Ink and Steel

“Hold my glass,” he said, and found the latch. There were always secret ways in Walsingham’s houses, and before Francis had survived the poison that had left him so ill he had chosen to pretend he had died of it, Kit had known most of them. “Voila. The kitchen.”

As predicted, the room was deserted, dark, and close. A banked fire glowed on the hearth; the yeasty thickness of rising bread spread under oiled cloths made him sneeze. “A homely place. For now.”

He retrieved his glass and noticed that the level had dropped. “Ah, Will.”

“What?”

“It’s like Faustus, isn’t it? The scent of charred flesh. The heat of the ovens of Hell.”

A table along one wall held heavy knives and kitchen axes, a chopping block and hooks for fowl and roasts. An unfortunate hen graced the center peg. Destined for soup: Walsingham could manage little else.

“Kit, what are you about?”

But he didn’t answer. The taste of the liquor nauseated him, but he swallowed anyway. A fat hen on a hook. Not Will.

Will cleared his throat. “I need to know how to do what you did. How to write plays that Change things?”

“Aye.”

“I do not think my teacher understands what he says he understands.”

“Know you the Earl of Oxford? Edward,” Kit said. The firelight made the room dim, but he could see the ripples shaking through his glass.

“Aye, we are acquainted. That is to say, he is beknownst to me, and I to him.”

He glanced over his shoulder the long turn for his missing eye to make sure Will took his meaning.

“Have you noticed how he treats his wife?”

“I have not had occasion.”

“Ah.”

Kit turned and leaned against the table beside the chopping block, the hard edge pressing his back. The sensation quickened his breath in memory.

“Her name is also Annie. She’s Burghley’s daughter: Oxford was raised Burghley’s ward, as was Essex. Essex, who is not fond of Sir Walter.”

Kit brushed the black silk of his breeches, knowing Will would take his meaning: the habitual black of Raleigh’s disciples, matching the doublet Walsingham loaned him, which Kit had left in his room. The School of Night. Sir Walter Raleigh’s group of freethinkers and tobacco-smokers, opposed to Essex’s group as the men each sought favor with the Queen. To which Kit had been associated. The alliances are complex.

“Oxford wishes his daughter married to Southampton, Essex’s friend,” Will said quietly.

“Your little conspiracy has members on both sides of the game, then.”

“The Prometheus Club, I gather, is us.”

“The Prometheus Club is both factions,” Kit said. “It was one conspiracy, now sundered at the root.”

“One conspiracy of the Queen’s favorites? Sir Walter and Essex?”

“Oh, older than that. From the earliest days of her reign, before you or I were even conceived of, sweet William. The schism came later, and there are those in the other faction who place their own advancement above the Queen’s or England’s well-being. I believe myself that Good Queen Bess takes some pleasure in playing Essex and Raleigh for rivals and I wonder a bit if it was Essex who saw fit to have me removed, as I was Sir Walter’s friend.”

“I faith, Kit, is there any man in Elizabeth’s court you haven’t let buggeryou?”

“There’s a few I’ve buggered instead.” Kit waited for the chuckle. Will did not fail him. “Will. I said, friend. In any case, Oxford and Burghley have not been on good terms since Oxford decided that Anne was not to his liking.”

“Your doing.”

“Edward’s doing. Anne was blameless as poor Isabella, and kept her blamelessness better. And I’m not Gaveston. Tis not meet a good woman should suffer for no greater crime than a bad marriage.” He felt Will’s eyes on his face, and forced himself to match the gaze. “Tis true.”

“I believe you,” Will answered. Tremendous tension came out of Kit with the breath he had been painfully holding.

“Thank you.”

“But then why art thou dead, or playing at it? And why have you concealed yourself these months?” Will was angry, and the thought warmed Kit. How few true friends have you had since you entered this life? Only Walsingham.

“Tis a complicated story, but it suffices that all thought me dead, except perhaps Her Majesty, and I might have been dead indeed. All but Sir Francis still believe it.” He put a hand out, pleased with its steadiness, and clapped Will on the shoulder. “Art a true friend to me, Will. How it pleases my heart, I hope you know.”

Will’s lips thinned around a smile. “Is there some message I could pass your parents in Canterbury?”

“My … No. Since I left Cambridge to become a vile playmaker, they’ve regarded me as a cuckoo’s egg. Better leave me dead.”

“I must tell you …”

“That is?”

“I ran afoul of Poley and Baines at the Sergeant.”

Despite the warmth in his belly, Kit’s mouth ached around the words he couldn’t quite say. Oh, not Will. Not Will. Poley. And Baines together.

“Did they see you?”

“They threatened me.”