Ink and Steel

The stairs were less trouble sober, although he cursed the lack of a railing under his breath. He skirted the applauding dancers on the side away from the musicians, not wishing to capture Cairbre’s eye and be summoned to perform. Will must have seen him across the floor, because he met Kit halfway. Kit ached to look at him, giddy with dancing, color high and eyes sparkling like the gold ring in his ear in the light of the thousands of candles and torches.

They love him because they cannot keep him,he reminded himself, and forced himself to smile. “Will. Come have a drink with me.”

“No dancing for you, Kit?”

“I don’t pavane,” Kit said dryly. “Neither do I galliard. Stuffy dances for stuffy dancers. Come, there’s spiced ale by the fire.”

He led Will to the corner by the tables and filled cups with the steaming drink, redolent of cloves and sandalwood. They leaned between windows, shoulder to shoulder, and Kit buried his nose in his tankard, breathing deep.

“The Queen wants us collaborating,” Will said, swirling his ale to cool it. “A play by Hallowmas, it seems.”

“A play?” Kit turned to regard Will with his good eye. “Did she assign a topic?”

“Not even a suggestion. Please, overwhelm me with your brilliance.”

“The Passion of Christ,” Kit answered promptly, and was rewarded by a gurgle as Will clapped a hand over his face to keep his mouthful of ale from spraying across the dance floor.

Choking, “Seriously.”

“Damme, Will. I don’t know. Thou hast had longer to think it than I have. They won’t care for English history.”

“I left my Holinshed in London, in any case.”

“Coincidentally, so did I. I wonder who has it now?”

“Tom,” Will answered. “Unless he burned it. He was very angry with you for some time.”

“Only fair. I was very angry with him.” Silence for a little. They drank, and Will took the cups to refill them. When he returned, he rolled his shoulders and kicked one heel against the stones.

“Why the Passion?”

“Suitably medieval,” Kit replied. “Like so much of our religion.”

“Still no faith in God, my Christofer?”

“Faith, William?” Kit tasted the ale; this cup was stronger. “Died blaspheming, indeed. Do you suppose He eavesdrops on those who call His name in passion? Oh, God! Oh, God! Mayhap He finds it titillating.”

“Kit!”

Kit snorted into his cup. “Faith. I faith, the Fae, who ought to know it, say God is in the pay of the Prometheans. I imagine He’d little want me in any case.” No, and never did. No matter how badly I wanted him. A little like Will in that regard, come to think of it.

“I sometimes suspect,” Will said softly, “that God finds all this wrangling over His name and His word and His son somewhat tiresome. But I am constrained to believe in Hell.”

“Hell? Aye, hard not to when we’re living in an argument on metaphysics.” Kit kicked the wall with his heel for emphasis. “Say that again once the Devil’s complimented you to your face.”

“But I am the Queen’s man, and the Queen’s church suits me as well as any, and I should not like, I think, to live in a world without God.”

“An admirable solution,” Kit said. “I flattered myself for a little that God did care for me, but I felt a small martyrdom in His name was enough, and He has never been one to settle for half a loaf. And I am maudlin, and talking too much.”

“I do not think your martyrdom little.”

“Sadly, it is not our opinion that matters.” Kit had finished the ale, he realized, and felt light-headed. He set his cup on the window ledge and leaned against the wall, letting the cool breeze through the open panes stir his hair. He put a smile into his voice.

“Your celebrity here is not little, either.”

Will laughed, and leaned against Kit’s shoulder. “I find the affection in which I am held adequate.”

“For most purposes?”

“The purposes that suit me. Are all poets admired in Faerie?”

“Only the good ones,” Kit answered. “And yet I envy you your freedom to go home.”

“If I knew a way to bargain for yours…”

“Poley would simply have me killed again.”

“He might find it harder this time.”

“Ah, Will. Everyone in London who loved me is gone. What had I to return to, even were it so?” Kit shook himself, annoyed at his own sorrow, and knowing as he said it, “Will, forgive me. Those words were untrue, and unfair.”

“I understand, Will answered. As for me, I am half ready to flee London overall. Our epics are not in fashion any longer, Kit. Shallow masques and shallower satires, performances good for nothing but jibing. More backstabbing and slyness than old Robin Greene ever dreamed of. Stuff and nonsense, plague and death. Stabbings in alleyways, and I’m as much to blame as any man, because my plays do not catch at conscience as they once did. My power is failing with the turning of the century.”