Ink and Steel

“I read thy letter. You read my … oh. How did you… And this is the night he chooses to take it? Did you read any of the papers with it? Ben’s play?”

Kit shook his head. “I read the letter only, and panicked. And a good thing: you would not have wished to make an intimate acquaintance of Master Richard Baines.”

“I’m glad you have the poems.” Will hoped his voice hid his desperation. They moved through narrow corridors; with a little amusement, he realized, despite rich hangings and the smooth golden stone underfoot, that Kit shepherded him through the castle on the servants trails. Just as well. Will’s blood-soaked shoes left brush marks 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 expect him back from Stratford for a month.”

“It may be a month gone by when you return home,” Kit said, and Will couldn’t miss the relief in his voice at Baines as a dropped subject. “But, aye, of course. 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 we have now, thou wouldst strangle me in my sleep for a chance to write for them.”

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 the castle’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, not even the water.” He shut the door before Will could thank him, or make sense of the ragged darkness in Kit’s expression.

Kit’s chamber was big enough for a Prince, the floor covered in a stunning extravagance 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 from the other papers and rolled them tight, finding a bit of ribbon in his purse to tie them with. Will breathed easier once those too-revealing sonnets were tucked inside his doublet; less easily when the door opened and Kit led a woman of middle years and black Roman beauty in.

A woman clad in a man’s white cambric shirt, riding boots, and green breeches that were almost trunk hose, 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 to his own.

“It’s a bit of a pleasure to see Marley flustered.” She snorted like a mare and scanned him lengthwise, shaking her head hard enough that the peridot clusters in her ears tangled in the escaping tendrils of her hair. “The legendary William Shakespeare,” she said, and turned to Kit. “A little unprepossessing, isn’t he?” Her smile softened the comment into a flirtation; Will didn’t understand why Kit blanched and leaned heavily on the edge of the clothespress.

“My lady,” Will said, feigning hurt, “I am accounted the most charming of playmakers.”

“Given thy competition,” I do not wonder, she said. Her hips moved marvelously under the tight dark brocade as she crossed the carpet. Will kept his 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. Despite himself, her fingers stroking his beard, the scent of her skin like mint and citrus, 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 my husband.”

“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, at least. I’ll see you clothed; we’ll present you to the Mebd tonight, after supper.”

Kit cleared his throat. Morgan turned to him and smiled, and Will’s breath swelled 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 the other poet had changed clothes, or his shirt and doublet at least, and washed the rusty red spatters from his hands. He keeps clothes in her rooms. That answers one question. Or does it?