh God. Oh Christ. The angel crouched beside him, wings opening wide for balance, or perhaps toshield Will s grief from the pitiless sky. He did not touch Will, and Willwas grateful for it. :I see: he said softly, :that thou didst not understandhow strongly some factions in Faerie oppose the Mebd, and Gloriana, andanything that supports them. Master Shakespeare, I must plead thineindulgence; it did not occur to me that thou hadst not realized theconnection:
 The Fae killed Hamnet, Will said, just to hear it given voice. So calm andeven. It must have been someone else, speaking the barb-tipped words. It was my fault. They did it to stop me writing. To break me and drive me home. The Fae killed Hamnet. Because of me. :Aye: Lucifer said. :Not all the Fae. But those who have no love forElizabeth and less love yet for the Daoine Sidhe:Will s throat burned. His eyes were dry, somehow, although there was nostrength in his arms or legs to lift him from the sweet-smelling carpet ofneedles. It didn t work. 
:Nor shall it now. Thy will is greater than it seems, Master Shakespeare: Thewings spread, arched, sheltering.Despite himself, Will laughed painfully at the pun. The smell of woodsmokesurrounded him, sweet and pungent, as if exhaled from Lucifer s feathers andskin.
 Someone will pay for this, Shakespeare said softly.Lucifer patted him on the shoulder and offered him a hand. :Someone generallydoes. Come, Master Shakespeare, let me show you to your cottage, where youmay begin your revenge:Will wobbled when he stood, his hands trembling more than they had in Faerie,his arse and his inner thighs still aflame. He was thankful when Luciferdropped his hand. The angel s touch was not what Will would have expected. A cottage and not a dungeon, Your Highness?:A poet with naught to poesy on but dungeons is of but little use: Luciferwalked ahead, arms swinging freely with his stride, wings luffing like sails.:Thou mayest go where thou list, and pass without fear. Here in Hell:Will almost walked into a tree, unable to take his eyes from Lucifer. Luciferdid not return the regard. I m free? :Where couldst hide that Hell s master could not find thee, an I wish t? Ah.Here is thy home:Home. The word had the sound of a hammer driving coffin nails. Will turned toregard a little cottage under the trees, a vegetable garden in a sunny gladebeside it, a stone well with a yellow bucket resting on the lip. The smell ofcool water and vegetable blossoms filled the air. This? :Aye: Lucifer said. :I think thou wilt find what thou dost need within. Goodmorrow, Master Shakespeare :
Your Highness, Will said softly. Don t Leave me alone. What am I to do here? Lucifer, turning, looked over his shoulder and smiled. :Write poetry:Will stood, mouth gaping. A quiet cottage in the woods is Hell, Lord Lucifer? The angel smiled. :It shan t be quiet. Thou lt have thy son and all thy manyloves and failures to keep thee company, or I misjudge thee sorely:Will shuddered. And Lucifer smiled, but it looked like sorrow. He dropped hiseyes to the forest floor and drew a breath Will saw it swell his wings. :Itrust thou wilt find those adequate companions:Will said not another word, but watched Lucifer vanish through the trees. Hedidn t turn to look at the homely cottage, its verdant garden, the warm coilof smoke rising from the chimney. He sat down on the arched sweep of a rootand laid his chin in his hands.
 Oh, Annie, he said, miserably, what might have been hours later. Oh,Hamnet. What have I done? 
Act III, scene xix
I LL frame me wings of wax Like Icarus,And o er his ships will soar unto the Sun,That they may melt and I fall in his arms.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Dido, Queen of CarthageA pleasant enough chamber, if a room walled with shadows and floored in coldstone floating like a ship on a nothing sea were one s ideal of pleasantry.Kit turned at its center as the ferry poled into oblivion, noticing sparefurnishings, a master mason s hand in the angles where the stones turned downinto the abyss. Christ wept, he murmured. :So he did: A voice like a fistful of velvet dragged across Kit s skin. Kitswallowed and turned toward his blind side. He might have raised his righthand to check if his jaw was hanging open, but didn t quite.Father of Lies, Kit reminded himself, but nothing could have prepared him forthe confounding beauty of the figure in black who faced him, a raptor sfanned wings glowing soft and pale as moonlight. Lucifer Morningstar tuggedelegant fingers through tousled golden locks and smiled. :Sir Christofer: hesaid, furling his wings. :What an unexpected pleasure. May I offer you somerefreshment?: Kit licked dry lips with a tongue that failed to moisten them. He shook hishead. The Devil sauntered catlike toward him and shrugged as if to say suit yourself. A casual gesture and a wineglass appeared in his hand, his fingerscupped around the bowl as if to a lover s cheek.
God help me.
:He looks in now and again: Lucifer commented, brow bent like a bow to dartthat glance. :Thou dost interest me. Such eloquence in thee. And such pain:As if pain were a thing to be savored.The wings flipped and settled, and Kit s stomach flipped with them, in fearand something else. One white wing extended, a drift of snow glitteringagainst the dark. Primaries trailed on dark stone as Lucifer paced in sloworbit. Deosil, sunwise, moving always to Kit s blind side and so forcing Kitto turn. Idly swirling that red wine in its glass, until a few dropsscattered over the rim and splashed. :Thou hast a gift for the ages, SirChristofer. Would that thou wouldst consider an allegiance with Hell:Kit drew a breath. Feathers flicked the back of his calves. They carried arich, earthy musk he knew. He wasn t sure where he found the humor he putinto his voice, but he managed it. I ve come to bargain, not offerallegiance.:I could make it very pleasant for thee. Thou hast a fascination with power :
Get thee behind me, Satan.A wink broke the horse-trader s appraisal in the Devil s gaudy eyes. :Thethought had occurred:Are angels equipped for such roguery?:Like man, made in God s image :
So God has an arsehole? :Yes. He calls him Michael: Lucifer laughed in such merriment that Kitsmiled, despite the trembling knot in his belly. :Surely, thou hast heard ofl osculum infame:
 The infamous kiss. Your kiss. The one that bestows power of witchcraft. Tis not a kiss on the mouth, I hear.Lucifer only smiled.Rutting with devils is sorcery.:So is rutting with boys. Of a kind with bestiality in thy human law books.It s all sodomy, dear poet:Only sodomy. Kit laughed. Enough to burn on; but hanged for a lamb, hangedfor a ewe is that what you insinuate? What virtue lies in your kiss, then,Prince of Darkness? :No virtue at all. But power. Come, kiss me and discover : 
Am I Faustus? Shall a man be confused with his creations? :Nay. Thou art Marley, who should know better, and come to bargainnonetheless: The Prince of Darkness spread his wings as if stretching. Kit had never seenanything so white swans nor snow, limestone nor linen. They gleamed as ifsunlit from behind. Kit s fingers itched to stroke their arm-long primaries.Face burning, he forced his gaze to the wellmasoned stones under his boots.:Thou rt fascinated:
 . . . Yes. Kit folded his hands like a repentant schoolboy.:Wouldst care to touch?: Touch? Lucifer smiled over the rim of his wineglass and flexed the trailing wingforward. Kit clenched fist in fist as the pinions breathed coolly across hischeek, trailed down his throat, bending where they brushed his doublet, apressure like fingertips braced against his breast. :Touch:Kit disentangled his fingers from each other Lord how can he be so beautiful and hesitantly raised his right hand as if in oath and laid it gently, gentlyon the leading edge of that vast white wing. Rapture swelled his breast; hehalf expected to yank his hand back, fingertips scorched, but the featherswere cool and firm and slick over buried warmth. Bone and muscle moved beneath strong flexing plumage, tiny barbs catching the ridges of hisfingertips with a rasp more felt than heard. He let those fingers burrowthrough feathers, into down soft as blown thistleseeds, to the blood-hotmembrane beneath. And what has become of the burns on my hands?Lucifer shivered, a reflexive twitch of skin like a fly-bitten horse.Ravishing.
