Ink and Steel

The spikes that had worn at his tongue and palate had been barely knobs, really. They had wanted him able to talk, afterward: the sort of bridle used for unruly wives, and not the sort reserved for heretics and blasphemers. Which had been meant to be a humiliation, too.

“No, I don’t think you can be blamed for how men treat their wives and daughters. But.” A pause as she laid a hand on his shoulder. “You might consider how much greater a dignity I grant you than my lord granted me. You, my sweet Christofer, have always your lady’s leave to speak your mind. How many women have so much privilege?”

“You’ll assess me the acts of a man a thousand years dust?”

“If I bear Eve’s sins, you may as well have Lot’s. No matter. You’ll do as I bid, though I’d rather you do it willing.”

Willing.Cold terror, suddenly. Worse because he knew that when she touched him, if he whimpered it would not be with disgust, or fear, as long as her hands were on him. Her movements were like a dance: nearer, further. An increase and a decrease of pressure. Laughing behind the deadly earnest of her gaze.

“If you fight me, Kit, I’ll break you. I’ve seen your scars. I have some idea of what it would take.”

His gut ached at the memory of her touch, the vagueness and blind lust with which she had afflicted his thoughts. He fought his voice level.

“And if I offer you my service willing in your coming battle, does that earn me your favor enough to beg the answer to a question?”

A shake of her skirts unkilted them; her petticoat fell to brush the floor. She sighed. “You may always question me. I consider it a fair payment for your inability to refuse. And I prefer a spirited mount to a brokenhearted nag.”

“What if I wish…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

She knew. “The sovereignty of thy person? Tis more than a wife gets, but I have the bond I need of thee.” She winked. “Although I might miss awell-warmed bed now and again. I can drag that magic off thee.” She snapped her fingers. He felt as if something a snapping branch, cracking ice broke to make the sound.

“Lady.” He relaxed as much as he dared, feeling suddenly light. He straightened away from the wall. “Tell me of Bard’s cloaks.”

“Bard’s cloaks? The cloaks of bards? What of them?”

“Is there virtue in them?”

“Aye, yes,” she said. “The magic of goodwill, a protection woven of the pleasure they have given those they give pleasure to. Has someone offered to start you one?”

A troll,” he said, and shrugged when she glowered at him. “One more question an it please you?”

“Aye?” She shook her skirts again, unhappy with how they had settled, ducking her black head so the rivers of her hair washed over her. Kit watched her move, and breathed a sigh to see only a lovely, dark woman, somewhat older than himself.

“Who do we intend to do battle with?”

She looked up and smiled. “Elizabeth’s enemies are mine own. Although we fight them differently. The Prometheus Club.”

“Oh, bloody Hell. Morgan, you should have just said so.”

   Act II, scene x

Would they make peace? terrible hell make war

Upon their spotted souls for this offence!

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, The life and Death of Richard II

7th June anno Domini fifteen hundred & ninety five, Winding lane London.