Ink and Steel

Act II, scene x

Would they make peace? terrible hell make war

Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, The life and Death of Richard II

7th June anno Domini fifteen hundred & ninety five, Winding lane London.

My beloved friend In the fervent hope & intention that this small note may pass to thee directly I will speak plain, for I feel what I must impart is of too much moment to conceal under circumlocutions. We shall have to trust the privy ink in which these lines are written, between the stanzas of my latest manuscript. If I am too forward in thine estimation, then shalt thou burn this missive when thou hast read. I shall be as brief as I may: news in London is bad, & will unease thee. The Queen’s physician is finally dead, hanged at Tyburn last week. I was in attendance for thy FW, who miraculously still holds fast to life & breath although I know not how. A terrible thing, & I believe & FW & lord Burghley with me that it has much taken the heart from Her Majesty, for she was ever fond of Dr Lopez. In his last words, he swore his allegiance to HRM & to Christ, & died as thou mightst imagine, in exceeding pain. I will not say more; 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 the auspices of Poet Watson’s sister who is as good a woman as thou hast indicated & in much improved circumstance now, along with Robin her boy. Fret not, gentle Christofer: I am as cautious as ever thou couldst wish. But she, although Robert her husband will not see her, Robert’s friends will sometime 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 in their treasonous efforts from overseas, a Spaniard she thinks & I think as well, keeps them supplied with coin. I have had this information to FW, but Oxford speaks well of Poley to the Queen, & so no action is taken. I suspect almost that Oxford has some secret hold on Her Majesty, for she is overkind to one who has not her best interests in heart. With what thou hast taught me I 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 it more subtly than he knows. & still she loves him better than any but Burghley

Burghley, who is growing ill & aged, & his son takes more & more his place at the Queen’s right hand. Raleigh is out of favor again, & Essex has become openly hostile. He grows bold & conceals not his disdain for the Queen & the woman 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 & the Queen’s despair at it have made him drunk with power. & I have learned beyond a doubt that Poley is Essex’s man. Mary says Poley bragged in a tavern that he got money from Southampton. Which means Essex. Which means

I do not need to draw the obvious conclusions for thee, when Southampton, still in the guise of my patron & friend has asked for a play, a trifling thing. Thou wilt be unsurprised to learn that the topic of this play is Richard the second, & there is no way I can refuse without making it evident that I know more than I should. & that way lies a scuffle in a dark alley & a knife in the eye. More & more I feel I tread, forgive the casual blasphemy, like our lord Jesus Christ on tossing waves that might hurl me at my 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 its bearer, a Spaniard or a Portuguese, not so dark as Lopez, hair almost auburn in 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 a close-trimmed beard. Most strange of all, he wore rings on every finger, and from 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 an unguarded moment one of Poley’s associates, a recusant named Catesby who I know, for he spends time at the Mermaid, call him Fray. & still worse & more interesting. Concealed in the crowd & my hood at the hanging, I made shift to follow those men back into the city. There is famine in London, Kit, & in the countryside as well. I saw the foreigner speak with Baines; he went into a tavern, & Baines like an errand-boy went off to do his bidding. What his bidding was I can guess, for there were vagabonds & chiefly apprentices 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 with them. I shall not attend. Lopez’s torture was all I could stomach, & I feel no need to watch the ravens feast. The riots mean the closing of the playhouses, & the Privy Council influenced by the Puritans who thou thinkst & I think influenced by the Enemy have ordered them torn down, although it has not happened yet. In some disgust, I contemplate 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 the Queen approaches her three score & three. It is almost as if the hand of God himself is bent against us, but I know it must 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 with Gloriana. So I can shield her a little, & perhaps set a word or two against Essex’s murmurings & seditions, for plays go on at court even as the playhouses are shuttered. FW informs me that our next act must be to forge evidence against Baines and Poley, if we cannot come by it honestly and says to comfort me that there is no 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 be made public, as Her Majesty’s position grows precarious & her wiles are not ah, thou hast me penning sedition again, what they once were. I fear some attack from our enemies. Something for which this abominable mess with 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 she will be buying me the biggest house in Warwickshire before I know I am agentleman. yr Wm Post script: I will set this by the mirror with a candle, as thou hast instructed, & write again when I have spoken with FW or Burghley. Post post script: please forgive the awkwardness of my hand. I hope that thou canst unriddle it, as I am prone of late to monk’s cramp, whose painful acquaintance I am sure thou, as a poet, hast made.