Can you fly?The wing flicked from his fingers like snatched paper, snapped shut with aslapped drumhead sound. :If I care to: Lucifer set his glass aside itvanished when it left his fingertips and moved toward Kit, golden curls indisorder against the black velvet of his doublet. He raised sinewy fingersand pressed them curiously against Kit s forehead, hooking the strap of hiseyepatch and dropping it to the floor. :Oh, thou art too lovely for this:Kit thought he should step back, but the Devil s fingers were cool againsthis scar. I should think to you, the damaged vessel might hold more appeal.:Perfection in all things: Lucifer said.He caressed Kit s sightless eye with rose-pale lips, the writhing shadows ofhis crown brushing Kit s face with a palpable touch. :There. Scars do notsuit thee: Kit blinked. And then gasped, because he could blink, and beyond blinking hecould see. Not as he would have seen before. Not as he would see with his left eye, evennow. But he looked for a word but otherwise. The Devil still stood before him, close enough to kiss again, but on the right side Kit saw him as avining of light and darkness, a twist of contradictions. Kit would havestepped back, but somehow those wings had crossed behind his back; he stoodencircled by them and enfolded by the rich, heady pungency of sweat and goodtobacco.
 I ve dreamed of you, Kit said, wondering.:And hast thy dream come true?:Not yet. But he wasn t sure it was truth as he said it. :Now: Lucifer whispered, and his breath at least was as hot as Kit thought itshould be. :Bargain with me:Kit swallowed, shivered. The Devil s hands stayed slack and open by hissides; only the wings restrained Kit. Who raised his chin to meet eyes thattwitched at the corner with an almost smile. Will Shakespeare, he said.
 I m here to buy his life.:The cost of that is dear: 
How dear? I could take his pLace if I had to. But mayhap there s somethingelse.... I could pay you with a song.:Thine art might be enough to buy his freedom. Thy soul:Mine art. All of it? Just that smile. The wings parted, shifted, opened. Lucifer stepped away halflovely swan-winged man, half vortex of light and shadow and looked down,bowing his long aristocratic neck.What about my body?A gesture, as if the Devil reached out and pulled something from a table,although there was no table near him. He wheeled about, wings furled tight,their peaks reaching three foot or more over his head, their primariesbrushing the floor. Still silent, he tossed the black thing that swung fromhis fingers at Kit. It sailed heavily though the air; Kit got his hands up intime and caught it, barking his fingertips.And almost dropped it, when he saw what he held.Rough iron bands abraded his skin; if it were locked in place they would goacross the top of his skull, under the chin, around the sides. Hinges madethe thing to be opened. A padlock hung from the cheek-piece. The bit ormouthpiece was flat and broad, the size of a small woman s palm, scatteredwith blades that would score his tongue and palate, worse if he was sofoolish as to try to talk.It weighed a great deal.
A scold s bridle. Lucifer smiled, and as if the smile cast a shadow over him seemed to changeand darken. Kit found himself looking further up, into eyes he saw in hisnightmares. Richard Baines. God help me
Holla, the image said, his lips moving gently, ye pampered Jades of AsiaKit might have dropped the thing in his hands and run. But there was onlyabyss to run to, and his right eye showed him that same dancing twist ofmocking light with the suggestion of wings behind it. And Will was here.
Somewhere.
 Father of Lies, Kit said. White feathers settled. :Welcome to Hell, Christofer Marley. What wilt thousell me for the freedom of thy friend?:I He looked down at the instrument of torture in his hands, and rememberedsomething a Faerie Queen had said, about mortal men and bindings. If this is what it takes, Satan, I will do it. But I think I have something you wouldvalue more than a little sport to my torment.An arched eyebrow rose. The Devil tilted his head politely, waiting for Kitto continue.
 My name, Kit said, and let the bridle fall. It vanished before it couldclank on the stones. He wondered if it had ever existed. I ll sell you myname, for Will s freedom.He swallowed, but the Devil smiled. :Done: he answered promptly, leaving Kitto wonder if he had made a bad bargain indeed. :Thou art Christofer Marley nomore. And more, I tell thee it will be a long time indeed before thou artremembered for what thou hast been, and not what thine enemies proclaim thee.Thy trials are not over, in Faerie or the mortal realm:
How bad will it be? :Bad. But all is illusion and memory. Thee, and me. God, and the world.Faerie and Hell: Kit turned and walked to the edge of that vanishing tile of stone, floatingin an infinite absence. Where are the damned? he asked, which was not whathe had intended to ask at all. The words seemed to surround Kit, floating on the air like the toll of thebell, the fumes of the snuffed candle that should accompany them. Wherefore in the name of God the All-powerful, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, of theBlessed Peter, Prince of the Apostles, and of all the saints, in virtue ofthe power which has been given us of binding and Loosing in Heaven and on 
earth, we deprive Christofer Marley himself and all his accomplices and allhis abettors of the Communion of the Body and Blood of Our Lord, we separatehim from the society of all Christians, we exclude him from the bosom of ourHoly Mother the Church in Heaven and on earth, we declare him excommunicatedand anathematized and we judge him condemned to eternal fire with Satan andhis angels and all the reprobate, so Long as he will not burst the fetters ofthe demon, do penance, and satisfy the Church; we deliver him to Satan tomortify his body, that his soul may be saved on the day of judgment.
:Is that what thou didst expect?: Satan asked. :Eternal fire, and the demonsof Hell forking souls into furnaces like so much coke for burning?:
No. Ridiculous, on the face of it. But:The damned are all around thee: Those creatures on the glassy plain. Lost creatures, aye. But I saw I see nosouls in torment, Father of Lies.:Seest thou not thyself? Seest thou not Satan and his angels, then?:Am I damned? I feel no fire upon my skin, or on my soul :Fire cannot kiss thy soul, who was Christofer Marley. Such conceits are for simpler heartsthan thine. Thou art in Hell, and have been every day of thy life since thyGod abandoned thee in a little room in France. And thou, brave soul,reconstructed Him into a God that could love thee. But thou hast not the power to change God:Kit closed his eyes, without turning. He felt the cup of a warm wing againsthis shoulder, and knew Satan came to stand beside him. Haven t I? :Perhaps thou art more powerful than I: Lucifer admitted, and Kit studied hisprofile. Leander. Adonis. Apollo. His body straight as Circe s wand Eyes asblue as Heaven looked on the darkness, unflinching, and then turned to regardKit from beneath lashes frosted in gold. :I have not succeeded. Is it notwhat children wish, a father s acceptance? His love?:
Yes, Kit said, into a hollowness that echoed. If Hell is not torment, he asked, knowing the answer, then what is Hell? If I fell, would he comeafter me? On those white, white wings? Or would I fall forever, Like Kit stepped away from the abyss, retreated to the center. Like him. :Sweet child: Lucifer said. And then said what Kit had always known he would.:Why this is hell: nor am I out of it. Thinkst thou that I that saw the faceof God, and tasted the eternal joys of heaven am not tormented with tenthousand hells, In being deprived of everlasting bliss? O Faustus Leave thesefrivolous demands, which strikes a terror to my fainting souL: Kit s own words, given into the mouth of a seductive devil. Mephostophilis.And again, the angel smiled. :Hell hath no Limits, nor is circumscribed Inone self place. But where we are is hell, And where hell is there must weever be. And to be short, when all the world dissolves, And every creatureshall be purified, All places shall be hell that is not heaven: That agony in his chest must be his inability to breathe, Kit thought. Theburning in his eyes, the taint of Hell.:O child: Lucifer said into Kit s silence, :how canst thou deny what thouthyself hast written, and known to be Truth as it was revealed to thee?:Kit scrubbed his hands on his breeches, as if to remove some rusty stain. Hetried to ignore the Devil circling, wings fallen into expansion like acourting hawk s, but Lucifer caught his wrists and drew him close, nose tonose, mouth to mouth. :Hell: he said :is where God is not:I am damned. His knees rattled. The Devil s strength held him up.:Thou art as God made thee: Wry, startling humor. :As are we all:
What could such as you want with such as me?:We have our reasons. Thou livest with demons that fright thee more than Ido, and so for that which thou art as much as that which thou dost carryinside thee, as I have healed thy scars, I will give thee the power todestroy thine enemies:
that which thou dost carry inside thee? Power. How? 
