Ink and Steel

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. He leaned on Murchaud’s velveted sleeve and watched the dancers eddy across the rose-and-green marble tiles, wondering if he could afford another glass of wine. The way Will’s head bent smiling as he whispered in Morgan’s ear was making him want one, badly, but he suspected that it would be unwise to indulge.

“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 it around his shoulders.

“Aye. I’ll sleep alone tonight.” And in the morning, Morgan will find me. Sweet buggered Jesus, how have I come to this?

“If thou wouldst wish companionship…”

“Perhaps,” Kit said, and poured water into his glass. He sat upright to drink it, as Murchaud played idly with the strands of his hair. “Aye. Dice and wine, 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 the table, 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 his gaudy cloak around his shoulders as he did. “Thy mother seems to have abandoned 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 railing under his breath. He skirted the applauding dancers on the side away from the musicians, 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 sparkling like the gold ring in his ear in the light of the thousands of candles and torches.

They love him because they cannot keep him,he reminded himself, and forced 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 for stuffy 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 of cloves and sandalwood. They leaned between windows, shoulder to shoulder, and Kit 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 a topic?”

“Not even a suggestion. Please, overwhelm me with your brilliance.”

“The Passion of Christ,” Kit answered promptly, and was rewarded by a gurgle as Will clapped a hand over his face to keep his mouthful of ale from spraying 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 for some time.”

“Only fair. I was very angry with him.” Silence for a little. They drank, and Will took the cups to refill them. When he 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 name in passion? Oh, God! Oh, God! Mayhap He finds it titillating.”

“Kit!”

Kit snorted into his cup. “Faith. I faith, the Fae, who ought to know it, say God is in the pay of the Prometheans. I imagine He’d little want me in any case.” No, and never did. No matter how badly I wanted him. A little like Will in that regard, come to think of it.

“I sometimes suspect,” Will said softly, “that God finds all this wrangling over His name and His word and His son somewhat tiresome. But I am constrained to believe in Hell.”

“Hell? Aye, hard not to when we’re living in an argument on metaphysics.” Kit kicked the wall with his heel for emphasis. “Say that again once the Devil’s complimented you to your face.”

“But I am the Queen’s man, and the Queen’s church suits me as well as any, and I should not like, I think, to live in a world without God.”

“An admirable solution,” Kit said. “I flattered myself for a little that God did care for me, but I felt a small martyrdom in His name was enough, and He has never been one to settle for half a loaf. And I am maudlin, and talking too much.”

“I do not think your martyrdom little.”

“Sadly, it is not our opinion that matters.” Kit had finished the ale, he realized, and felt light-headed. He set his cup on the window ledge and leaned against the wall, letting the cool breeze through the open panes stir his hair. He put a smile into his voice.

“Your celebrity here is not little, either.”

Will laughed, and leaned against Kit’s shoulder. “I find the affection in which I am held adequate.”

“For most purposes?”

“The purposes that suit me. Are all poets admired in Faerie?”

“Only the good ones,” Kit answered. “And yet I envy you your freedom to go home.”

“If I knew a way to bargain for yours…”

“Poley would simply have me killed again.”

“He might find it harder this time.”

“Ah, Will. Everyone in London who loved me is gone. What had I to return to, even were it so?” Kit shook himself, annoyed at his own sorrow, and knowing as he said it, “Will, forgive me. Those words were untrue, and unfair.”

“I understand, Will answered. As for me, I am half ready to flee London overall. Our epics are not in fashion any longer, Kit. Shallow masques and shallower satires, performances good for nothing but jibing. More backstabbing and slyness than old Robin Greene ever dreamed of. Stuff and nonsense, plague and death. Stabbings in alleyways, and I’m as much to blame as any man, because my plays do not catch at conscience as they once did. My power is failing with the turning of the century.”

“Failing?” Kit laid a hand on Will’s shoulder and shook him, not hard but enough to slosh the ale in his cup. “Foolishness. The power is there as always; in every line thou dost write. It’s merely…” Kit squeezed, and shrugged, and let his hand fall in abeyance. “Because it depends, in some measure, on the strength of the crown.”

“Another raven.” Will set his cup aside and pushed away from the wall. “Waiting for Gloriana to die.”

Kit plucked the figured silk taffeta of Will’s sleeve between his fingers, drawing his hand back before the urge to stroke Will’s arm overwhelmed him. Across the hall, he saw Morgan mounting the steps to take a seat at the virginals. At least our feathers glisten.

“Look, Will. Smile, go dance attendance. Your lady takes the stage.”

Will looked him over carefully, boots to eyepatch, a frown crinkling the corners of his eyes. Kit held his breath as the poet leaned so close that Kit almost thought his lips might brush Kit’s cheek. But his hand fell heavily on Kit’s shoulder, and his frown became a smile. “I’ll see you.” Kit turned and took himself upstairs, to wait for Murchaud and the backgammon board.