Ink and Steel

Like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Twelfth Night

For once, Burbage knocked before he entered. Or possibly, he tried the handle and found it latched. A new habit. Will rose from his seat against the chimney—his room had no hearth, but the heat from the ground floor’s giant fireplaces kept the corner nearest the bed tolerably warm except in the coldest hours of morning—and carefully laid his quill aside before crossing the wide floorboards to answer. His fingerless gloves made his grip on the wooden doorpull uncertain, but he fumbled it open after a moment’s struggle. December cold flushed Burbage’s cheeks as he came into Will’s drafty single room. He unwound and dropped his muffler on the table next to Will’s squat lamp and the papers, where it shed a few flakes of snow.

“Will, I have word from the lord Chamberlain. He’s spoken to lord Strange, and the playhouses will open in January. We’ll start rehearsals for Titus, and see if we can break the plague once and for all.”

Will leaned back against the wall, stretching limbs, stiff from too long hunched over his writing. “Will it suffice?”

“I don’t know.” Burbage laid his hands against the chimney bricks, warming fingers tinged white. “There’s more. The Queen requests a comedy for Twelfth Night. The word through Burghley is that she wishes to see weddings and beddings in no particular order. Have you something?”

Will handed Burbage the first two or three of the folded sheets scattered across his table.

“Almost the last words I heard from poor Kit Marley were that I should not short myself for comedy.”

“Katharine, eh? A likely name. Why Padua?”

“In the cold months, a man likes to dream of warm places.” Will shrugged. “She’s a shrew no man will marry, and well, tis a metaphor. As a wise and gentle woman respects her lord, so must a land bow to its sovereign. I’ll finish it in time for Oxford and Walsingham to dig the nibs of their spells between its lines, and then for mine own hand to correct their scansion.”

Will picked up the page he had been working on, judged it dry, and held it closer to the poor light.

“Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,

Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,

And for thy maintenance commits his body

To painful labor both by sea and land,

To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,

Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;

And craves no other tribute at thy hands

But love, fair looks, and true obedience;

Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince,

Even such a woman oweth to her husband.”

Will glanced up. Burbage was smiling.

“Twill serve?”

“Twill please the Queen: she has little use for women.” Tis a trick I had from Kit

“Will.” Burbage shook his head. “You know Strange won’t hear Marley spoken of, and has forbidden us to rehearse his plays. It is a risk to so often speak his name. He’s dead, man, and there’s little you can do to stem the tide of scandal now.”

“He was your friend, Richard.”

“Aye, and dead, I say again. And you are my friend as well, and quick. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” Will answered, but rebellion soaked his heart. Not so dead after all, he wanted to retort. But he remembered Kit’s words: ‘One among usis a traitor.’ It could be Burbage. It could be anyone. A chill settled into Will’s bones. He tossed the scribbled leaf upon his table and stepped back beside Burbage, against the warmth of the chimney wall.

“Twelfth Night,” and then he paused, another dread setting in. “I promised Annie I would come to Stratford for Christmas. I was to leave on Monday morn.”

Richard tugged his mittens back on. “Send her a letter. Bid her to London: quote those lines you just quoted to me. Surely they will stir a woman’s heart to understanding. Are these ready for Oxford?” A gesture indicated the pages on the table.

“They are.” Will edged one sheet a little farther from the lamp with a forefinger. Oil from his fingertip glistened on the paper. “Take them from my sight.”

“Will.”

“What?”

“I had supper with Ned Alleyn at the Mermaid last night. Most of the players, lord Strange’s Men and the Admiral’s Men have been whiling away an idle hour there now and again while the playhouses are shuttered. It wouldn’t do you any harm to be seen more often: you re missed, and some wonder if you’re well. But aside from that,” Burbage raised a hand to forestall Will’s interruption, “Ned said if I saw you, to tell you this: Robert Poley’s been looking for our Will, and in the company of a great oaf of a tradesman, blond as a Dane.”

Burbage mimicked Alleyn’s sonorous tones perfectly. Will would have laughed if he hadn’t recognized the description.

“Baines. Looking for me? Did Poley say why?”

“As it was Poley, I assumed you owed him money and he’d come to take it out of your back in one-inch strips. Chapman’s still in debt to the usurious bastard.”

“No. It’s not money. Thank you, Richard, and I’ll come by the Mermaid tonight and thank Ned myself.”