:Why: the Devil answered, his fingers dimpling Kit s skin, :Be thou awarlock, who was Christofer Marley. I shall make of thee a witch, as I havebewitched men before thee. As thou hast said . . . Tis only sodomy:"Only. But he tasted something on the word. Revenge.:Lover: the Devil whispered. :Brother. Thou givest me that only which isalready mine:Kit closed his eyes on the glorious eyes, the broad white wings, the twist offire and purity that was the Prince of God s Angels, and whispered yes.Lucifer smiled, and this kiss tasting of whiskey and smoke began with Kit slips and ended there after an exploratory interval, during which clothingvanished by magic under the touch of caressing hands. Kit pressed both palmsto the fallen angel s smooth-muscled back, clawing fingers digging forpurchase against the base of those wings. Lucifer s forked tongue stopped hismouth as effectively as the scold s bridle would have, and Kit didn t care;the angel s arms clipped and embraced him, lifting him bodily, cradling himagainst the perfect strength of a chest that might have been carved of warmwhite marble by some Grecian master.The angel knelt, never breaking the kiss, wings fanning wide for balance,their breeze pulling soft fingers through Kit s hair as Lucifer drew him downto straddle white thighs. Powerful shoulders, deep-rooted muscle nothing likea man s flexed under Kit s fingers, sliding beneath soft skin and slickfeathers. Kit broke the breathlessness of the kiss to gasp sharply. With onehand he stroked the angel s belly, wrapped the silken member that dented theflesh of his thigh. The angel shuddered again, as he had when Kit touched hiswing.Lucifer drew back, glanced down, and smiled in intimate provocation. Kit sloins ached as if the regard were a caress.:Come unto me: The Devil s hands clenched on his flanks, lifting him without effort,indenting flesh and coaxing him open. Soft hands, strong. Kit winced inanticipation, wrapped his arms around Lucifer s neck to bear his weight, forall it seemed as nothing to the angel. Witchcraft, he thought, how cunning,how quaint. A silent chuckle shivered his belly, breath becoming an expectantwhimper as Kit braced himself for a pain that never arrived. If He hurts you,silly boy, it will not be out of carelessness
It came not as a thrust, or as the lingering accommodation that gentlenesshad almost seduced Kit into expecting. But one massive downsweep of thoseincredible wings hurled them upright one, and then another, as the paleperfect mouth found Kit s again and Lucifer stood in a fluid arc, and Kit waspierced.
Christ, Kit whispered, impassioned, hearing his own awe and fear, disbeliefthick in his voice. : Tis not Christ thou wilt bear on thy back: Amusement, wryness. Wrathfulirony, almost a lover s teasing. Lucifer s hair tumbled down around Kit sface, bearing his smoky, bitter, musky scent.
This is not real. This is not happening. There is no Devil. There is no Hell.God is Love, and God judges not what is done in Love Christ, Christ,Christ. . . . Rapt. Speaking in tongues. Possessed.Yes, possessed.
:God: Warm arms and wings supported him. :God judges. And He is not pleasedwith His creation, for it can never echo His perfection and His will. He doesnot wish thy love. He commands thine obedience and fear. The Lord thy God isa jealous God, and thou wilt have no Gods before him:Bitterness? Sorrow? Oh, but that mouth on his throat, on his breast. Theeffortless puissance bearing him up. A decade and more of rationalizationstripped away by that calm, gentle voice in his mind. Passion on him again,divine will, and remembering the agony that had come with the realizationthat whatever God had made of Christofer Marley, that Marley was a thingwhose love the God of the Church would never return. A calling. The craving 
they named vocation. Put away now with other childish things.Raped away from God, and So this is what Leda felt, which made him giggle.Kit leaned into the embrace, trusting himself to those powerful arms, bodydecisive while his heart struggled and tore itself in his breast.:No Gods before Him. Not even Love. To love God completely, thou must setaside all others: The Devil moved in Kit, and Kit wept and clung. Christ the Redeemer :God s Redeemer, perhaps:
Oh God, forgive me
:First He would have to forgive Himself. And that, I assure thee, he willnot: 
Father of Lies. Oh, Christ, Christ, Christ
Silent laughter. :Is that the name thou chooseth for me?: A lingering caress.: Tis sweet, isn t it, child?:Did you Like it, puss? But even that pain was so far buried that Kit had noanswer, no speech, no reason; was too far lost for anything more eloquentthan whimpered sacrilege. Died blaspheming, he thought, and laughed out loud,and cursed again. 
Act III, scene xx
The Prince of darkness is a GentLeman.
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, King LearWill dug all ten fingers to the knuckles into friable loam, sand grittingunder his nails, leaning the weight of his shoulders behind it. The earth wasblack as Faerie ink; he unearthed another turnip and rubbed crumbles betweenhis hands. Neither the resin of pine needles nor the bittersweetness of thefertile earth soothed the ache in his breast, as sharp as it had ever beenfor all he d carved the notches of too many winters to count at a glance onboth doorposts of the cottage.It seemed the ever-freshness of his grief was one of Hell s many charms. Orperhaps it was simply being left alone with it; no one to speak to but theself-murdering trees, no way to express his soul except through the quill andpaper Lucifer had left him. The ink which stayed ever fresh in the horn, forall Will would not set a pen into it.This is Hell, nor am I out of it. He thought perhaps he would have preferredthe rack, the irons, to the slow wearing of days on his will like water onstone. Irons indeed: then I must be an iron Will, and Let me rust shut. He stood, hands trembling now the work was done, and picked his turnips up. Theirons. Aye, which led him to think of Kit s smooth chest, and the mark etched therethat Will s palm could just cover, if he angled it properly. The irons,indeed. And the irony: when he troubled himself to count, fitting his shaking handsinto the notches he had carved in the posts beside the peeling blue-graydoor, Will knew that Annie must be gone by now, Susanna and Judith quitepossibly grandmothers, Elizabeth cold in her grave and Mary Poley and RichardBurbage and thank Christ Robert Poley and Richard Baines and thatthrice-cursed old bastard Edward de Vere as well. The years slipped by likeseasons; the seasons slipped by like weeks; the weeks slipped by like water.And still Will ate turnips and snared rabbits and lived (if it was living)among the quiet of the trees who had gotten what they wanted and perhapsfound it less than satisfying and longed for someone to speak to. Someone tohold. Somewhere, he thought, carrying his turnips into the cottage, somewhere Kit is alive. And Morgan.My gentle betrayers.Oh, unkind, William. He laid the turnips on the low table, recalling the glowof banked embers, a young man s plea. What do you take your Marley for?He had a knife and a hatchet; the rhythm of the words came to him as heworked, the thud of metal on a stump cut into a butcher s block, the versecold and lovely as a winter freeze among his lonely pines. That you were onceunkind besuits me now no, befriends. That you were once unkind befriends menow. Once unlike yourself, once untrue, once unfairUnkind. Aye. There under the pines, under the arching branches of dead souls slain bytheir own pettiness, their own spite, their own grief and helplessness andpain.
