Ink and Steel

“As if the Bard, in exchanging pleasure and truth with many, isn’t entitled to a single whole life of his own.”

“Rest easy, Kit,” Will said, because he could not think what else to say. “I’ll wake you again, if need be.”

   Act III, scene iv

For such outrageous passions cloy my soul,

As with the wings of rancor and disdain,

Full often am I soaring up to heaven,

To plaint me to the gods against them both:

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Edward II

Kit awakened for the second time almost rested, and he wasn’t entirely certain whether it was the mingled silken and harsh fabrics of the cloak bunched in his fists that made the difference, or Will’s arm around his shoulders, bridging the careful four inches that separated their bodies. The rhythm of Will’s breathing told him the other poet was not sleeping. “Was I dreaming again?”

“Complexly, I gather, from thy conversations.” Will drew back as Kit turned to face him, and Kit frowned.

Aye, Marley. And your own damned fault it is. What wert thou thinking? More to the point, what wert thou thinking with?

“Conversations? What did I say?” Kit sat upright, reaching for his eyepatch.

At least I didn’t wake up screaming this time; the cloak must have its uses.Will blushed, and as Kit asked, he remembered a flurry of wild white wings like Icarus, doves? Swans? If it’s swans, does it mean Elizabeth? There seems to be a symbolism running through these dreams of mine, rather than a literal thread. And there had been blood, and pentagrams.

“Thou didst call on Christ to save thee. Begged someone to finish something, or make it done. And then Consummatum est.”

Kit stood and pulled his nightshirt over his head, stumbling across the carpet to the wash-basin. He all but felt Will avert his eyes. “I remember now. If I could only remember what it is that was done…”.

“Yes. Kit.”

Kit turned back, preserving some semblance of modesty with the nightshirt in his hand, amused at Will’s reaction to his nudity. Unkind, Christofer. I am what I am.

“What is that mark on thy side? Oh, there’s another.”

“Five,” Kit answered, remembering how they had burned as if writ anew on his flesh, in the dream. “One on my breast. One to each side, just below the ribs on my belly. One gracing each thigh, like the points of a star.”

“The circle of Solomon or the pentangle?”

“I imagine the circle would have required more men. And then, circles are for keeping something out; pentagrams for keeping something in. Stopping my voice in my throat, like the bridle. And when my Edward proved to them they had failed to break me, they killed me. God in heaven, I hope I never know what Oxford was thinking when we Lacrima Christi. When we were together.”

“How much did he know? ALL of it?”

“Not an accident, then. Rheims,” Kit said, and waited. “Did you think I was kidding about the irons, Will?”

When Will said nothing more, he turned away again and went to wash himself in the icy water before finding a clean shirt and leaving the basin to Will.

“Tis nigh on afternoon. Not surprising; we scarcely slept till morning. Have you plans for the evening?”

“Will we be expected at dinner?”

“Dinner is cold shoulder. The court prefers to gather for supper, and for sport and entertainments after. Thou’rt still nine days wonder enough that thou shouldst appear. I certainly will.”

Kit’s clothing seemed to have expanded overnight, some brighter colors among the blacks and greens Morgan favored on him: clothes narrower in the shoulder and longer in the arm.

“Your wardrobe has arrived.”

“Does it involve a clean shirt?

Aye, a selection.” Kit stepped aside so Will could pick through the pile.

“Wilt explore Faerie?”

“Is it safe?”

“No.” Kit said. “But I’m only writing a play on Orfeo gone to Faerie now, or perhaps tis Orpheus gone to Hell. I could accompany you.”

“If it’s not an inconvenience. Is there a difference, between Faerie and Hell?”

“When I’ve seen Hell, I’ll tell thee.” A light knock interrupted. “A moment!” Kit caught his cloak up from the bed and hesitated.

“Will, is this thine?” Something gleamed in the middle of the coverlet, as if it had been slipped beneath Kit’s cloak. A quill he guessed it a swan’s quill, by the strength and color the tip cut to a nib but with the vanes of the feather unstripped.

“I think not,” Will said, hunching to twist his hose smooth at the back of his knee. “A pen?”