Ink and Steel

“We’ll do it at Christmas,” Burbage said. “Betimes, I know an inn yard or two would be glad of us.

The Mermaid’s blue door rattled a little on its hinges when it opened. Will turned to see who had come in, and understand why Burbage’s voice had stopped so abruptly that it still seemed to hang in the air around them.

Sir Thomas Walsingham stood for a moment framed against the door, resplendent in a ruff starched pale yellow to compliment the canary slashes on his doublet of sanguine figured satin. A touch of gold at the buttons, the hilt of 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; his horse’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 followed Walsingham out into the hubbub of the autumn afternoon. “You look like you’ve had a hard ride, Sir Thomas.”

“A fast one, in any case. And have I stopped being Tom in private through some 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 of Kit?”

“No. You?”

“No.” Tom swallowed. “He always was marvelously good at making a threat stick. Will, bring Poley’s head at least to Cecil if you can, preferably Baines or de Parma. His father’s health is failing, I think,” and Will sighed, following Tom’s smooth stride over the cobbles almost without a limp. “And tis down to me and you, and Dick.”

“I’d thought of recruiting Ben Jonson. 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 a recusant, 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 the direction 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 the messenger.”

“And do try to look surprised.” Tom stopped and laughed at the expression on Will’s face. “Very well, Master Player, I shan’t teach you tricks that were old 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 his rapier twisted aside so he could rest his heels on the padded bench while they watched the dancers. The prince’s warmth soaked the knot between Kit’s shoulders, 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 another evil 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 to watch Morgan whirl across the floor, her wild hair spinning around her, her ivory silk skirts swaying heavily as she moved. “We re failing utterly to look disaffected with one another, love.”

We’ll quarrel after the dancing. Murchaud draped his right arm over Kit’s shoulder 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 more intriguing to a gossip or conspirator than a quiet one, or a simple parting of the ways. You might after all be disaffected enough to turn, and yet still close enough to exert influence.”