Pines. How aptly named.Oak, he hate
He would not think on it. If he thought, he would think on vengeance. Hewould think on Kit, immortal, and on Annie, now surely dead.If he thought, he would think on fifty years alone in a forest without end.He would think on how Lucifer wanted him to write, and how he would not dowhat Lucifer willed of him. How he would not pay the price, even though heknew, somehow, if he did, his horizons would broaden. That the Devil wouldreward Will if Will gave up that piece of himself. Of his soul. If he served.He would think on how there was someone left alive to take his vengeance forHamnet on, someone in Faerie, and how poetry was the only tool he had to do 
it. He would not think on it, because he would not think on any of those things.His knife made cubes of the turnips, cubes of the rabbit. He browned them inthe fat left from a pheasant and added an onion from the braid on the wall.Housewifely tasks; he d learned them all well. And for that sorrow, which Ithen did feel, / Needs must I under my transgression bow
The words came; he could not stop them. They chewed at his heart, anotherpain among many. They gnawed at his breast, bosom serpents, venomed worms.He had no need to busy himself so; the pantry would fill on its own, thegarden would unweed itself. Will himself had no need, it seemed, to eatunless the desire took him, although his hands did tremble with his illnesswhen he had no task to set them to. Idle hands are the Devil s playground.Idle hands had a tendency to stray to the well-appointed desk, to lift thewhite pen that was a twin to the one Kit had found under the covers of hisbed. Unless my nerves were brass or hammer d steel. For if you were by myunkindness shaken 
Perfect words. Better than anything, Will knew, anything he had written before. As I byyours, you ve passed a hell of time; / And I, a tyrant, have no Leisuretaken / To weigh how once I suffered in your crime. Kit was alive. Somewhere. In Faerie. And his crime was ever less than Will s; Kit had had no vow ofmarriage to forswear. Kit had made no promise of fidelity at all.Worse worse. Kit had offered, and Will had refused him.Only to react like a kicked whelp when he discovered that Kit had believedwhat Will had told him. Kit, who was alive. Kit who would always be alive. Asalive as the Fae who had killed Will s only son.Alive and grieving. O! that our night of woe might have remembered / Mydeepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, / And soon to you, as you to me,then tendered / The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits!
Will added well water to the stewpot, crumbled rosemary, stirred with a longpeeled stick. Not pine; he d learned the flavors of lingering resins in thewood the unpleasant way.Oak. For all he would have liked to burn it. Annie. I hope Kit found you. I hope he told you what became of me. He proppeda plate across the lid of the stewpot, left a little gap, banked the coalsabout the iron bottom. He glanced at his desk, at the fine already-cut leavesof paper, at the elegant pens. At dust that covered all.He glanced at the door, at the notches whittled bright and new in the posts,the oldest ones silvering to match the weathered texture of the beams. Heclosed his eyes and inhaled the savor of garlic and onions and rosemarybubbling over the fire. He turned in the center of the room, the soft lightof evening slipping in through opened shutters, the dark streaks of loam onthe thighs of his breeches, the strange incongruity of the clock on therough-hewn mantel with its scroll-worked hands for seconds, minutes, days,months, years.
A Hell of time. 
He dusted his hands again; black dirt made moons under his nail-beds. A bitof grease daubed the left one s back. He thought of turnips and swore. If I called on Lucifer, would he come to me? Aye, and bid me write, and chide mefor childishness. 
It had happened before.Will blasphemed a little. It did nothing to ease the bitterness in histhroat, the emptiness in his bowels. He picked up his greasy oak stick andhis broom and crouched before the fireplace, upsetting the stewpotintentionally, spilling gravy and vegetables on the hearthstone and away fromthe fire. He burrowed in the embers like a badger, raked them from thefireplace, scorching his shoe, burning his hands.The broom smoked as he swept the heaps of coals against the cottage walls;with the ash shovel he carried a smoking log outside and heaved it up onto 
the thatch. He caught his cloak from the peg by the door frame and settledunder a pine tree, where he remained late into the warm autumn evening,watching the snug little cottage burn.He slept smiling, rough on sponge-soft needles, savoring the pain of hisblistered palms when he woke in the darkness before morning. When the sunrose in tawny and auburn, Will crunched across soft-rotted pine boughs andmounds of needles to wash soot from his face and bathe his hands in the well. The cottage sat where it had always been, a thin ribbon of smoke and thesmell of cooking bannock rising from the chimney. The door was propped openand had been repainted red; Will could see the unmarked, silvery doorpostfrom where he stood just under the roof-edge of the pines.
But that your trespass now becomes a fee; / Mine ransoms yours, and yoursmust ransom me. 
He sighed, and went inside, and somehow, again, managed not to pick up thepen.Will knelt in the sunlight over a bowl full of water, shaving himself as besthe could. He kept his hair haggled to the shoulders with his dagger; thepalsy made keeping his beard trimmed hard, but he was damned if he d lethimself turn into a wild man. Truth to tell, he was damned even if he wasn tpretty.He laid the blade aside and dipped hands in the water, washing the trimmedhairs from his face. He sat back on his heels and blinked; a shadow fell overhim and he startled, overbalanced, and fell on his ass as he began to rise.:Master Shakespeare: Lucifer bent and extended a hand; Will took itreflexively, surprised that it felt . . . so much like a hand. :Still thouhast written not a word. Stubborn man:
 I am what I am. :Stubborn enough: Lucifer said. :Come. Thou art released. Thou art no longerwelcomed in Hell: Will blinked, tilted his head to the side. Released? :Aye: Lucifer chivvied him along with a guiding wing. Will might have glancedback at the little cottage, the glade in the pines. But Lucifer s wingblocked his vision, and he was half certain that if he turned the house wouldnot be there.
 Your Highness, I do not understand.:Thy lover has purchased thy freedom: The Devil smiled, his blue eyesglittering. :And lucky thou art to command such loyalty. And such a ferocioussoul:
 My lover? I haven t one, Will thought. But I did. Once. Morgan? What would Morgan want with me again?
