Ink and Steel

Will frowned, tasting the unfairness of his own life in the irony of his words. “It is the experience of this poet, Your Highness, that just women are often misruled by their husbands.”

“And just peoples misruled by their Princes, by extension?”

Too late, he saw the trap. He nodded. “And yet such is the way of the world: many a man abuses the trust of a woman who deserves better, and yet they and the world are so made that they must accept the dominion of men.”

“Many a Prince abuses the trust of his subjects, and yet how few men are born to rule?” She rolled her silver-handled knife between fingers white and soft as cambric. “And yet thou dost serve a woman who is also a Prince. Is she deserving of thy sacrifices?”

“Your Highness, aye.”

“Why is that?”

“Because…” He shrugged. “Because she has made her own sacrifices, to keep her people safe.”

“Ah.” The Mebd closed eyes that had shifted from green to lavender and then to gray. When she blinked them open, they were the color of thistles under gold lashes worthy of a Hero. “So the sacrifices a husband makes for his wife earn her loyalty. If he is worthy of her.”

He lowered his eyes, unable to support her inquiry, and dissected a morsel upon his plate, sopping the meat in sweet-spiced gravy. The flavor cloyed.

“And are you worthy of your wife, Master Shakespeare?”

“No,” he answered, without looking up. “Madam, I am not.”

“And yet she serves you as you serve your Prince.”

“Aye.”

“This is what we adore our poets for.” He was surprised by the tenderness in her voice into glancing up again. “They lie with such honesty.”

“Lie, Your Highness?”

“Aye.” A smile on her lips like petals. “Sweet William is a flower. Didst know it?”

“Aye, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps we shall have some sown.”

Will nodded, dizzied. Emboldened, a little, by the frankness of her conversation, he asked a question. “Your Highness. Like Gloriana, you have no King.”

“I will be subject to no man,” she answered. “Even a God.”

“And yet from what Morgan tells me, Faerie is subject to Hell and its lord.”

“Women,” she answered, extending her white-clad wrist to pour him wine with her own pale, delicate hands, “have long learned to simper in the presence of their conquerors. And not only women, Master Poet.”

“No,” he answered, tipping his goblet to her in salute before he drank. “Not women alone.”

“We are glad,” the Mebd said, “you have agreed to dine with us today. We trust you will never find yourself bound in an unpleasant subjugation.”

“Your Highness.”

“Yes.” She smiled as she touched his sleeve. “I am.”

   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.”