Ink and Steel

The rill of Cairbre’s harpstrings shivered through the air as Murchaud brushed a courtier aside and came across the floor currently otherwise occupied by clusters of conversationalists to Will and Kit. Kit bowed, found it 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 velvet and 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, still tasting the kiss, watching the blood rise in Will’s ghost-pale cheeks. “Your Highness, Master William Shakespeare,” he said formally. Will, Murchaud ap Launcelot, 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 a flustered gaze from one to the other of them as if uncertain where to rest it.

“Welcome to Faerie, Will. Things are a bit different here.”

“Your Highness,” Will said, bending a knee. Kit thought he looked striking in a saffron-colored doublet pinked in peach and gold, the padding enough to make him seem a little less painfully thin. If nothing else, those cheekbones and 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 then jealousy. “We needn’t stand on ceremony. Come, let me introduce you to my wife.”

He took Will’s elbow and led him toward the dais, Kit trailing uncomfortably. The Mebd was garbed in gold and white, the floor-length sleeves of her gown wrought with fantastical chains of green embroidery. The dress resembled an antique style called a bliaut, belted with golden chains encrusted with emeralds. She drifted down the steps with her arms spread wide, poised like a dove at the bottom of the dais, her train spread behind her glittering with crystal and silver thread.

“Kneel,” Murchaud instructed Will as they came before her. Kit stepped forward and dropped a knee: uneasiness still troubled his stomach as Will sank correctly beside him and Murchaud bowed low. The Mebd looked from one face to another, and smiled. “My lord husband. Sir Kit. And Master William Shakespeare. Has ever a court been so graced with jewels 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 as journeyman-bard. We are pleased.”

A hesitation, and Kit felt her smile like a brand. “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 more extravagantly when I return to England.”

She made a show of considering, but Kit risking a glance perfectly understood 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 an elbow, “—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 a touch of her hand, and then took Murchaud’s arm and permitted it to seem as if he led her away, although Kit could see the hesitance of the Prince’s step.

“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 to your 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 after Christmas, as it is.”