:No: Lucifer said. :Not Morgan, gentle William. Ah, look. Already, here isthe door: 
Act III, scene xxi
His waxen wings did mount above his reachAnd melting, heavens conspired his overthrow.CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Faustus Will, thin and shivering in the red light of Hell, leaned against theyawning, gateless mouth of a dark stone stair. Eyebright as if with fever andclutching his doublet tight around him as if Hell had left not heat but deepcold in his marrow, he reminded Kit of a bony old cat. He would not look up,would not look Kit in the face. He didn t seem to notice the lack of scars or the missing eyepatch, but the light, in truth, was poor, and Kit could seeWill shivering.Kit thought to lay a hand on Will s sleeve. He was as helpless to bridge thegap between them as to thrust a hand through a brick wall.Will touched him though, and Kit s mouth filled with the taste of whiskey,his nostrils with the scent of smoke. He stepped away more rudely than hecould have. Will. Don t 
Kit. Sweet Christofer Oh, strange, to hear the name said in a lover svoice and feel no shiver of recognition in its cadences. Tis no Longer thyname, who was Christofer Marley. You came for me. I chose a side, Will. The side that would have me as God made me. The tone that should have been light and playful fell on his own ears like pebbles ina pool. Plop, plop, plop. Kit wondered if the ripples of what Lucifer haddone would ever stop shaking the stillness of his soul.You came for me. Will said it again, and this time Kit heard the disbeliefclearly.I love thee. He led Will to the stair. You love Morgan.Oh. No. Dammit, Kit, I saw the two of you together. Robin said Will swallowed,audibly. And all the years I ve been gone, have you not spent at her side?And now she needs me for something. Else why would it have taken you so longto come Puck. Damn you, too. Ah, wait. I already did that. Kit bit his lip on ahysterical laugh. Years, Will?How much time has passed in the mortal realm? Will asked wearily. Who is King?It s still Hallow s eve or was when I rode out of Faerie. And Elizabeth reigns yet. Hours, not years. Kit knew he needed to turn and put his hand onWill s sleeve, to knot his fingers in Will s hair and hold him close. He knewit from Will s sidelong glances, and the careful, conscious way Will kept hishands at his sides. But all he could sense was the touch of Lucifer s hands on his body, those bright wings fanning over him, the taste of the angel sskin. Damn. Faerie time. Time in Hell. How long was it, Will?Will would not return Kit s steady regard. I lost my calendar.God. Will I m sorry. Inadequate, and untrue. Kit shuddered. He wasn tsorry. He was angry. God in Hell, Will, if you knew what you cost me Pish. Kit. And if thou hadst gone to the teind as Morgan willed, wouldst havechosen differently what thou didst to Satan sell? Thou rt safe now. Mylove. Will flinched. Mine other love sold thee to Hell. Whom thou didst love also. 
Tis not love, Kit said. Morgan s Fae. Betrayal, tis . . . part of whatshe is. As for me I m sorry. I am so sorry, Will. And he was. And angry,still. Will did not try to touch him again, but walked very near, without speaking,on Kit s left hand. Kit let the silence hold them, and hoped there wasforgiveness in it. It was good for thinking, that silence, and he bent hismind to Lucifer, and Christ, and God, and Will. 
Will, who turned and looked at him straight, finally, and let his eyebrowsrise. There s a revelation on your face.Kit smiled. More a bemusement. My plays, your plays they can change theworld. Hell, William. Here I am living the Orpheus I wrote, for Christ s sake. And Morgan told me she has changed and changed again, reflecting whatthe poets sing. So if Christ came to preach God s love and tolerance athousand and a half years gone, and half the world is Christian, why is itthat God himself has not become what Christ the Redeemer would have made him? The Morningstar told me Kit stopped, pierced by a vivid recollection of thecircumstances of that conversation.
 You believe what the Devil says?
Thou needs must have spoken with him, in thy time in Hell. Did he ever lieto thee? Will flinched; Kit leveled his voice. Satan says that God lovesnot, nor forgives, as the New Testament would have it. God judges, Will. As fathers do. 
You believe what the Devil says?
No lie could have cut me so. 
Kit Marley. Climbing, Will favored him with a glance. I ve heard youdismiss Moses as a what was the word 
Juggler.
Juggler, aye. And Christ as a sodomite and fornicator
Is fornication such a sin? Can not a man s words be holy though a man be butearth? Their footsteps up the stair carried them from Stygian gloom tosomething like pale earthly moonlight. Kit ran fingers along the rough stoneof the wall and did not look back. Never Look back. Never step off the path.Never trust the guardian.Oh, indeed.
And now thou tellst me thou art shattered because the Devil says God doesnot love thee. Will turned dark blue eyes on him in a glare, and blinked.
Your face 
Satan, Kit said dryly, healed me. When he agreed to release thee.
What didst thou 
Don t, Kit said, shaking his head, feeling the movement of scrubbed curlsagainst his neck, knowing no soap or simple could make him clean again.
Don t ever ask me. Just accept that what I did, I did in love for thee.
Oh, Kit. But Will fell silent, and it was enough, and they ascended side byside for a time until Kit found his courage again.
Tis the Church, he said quietly.What do you mean?The reason God can t love us. The Church. All churches. He paused, hearinghis own radical words. True heresy, this. They speak to power and to money,and they teach a jealous and a wrathful God. Christ s God was not that.Christ s God is a God who can forgive. Who can love his creations. Mayhapthere are two Gods, I don t know or three. The Catholic God, the ProtestantGod, and the Promethean God. Three that are one.And the Puritan God. Ah. Kit? How long do you suppose it takes to climb outof Hell? Three days, Kit guessed, and smiled to himself when Will s laugh forgot tobe broken-edged. Kit stole a look: Will leaned on the wall, lifting each footwith painful concentration, but he kept up. I LL carry him on my back if Ihave to. 
A calm voice, then, and one with a purpose in it. Your Latin. I supposeyou ve forgotten it all. And your Greek
No, I ve kept it, Kit answered. And learned some of the Hebrew, someArabic and some Russian, too.
Hebrew, Will said. That will be useful. 
Useful to what purpose?
Well, he answered, as they came around a corner in the stair and the sourceof the pale reflected light revealed itself a shaft in the ceiling, 
unguessably high, with a patch of blue at the top of it that Kit could havecovered complete with his pinky nail, for perspective. If I m going to writea Bible, I need someone to translate it for me. And someone to push the pen.My hands are not what they were.
You re serious. Will sighed, filling his lungs with the sweeter air that fell down the shaft.He squared his shoulders and recommenced to climb. I ve had time to think on it. If you can suggest a simpler and preferably shorter plan for convincingpeople God loves them and forgives them, I would be overjoyed to hear it. I mgoing back to England. Let s do something useful with Prometheus, shall we?It s there; it s got to be for something better than shoring up Princes andclothing upstart Earls in glory.
If that s your plan, Kit answered, it will have to be something on theorder of a liberal translation. The world is not kindly to those who seekwisdom, Will. Look at the example of one Jesus of NazarethYou re the one who believes our circumstances would be improved if God tooka personal interest, Will answered, and Kit was certain this time that hedid not imagine the bitterness. Personally, I think we d be better off if weaccepted some responsibility for our choices. But you re our translator.You ll be responsible for that.
An atheistical warlock and a humanist conspiring on a Bible to free goodEnglishmen from the suzerainty of the Church.A warlock, eh?So they assure me. Kit opened his palm at face level as they climbed. Hisright eye showed a spiral of possibilities hovering over it. He focused onthem, and called forth Light. A thin blue flicker of Saint Elmo s Fire curled about his fingers. Call me Faustus and I ll hit you. Although there sa degree of dramatic irony in this.Well, Will answered, toiling upward. We re both somewhat prone to irony. Isuppose it s appropriate. Ironic, but appropriate. Although I can t answerfor mine actions should you summon up the shade of Helen.The furthest thing from my mind, Kit assured him, permitting the light tofail. 
Act III, scene xxii
In Loving thee thou know st I am forsworn,But thou art twice forsworn, to me Love swearing;
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet 152Will was never sure how they came to return to the Mebd s palace. One momentclimbing tiredly, Kit s hand awkward and quickly withdrawn on the small ofhis back; the next the dry crunch of beech twigs under his feet, the scuff ofgrass. Will staggered as they came out of the trees. He turned to speak toKit; Kit had fallen behind. Will stopped and retraced his steps.Will found Kit leaning against a beech trunk, bent over as if he d beenpunched. Head bowed, Kit stared at the backs of his hands, which were spacedwidely on his half-flexed knees. He looked up as Will approached, thesunlight falling across his unblemished face. Wordlessly, Will studied Kit,realizing that he had almost forgotten what Kit had looked like before he wasscarred. Will held out a hand; Kit nodded it away, sliding his back up thesmooth bole of the tree. A red bird such as Will had never seen sang in the branches overhead, a highchirruping whistle. Delicate bell-shaped flowers that almost seemed cast inwax poked through the leaf mold around Kit s unshod feet.
