Ink and Steel

Will swallowed the last acid taste of the wine and pretended engagement with the dance. Gloriana’s grace was legend, her long oval hands raised high as she let her partners move her. Even in her sixtieth year, she moved as if the mass of her skirts and jewels and her gold-red jeweled tire weighed nothing. She dined alone by habit, Will knew, and imagined it was as much to conceal the unladylike appetite her exertions must give her as for fear of poison.

“Master William Shakespeare?” It was a smooth voice, a touch of Kent in it, and Will turned and met Thomas Walsingham’s querying gaze. Will had to lift his chin; Tom had a hand on him, at least, in height and half that across the shoulders, and might have been wearing heeled shoes for court.

“Master Walsingham.”

“An excellent performance.” Walsingham lifted a glass; the wine it held was clear dark yellow in torchlight. “I’m sorry we haven’t met. I’ve seen one or two of your plays from the galleries, and been impressed. Master Marley first commended you to mine attention, and after him George. You know Chapman.”

“Very well,” Will answered, glad he hadn’t a glass of his own, lest he choke on the contents. and you can’t go far wrong. Oh, excellent advice, Richard. Excellent advice.

“Master Marley? Of a truth?”

Walsingham’s lips seemed to vanish for a moment. “Though he was never a one to cast broad credit.”

“No,” Will said, and thought interestingagain. “I had understood you ended on bad terms.”

“Aye,” Walsingham answered, “in that he ended badly. But tis not a topic I wish to dwell on overmuch. That was a fine play, by a fine group of players performed.”

“I will convey your compliments.”

“Convey more than that.” Walsingham reached out, and Will almost flinched from his calloused, elegant hand. Will studied it, Burbage’s comments on rings fresh in his mind, but contrary to fashion Walsingham didn’t affect any. Instead he slipped a paper into Will’s doublet, smoothing the nap of the velvet before drawing away. “Convey that note to mine exchequer. He’ll see your company rewarded for lightening the Queen’s burden.”

“It is our joy and duty, and we are already well compensated, Master Walsingham.”

The galliard ended; the dancers made courtesy to the musicians and called for drink. Will joined the polite applause.

“So I understand.” Walsingham smiled; it rounded the angle of his cheek and turned him from handsome courtier into dashing rogue. Even forewarned, Will felt himself charmed. “But a man should be of a mind to make friends where he may, and players are fair friends to have. Sometimes. And summer is coming, and my house at Chislehurst is not too far from London for a play.”

“Ah,” Will said. “Yes,” he said. “Carefully made friends are a good thing to have, if they return the care.”

Walsingham’s eyes darkened. “An excellent play. May you write many more, and be as careful in your friends. Sometimes their care can have an unexpected source. Do contact me. Oh, here is Doctor Lopez. Do wish to counsel this fine playmaker on his health, good Doctor?”

“A moment of his time, if you can spare it,” Lopez said in his accented voice. Walsingham, nodding, withdrew.

“Master Shakespeare, I wish to congratulate you on the success of your work tonight.”

He did not mean the play. As Will turned to him, he was as certain of that as he was of the mockery behind Lopez’s arch expression.

“The Ambassador honors my poor efforts,” he said. Lopez rubbed the tip of his nose.

“Honor puts no beef on the table,” he said, and dropped a clinking purse in the rushes at Will’s feet, where Will would need to stoop to retrieve it. “I’ve a word from Burghley. The word is well done.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Will said. Lopez patted him on the arm, a ruby ring worn over his glove glittering with the motion.

“You’re more biddable than the last one,” he said, as he turned away. “That can only bode well.”

Will’s shoulders tightened; his arms hung numb. Five heartbeats later he took a breath, and ducked down to retrieve the purse. However callously offered, a shilling was a shilling, and the purse had clinked like a great many of them. It had the aspect of a dance, he thought, as he stood and found himself facing Essex. “My lord,” he said, and bowed low.

“Take your ease,” Essex answered. He was alone, for a wonder, with neither courtiers nor the simpering Southampton in attendance.

Will relaxed incrementally. “What is my lord’s pleasure?”

“A word of warning,” Essex said. “Have a care in handling the coin of a poisoner, Master Shakespeare. You know that damned Portugall was Sir Francis Walsingham’s doctor when Sir Francis breathed his last, in agony.”

“I have heard it so bandied, my lord,” Will agreed.