The tremors still subsided when Will put his fingers to a task. Such as flipping a silver shilling older than Annie. Mayhap as old as John Shakespeare: turning it in his fingers, over and over again, Will could just see 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 English Protestant Church. And author of all my troubles,Will thought, laying the coin on the table beside 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 the knife 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 the mirror. Kit lounged beside the fireplace, one elbow on the mantel, his left hand steering the hilt of a rapier.

“You could have announced yourself.”

“I was waiting for you to set down the knife,” Kit said dryly. He straightened and came forward, producing a kerchief from his sleeve. “So you wouldn’t cut yourself. Let me see.”

Will held out his left hand, picking up his pen with the right one to conceal its 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 longer than half an hour. Morgan would say to wash it with soap.”

“Lye soap?”

“Aye, and it might be wise. She saved my face from taint that way. Is there water in the ewer?”

“Some.” Bemused, Will suffered himself to be led to his bedroom and fussed over. He gasped when Kit scrubbed the wound, then pressed the edges of the cut tight and bound his first and middle fingers together with the kerchief to 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 you hold it up.”

“Morgan?”

“Yes.” The sidelong glance. Kit’s face was pale, and Will thought if he touched his friend’s cheek it would be cool. “That Morgana. Will, about your letter.”

The bandage pressed the pain back to a dull, warning throb. Will gestured widely 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 brought Will to alertness. He led Kit back into the sitting room. “Company? Burbage, you mean? Or Mary Poley ?”

“If they come, I can step through the looking glass. Give me that rag. I’ll mop the blood. You pour the hock. Tell me what Mary says of Fray Xalbador de Parma.”

That stress again, and Will puzzled it as he poured left-handed, despite his bandages. He got the harsh Rhennish white strained into the cups without spilling it and found bread and an end of cheese, which he set on the table beside 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 carrot juice, broke bread, handed the first bit to Will. “More on the Spaniard when the 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, much to Kit’s amusement.

“I see. And little Robin?”

“Sleeping better.” Kit rubbed bread between his fingertips. He rolled the crumbs against the tabletop. 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 both hands loosely around his wine, leaning back on his stool as if the scent of London, the reek of the gutters twining the perfume from the gardens pleased him.

“Of Mary Why 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 his jaw sank. “What gave you that idea?”

“Tis as good a reason as any for Poley to hate you. Beyond the political motives, 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 care for 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’t know.”

“What does that mean, you don’t know?”

Kit reversed the knife in his hand like a juggler; Will jumped as he drove the blade neatly into the same gouge Will had left earlier, and a full inch deeper.

“By Christ’s sore buggered arse, Will. It means the possibility does exist. 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 tightened on 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 his stool 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. Had you 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 and squeezed. “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 it into 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 own barely touched cup of hock across the table, and Kit took it with a grateful nod.

“A Mage, they call him, plural Magi. As if he had anything in common with 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 voice on 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 in it. “You must see to it that Francis gives Thomas Walsingham the name. Or better, see to it yourself. I’m sure your status is enough, these days, that he 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 to pour wine, if you’ve finished that.”

“More wine?” But Will stood, and collected Kit’s cup as well, and again filtered 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 the harder, though Essex has o’erplayed his hand.”

Will studied Kit’s face, its deadly earnest placidity except for a sort of valley worn between the eyes. “I listen.”

“You know Edward de Vere was raised as William Cecil, Baron Burghley’s ward after 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 tabletop to clean his nails.

“Oxford is Elizabeth’s bastard son.”