Thou rt not well, Will said. Overcome for a moment, is all.Kit s right eye caught the green sunlight through the trees and blazed for amoment, yellow as citrine before it faded to match the other.Kit Will took Kit by the forearms and held him tight. Kit would not meethis eyes. Will couldn t find the words for the question he needed to ask andso he asked instead, What hath become of thy shoes?I sold them to a ferryman. Kit tugged ineffectually. And my cloak to anifrit, and my sword to a demon. I think they were all Lucifer.Will released Kit s right hand; Kit braced it against Will s chest andpushed, but Will held him fast and caught his chin. They stood just withinthe embrace of the woods; the trees were half bare. Within the castle,observers could see them wrangle so. Kit, what have I done to earn thineanger?Kit laughed, but there was no humor in it. Will held him fast when he leanedback, still tugging his wrist away like a restless horse fretting at its tie:absently, almost without intent. My touch hurts him, Will realized, and thethought might as well have been a dagger letting his bowels out a slit in hisbelly. He held fast nonetheless.Thou hast done nothing. Sweat beading on Kit s face. And I everything toearn thine. I don t deserve thy forgivenessI forgive thee anyway.I went to Morgan becauseBecause thou didst wish me hurt for leaving thee, and thyself hurt for notbeing what I wanted most. Will delivered the words coldly, a judgmentpronounced. And she took thee because it would influence me, and me becauseit should influence thee. Christofer. Christofer, Look at me Christofer, longI ve had to consider this, and if thou needst forgiveness I forgive thee,although if anything tis I should beg thy dispensation. I cry thee mercy, mylove. He expected Kit to quit his fighting; indeed, he looked Will square in theeye now, but his wrist still twitched in Will s grip.I knew what would have driven me to it, Will said, softly, and made as ifto kiss. Kit stiffened in his hands, flexed like an eel, and shoved himself backward,out of Will s embrace. Kit fell gracelessly, sprawled in leaf litter, arustling and crunching of twigs, a startled shout. Will, Kit said,clambering to his feet. Will, tis not thee. What happened down there? 
Kit checked. He lowered his hands and scrubbed them on his thighs. I asked thee practice reticenceAye, Will said. And I did not vow it. Kit, thy feet are bleeding. Spotsof red showed on raveled silk stockings. Will knelt down among the twigs.Thou hast walked thyself bloody. Come, let me help thee to the palaceKit shied a step back, and Will desisted. Tis not far, he said. Methinks I can stagger a quarter mile downhill.On your head be it.They went on.Kit climbed the spiral stair like a clockwork, hauling himself up each stepby clutching the rail, never looking at the Fae that flocked around,chattering questions. There were those that might have stopped them, andthose that might have helped them, too. Will waved them all aside, servantsand nobles, blocking them with his body when his voice wouldn t suffice.They crowded, touching, prodding; Kit jerked away, keeping his eyes downcast,and Will interposed himself. Fingers tugged his doublet and hands outreachedto touch his face. You came back. He brought you back. How did you come back?Hope, Will realized, and wonder. He found himself stronger than he expected,and the Fae fell back from his glance and his hand upraised after heshouldered a few aside quite physically. He chivvied Kit to the top of thestairs and toward their door, closing his eyes in a moment s relief at RobinGoodfellow barring the doorway, hands on his minuscule hips and his fool sbauble dangling from his fingers.The Puck scattered the Fae with a gesture. When they were inside, he barredthe door and jammed a chair under the handle, exchanging a look with Will.Kit turned and sat heavily on the bed. How long have we been gone?
It s All Saints Day, Puck said, and gestured out the window to the robustevening light. Your horse came home with an empty saddleI sent him, Kit said, and lay back on the coverlet.Will got up to check the fire and light a candle against the dimness thatsoon would fill the room. Don t trouble yourself, Kit said. Every wick in the room stirred to flame.In a moment, he said, I am going to get extremely drunk. You are both morethan welcome to join me.The Puck s voice was clipped. Sir Christofer. He perched on the edge of thechair he d wedged the door with, hooked his heels on the top rail, and leanedhis elbows on his knees. Was that what it took to buy William free?Will stood stupefied with exhaustion between them, wondering what Robin knewthat he did not. Kit laid the back of his wrist across his eyes. No. Worry, now, and Puck s ears dipping and bobbing like buoys on a net. Sir Christofer Don t call me that. Call you what? Puck sucked his mobile lip. Will watched, blinking, shiftinghis gaze from poet to Faerie and back, struggling through the fatigue tounderstand. Sir Christofer. It signifies nothing, Kit replied. It grates mine ears tohear such empty sound.As you wish it, Puck said, and leaned back. The court has been in uproar.I noticed. Will felt pleasure at his self-possessed tone, but from thelooks Kit and Robin shot him, it read not so much level as emotionless.Forcing his tingling feet to move, he crossed to the washstand and lifted theewer and bowl in hands that shook enough to scatter droplets on the carpet.All his gardening had given him strength, at least; despite the palsy, hebalanced the weight easily. Come, Kit. He brought the water and kneltbeside the bed. Peel off thy stockings; let me work my will on thee.Kit would not meet Will s smile. Instead, he sat stiffly as an old man,tucking his feet aside as Will reached for them. I can pick the gravel frommine own wounds, Will. 
Will grunted and heaved himself to his feet, sharing a sidelong glance withRobin as Kit peeled his shredded stockings from the lacerations on his feet.Puck watched with unsettling intensity. When commenced you to studywitchcraft, Sir or rather, Kit?Kit tossed the garters on the bed. The stockings were rags. He hunchedbetween his knees, using those rags to scrub the blood from his feet. Thewater in the basin grew pink, and so did the knot of knitted silk. Since last night, Master Goodfellow.
You ve mastered a great deal.I had instruction. Will s imagination, or did Kit s voice break on that word? Puck stoodabruptly, sweeping the chair aside with a clatter. I ve just recalled,Master Marley. I ve a package in my room tis thine: twas delivered this afternoon. Master Shakespeare?Will breathed again, in relief. Can I be of service, Robin? Ask of me an errand, good Puck. Anything. Get me out of this room before I strike the man.
It is too heavy for me to carryWill? Kit looked up, voice suddenly plaintive. Robin, what sort of apackage? Wilt be gone long?Cloth, methinks. The Puck shrugged. I opened it not.I ll return in a moment, Will said, and tugged open the door. Robin s rooms are not far. Good Master Goodfellow, wilt ask for us that food be sent,and Morgan and the Queen apprised of our return?Will felt as much as heard Kit cease breathing.The Mebd knows, Robin said. Twas she that sent me. And MorganMorgan? Kit, not Will, although he did not rise.Morgan is not currently welcomed at court, Puck said, and stepped throughthe door. He turned back over his shoulder. Her Majesty was not pleased withthe machinations that led to your brief absences from our company.Brief, Will thought, as Kit made no protest and Puck closed the door. Helaughed. A hundred years if it were a day, he said, and Puck nodded.
Tis as I expected. Was it very bad? Puck set a good pace. Will fell inbeside him. Bad enough. RobinAye?What s wrong with Kit?Silence, and one Will didn t like at all. They were nearly to Robin s doorwhen the gnarled little man spoke again. Do you know how witches get theirpowers, Will?Will chewed his nail and considered while Puck opened the door and slippedinside. A moment later, and Puck returned, lugging a linen-wrapped burdenthat completely filled his arms. Will took it and tucked it under his elbow,where it compressed softly. Kit s thanks, I m sure. He had to force his smile.
 Twas nothing.There was a click as Robin shut the door. Will stood in the corridor for longmoments, considering. Another price I am not worthy of, he thought, andshifted the bundle in his grip.
But how unseemly is it for my Sex,My discipline of arms and Chivalry,My nature and the terror of my name,To harbor thoughts effeminate and faint?Save only that in Beauties just applause,With whose instinct the soul of man is touched,And every warrior that is rapt with LoveOf fame, of valor, and of victory,Must needs have beauty beat on his conceits.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Tamburlaine the Great 
Kit limped to the window on linen-wrapped feet and shouldered the casementopen, careful of the bowl of bloody water in his hands. He poured it downonto the garden at the base of the wall and set the bowl aside. Leaning overthe window ledge, watching the stars shiver out in the crystalline blue-grayof the heavens, he swore. If you cannot bear it, there s always the knife.Suicide, and back into Satan s hands.
He wished he didn t know the shiver that crept up his neck was desire, andnot terror. Back into his hands whenever he wants you. And you cannot pretendyou did it for Will.
No. The first thing he had done for Will. His name. His identity. His legacy.Little enough for his love s freedom and a chance at redemption.The second thing he had done was for power. Like Faustus. And, like Faustus,he would make good his revenge ere the devil claimed him. See if I don t. They called it soldier s heart. This weariness, this unsounded sorrow. Kithad felt it before, when he d seen men who had called him friend hanged fortreason. He d felt it after Rheims: a mad, manic hollowness no prayer ordrink or lover could fulfil. The door opened behind him. He turned, sighed in half relief and half panicwhen he saw who stood framed in the opening. Will. Distract me from mystudy; I am all black thoughts and foul humors tonight.Will shut the door and shot the bolt. He held something white as angel wingswrapped in his arms; it gleamed while he leaned against the door, hugging itas a child hugs a doll.
Will, what hast thee? Kit tugged the window shut and limped toward Will,stopping a few feet away.Will shrugged and dropped it on the chair that had settled kitty-corner,where Puck had left it. He stepped away, but not before Kit saw the shininessin the corners of his eyes. Will walked toward the sideboard where Kit keptwine and overturned cups. Kit came to the chair, picked at the wax and twinesealing the bundle; it fell open at his touch. Oh. A waterfall of rainbow colors spilled across Kit s hands, silks and satinsand velvet and taffeta and lace. His cloak, in all its dozens of patches. Andsomething more; someone s hands had sewn a collar on it, an uprightblunt-cornered affair of soft black velvet that was the second-richest thingthat Kit had ever touched. The stitches were as neat and tight as Kit s ownhand I imagine Will sews a tight stitch too, growing up in a glover shouse and he knew before he pressed it to his face that it would smell ofsmoke and strong liquor. He bundled it in his arms, walked across the carpet,and leaned against the bed. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, feelingthe tears prick under his eyelids and hating himself for weakness as he did.
He sent my cloak back.Will came back to him, carrying a cup. Kit slung the cloak across thecoverlet, as if he meant to sleep beneath it. Accepted the wine. I have a gift for thee as well, he said. I meant to give it upon thy leaving.
Kit, what could you
Hush, he said, and turned to root in the box on the bedside stand. The ringwas gold, cool and heavy in his hand, the flat face marked with Will sinitials, which were both surmounted and linked by true-love s knots a pairof them. You ll need a signet, if you re to be a gentleman.Will took it from his hand and stared down at it, a muscle twitching in hisjaw.
We should sleep early. As early as we can.
Tomorrow Will dragged a stool over, crouched on it, and began to work onhis boots. I have to go home to Annie, Kit.
Aye. Kit tossed back the wine, set his cup aside, and methodically beganstripping his buttons from their holes. I ve decided not to get drunk afterall. Wilt stay by me tonight?
Wilt flinch when I touch you? 
Kit couldn t look at Will, but he could imagine the expression on his face.
And what will I do for peace now, now that this is Lost to me too?
It seemed an ungrateful question, given what he had traded that chance ofpeace for. Power. The ability to protect Will. And his children. The strength to do somethingabout Richard Baines. 
He tossed his doublet aside and stripped his shirt off over his head. Andheard Will s sucked-in breath and remembered his own dramatic gesture withthe candles and the brilliance of the lighting a moment too late.Kit, you ve a bruise. . . .Kit reached up and over, felt down the sprung plane of his shoulder blade.His left arm with its old injury wouldn t flex so far; he reached with theright. Blood-gorged flesh heated his fingertips. He could feel, almost, theoutline of each perfect tooth, the roughness of a seeking tongue. Right wheresomeone might bite a lover taken from behindRight where a wing would take root, if he had wings.His burn scars pained him suddenly, a low, sweet ache like the ache insidehim. A longing that almost made him reach for the wine bottle again.
It s a witch s mark, Kit said without turning, and pulled on his nightshirtwith a grimace. Lucifer s unclean brand. Come, Will. Get ready for bed.Kit. Will, no.Kit. What was it that thou didst in Hell? Kit read the play of emotions across Will s face: fear, grief, concern. I don t want him to know. I want anything but for him to know. And if I pretendI do not understand what he s asking, I ve Lost not only a Lover, but thetrust of a friend. 
Kit swallowed. He doused the candles with a snap of his fingers, feeling thepower move to his whim as if he tugged a dozen tiny threads. The room fellinto near darkness; starlit from the window, a glow like the blue light ofHell except where it cast shadows. He reached up over his head and knottedhis fingers in his hair, pulling; the pain felt good. Clean. Will s words,again: for them both, it always came back to the blasted words. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil by telling truth: tell truth and shamethe devil 
He smiled at Will, a smile no more thick than gilt on a page, and said, I whored myself out to the Devil. And was surprised when it felt good to sayit, another good pain like ripping a scab back from the wound. I let God. Don t touch me. Please. I can t Will drew back the hand he had been about to lay on Kit s shoulder. For me,he said softly, and jerked back in surprise when Kit shook his head.
Nothing so noble, Kit answered. I had thee back already by then. He turned and looked Will in the eyes. I Love him still, for all I can t so muchas Lay my damned hand on his arm.Aye. Damned indeed.
Then what? Kit shrugged. Baines. Poley.You could just outwait them. Outlive them. Placating. A pleading voice, andhe hated to see Will beg.Elizabeth is over, Will. Walsingham and Burghley are gone. Whatever happensnext is ours. Ours, or De Vere s and Essex s. Would you see that come topass? Kit smiled. Will drew back from something: the fervor in his eyes, theglitter of his teeth. And now I can melt their Godsrotted eyes in theirheads, if I m lucky. Besides, it s too late now to give the gift back. I tookthe shilling, so to speak.Up the arse.Christ, WillNo, Will said, quietly. His blue eyes were black in the darkened room. Do you know what Lucifer told me? 
Kit shook his head; whatever he felt was too complex to speak through. Nor do I want to know.
 He told me who killed Hamnet. And showed me how to use my poetry to getvengeance on them.
Oh. 
As long as I gave him mine allegiance.
Will, I
I didn t write a word, Will said. Fifty years and more I spent in hisdamned birdcage. Alone. Without books, without conversation. I didn t write aword for all that time. And then something changed.Kit nodded. Will wouldn t look away, for all Kit must have been barely ashadow in the starlight. Kit could see Will perfectly well, out of his righteye at least. Could see in the dark like a demon. What happened, then?Will smiled, and clapped Kit on the shoulder too quickly for Kit to flinchaway, stinging his flesh beneath the thin lawn of his shirt. My faith wasrewarded, he said softly. My savior came. Come to bed, Kit; you don t haveto armor yourself in nightshirts and dressing gowns like a maiden.Will turned away, moving through the darkness to their bed, peeling thecovers back, leaving a trail of clothes like breadcrumbs behind him on thefloor. Don t give up hope. I know for a fact that someday your savior willcome as well. 
How do you know it? Kit ran a comb through his hair in the darkness,scattering crushed beech leaves on the floor. He peeled the nightshirt offagain and slid into bed beside Will, tugging the cloak up close to his chinand inhaling the complex scent saturating the petal-soft velvet collar.
Because, Will said quietly, stretching against the far edge of the bed.
That s how all the best stories end. Not Romeo and Juliet, Kit thought. But he couldn t bring himself to break thewarm darkness to say so. 
Intra-act: Chorus 
With this ring I thee wed: with my body I thee worship: and with all myworldly goods, I thee endow. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, andof the holy Ghost. Amen.
The Book of Common Prayer, 1559Annie Shakespeare touched the breast of her bodice with two fingers, paperrustling between her chemise and her skin. Her second-floor sitting room wasquiet and gleaming with sunset; her needle paused before her frame, glintingin the cold winter light. It had hovered so for minutes as she leaned forwardin her chair and looked out the window, and now she sat back with a sigh, andpressed her bosom again. He won t be here. He won t A clatter of hoofbeats on the road. Only one horse, and no creak of wheels. A messenger, then, and not my Will. She tucked the needle through the cloth andstood, stretching before the window with her hands against the small of herback, to see who came to her house too late to be sent along to the tavernfor supper. She couldn t see his face for the broad wings of his cap, but hesat his horse as awkwardly as a sack of barley, and the animal shook his headin complaint.He reined up before the gates of the New Place and tilted his head back,looking up at the facade and the five gables. Annie pressed her hand againstthe glass: if Will had described the ramshackle century-old dwelling he dbought for her that she d bought under his signature, to be truthful themessenger was unlikely to recognize it, whitewashed and gracious now as abride in her mother s remade wedding dress.The rider pushed his hat back on his forehead, looking up from the shadow ofthe roadway into the light that still gleamed on the wall, and Annie s handon the window rose to her mouth. She turned, tripped on her hem, knocked theembroidery frame sideways with her hip and dove down the stairs pell-mell,calling for Susanna and for Judith and for Cook.Will went to put the girls to bed with a story a little child s treat, andperhaps not fitting for young women nearly old enough to go into service oroff to wed and Annie turned the mattress and the featherbed and tucked the covers straight. Will found her, she guessed, as much by the spill ofcandlelight into the hall as by knowing where the bedroom lay.
The house has changed, wife, he said. He shut the door behind and,trembling softly with his palsy, set his own candlestand on the shelf besideit. Tis much improvedAs it was uninhabitable when we bought it, I should hope. Tis empty,though without a man. Annie bit her lip, and tugged the coverlet down. Andbit it harder when Will came up behind her and stroked both hands down herhips, laced his fingers across her belly and tugged her into his embrace.Will, don t teaseHis mouth on her neck, tracing the line of her hair, the dints along herspine. I should not attempt such cruelty. He strung something about herthroat, the soft, lingering touch of his fingers, a stroke as of satin. I have confessions, Annie. And promises to make.
Confessions? Aye He was knotting a silken ribbon, a braid of red and black and green.Something that weighed like an acorn hung upon it; she slipped her handbeneath. A silken pouch no bigger than her thumb. Annie, I have loved thee.She held her breath. And now do not? He turned her in his arms and looked into her eyes. Curious, she reached upto touch the golden earring that adorned him. He smiled at the touch. And love thee more than ever I could have told thee. I, Will, love thee towordlessness. Never hast thou been wordless, she answered, and kissed his nose to makehim smile like that again. 
Annie, hush, he said. And she obeyed, and he continued. I promised I dlove no other but thee whatever sins my flesh was heir to. And I ve brokenthat promise, my love.She d been lulled by the moment. By the spell of him, the gentleness, thekisses she d almost forgotten the sweetness of. She closed her eyes andstepped away, acid burning in her throat. A mistress 
No, Will said, and pulled her close. And kissed her on the mouth. A man. She wanted to jerk away, retreat to the corner between the clothespress andthe bed. But his hands were on her wrists, and he held her tight, with astrength she didn t remember in him. A man. 
Aye, he said. I won t won t lie to thee. I loved him, and I love himstill. And more She steeled herself to stand motionless in his embrace, wondering if he couldfeel the thunder of her heart. So there s a reason for his fevered kisses. Will, I d not have thought thee so capably cruel....
the man I love is no mortal, but an Elf-knight, a warlock. A creature ofthe Fae. And under a geas, that I may never touch him. No, nor any other,until his curse be lifted Anne blinked, not understanding. Thou rt leaving me for a man thou canst nottouch? Oh, why not? He cannot touch thee either, sister
No, Will said. He stepped back and touched the silk hung at the hollow ofher throat. No, I tell thee so thou wilt understand what he has given me.This man. This knightShe reached up and caught his wrist. What? He s bought thee from me for abit of silk? 
No, Annie. He kissed the fingers that bound his trembling forearm. Kissedher wrist and the tenderness inside her elbow and bowed his head there,inhaling her scent. Annie, he s given thee back to me. How long has itbeen? 
Judith is nearly fourteen, she said softly. What canst thy meaning be?He pushed her nightgown down over her shoulders as he kissed her again,without restraint this time. Despite her confusion, she gave herself up tothe kiss, buried her fingers in his hair, tasted mutton and onions on histongue. Witches have spells for causing barrenness, my love. 
Author s Note (brief version)This is the first of two tightly linked novels, a duology collectively knownas The Stratford Man. The second book, Hell and Earth, will be published inAugust 2008.A complete Author s Note and Acknowledgements enumerating this narrative sextensive historical and linguistic malfeasances and encompassing asemi-exhaustive list of who may be assessed for the same may be found at theend of the second book. 
About the Author Originally from Vermont and Connecticut, Elizabeth Bear spent six years inthe Mojave Desert and currently lives in southern New England. She attendedthe University of Connecticut, where she studied anthropology and literature.She was awarded the 2005 Campbell Award for Best New Writer. 
ROC Published by New American Library, a division ofPenguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,New York, New York 10014, USAPenguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, EnglandPenguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen s Green, Dublin 2,Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,New Delhi - 110 017, IndiaPenguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South AfricaPenguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, EnglandFirst published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.First Printing, July 2008Copyright Sarah Kindred, 2008All rights reserved 

REGISTERED TRADEMARK MARCA REGISTRADA LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Bear, Elizabeth.Ink and steel : a novel of the Promethean Age / Elizabeth Bear.
p. cm.eISBN : 978-1-436-22907-4 
1. Prometheus Club (Fictitious characters) Fiction. 2. Secretsocieties Fiction. 
3. Magicians Fiction. 4. Fairies Fiction. 5. Imaginary wars andbattles Fiction. 
6. Dramatists Crimes against Fiction. 7. Shakespeare, William,1564-1616 Fiction. 
8. Great Britain History Elizabeth, 1558-1603 Fiction. I. Title.PS3602.E2475155 2008 
813 .6 dc22 2008000746 Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of thispublication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrievalsystem, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permissionof both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.PUBLISHER S NOTE This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents eitherare the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously, and anyresemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,events, or locales is entirely coincidental.The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume anyresponsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet orvia any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal andpunishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, anddo not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightedmaterials. Your support of the author s rights is appreciated. 
http://us.penguingroup.com