Ink and Steel

With difficulty, it proved, but they had made the river passage with hours to spare before the performance, and Will helped haul trunks with a light heart. His hands didn’t shake and his balance didn’t fail, although he was aware of Burbage’s supervision. In case I should glimpse a Devil, doubtlesss.Will punched his thigh with a fist, stilling a shiver. We re here to play a play.

Servants showed them within, through tapestried halls whose floors were covered like any housewife’s with a scatter of herbed rushes. The presence chamber was large, Queen Elizabeth’s chair already in place and identifiable by its weight of gilt and crimson cushions.

Burbage, son of a carpenter, got down on one knee among the rushes and poked his head under the stage as soonas their escort withdrew.

“Will, a light.”

Will looked up, and Kemp did too, but Kemp was the first one to go in search of a candle and spark. Will simply mounted the stair and tested the boardswith his weight, so that Burbage pulled back cursing and brushing sawdust out of his blond-red hair.

“Seems sturdy,” Will said, hiding a hesitation in his right leg that wanted to become a limp. Burbage opened his mouth to curse and sneezed instead, his eyes screwing into slits.

Edward, well bearded now and beyond playing girls, hauled rolls of painted cloth, stifling a laugh.

“As sturdy as thee, thou beggar.” Burbage levered himself up against thestage. “Twill serve. If thou dost not stomp like a carthorse.”

“What’s the hour?”

“Two of the clock. Her Majesty will enter after six.”

Burbage brushed fragments of rush from his knee. “So let us make haste.”

The sets were less even than what they used on the bare boards of the Theatre, but the rig to hold the painted backdrop took three cursing players to erect. Will stayed back, knowing he hadn’t the remaining strength to be more than an annoyance. Instead he sorted through trunks and laid out costumes and changes in the order they would be needed, taking advantage of a trestle that had been provided for the players convenience and concealed behind a red-and-green tapestry.

By the time servants came with lamps to augment the failing light from the windows, the whole improbable structure was cobbled together and stood up to Edward swinging on the crossbeam to test its strength. The players tidied themselves and dressed and hastily ate, beer and bread and a bit of cold meat.

We’ll have an appetite for our suppers,Will thought, pinning gold lace with his fingers while Will Sly basted it. They were just finishing when the lord Chamberlain arrived, his starched ruff standing high under a gray fringe of beard. Lord Hunsdon wore a black doublet fretted with golden stitchery, a sapphire glinting almost black on the little finger of his broad left hand. He drew up a few steps short of Burbage, who hopped quickly down from the stage and bowed. Will thrust the mended costume at Sly and moved to flank Burbage, bowing also.

“Master Burbage, Master Shakespeare. Is all in order?”

“My lord.” Burbage glanced at Will, who nodded. “All is well.”

“Expect Her Majesty within the hour. The court will be admitted first: the players may stand at the back of the reception line. Where are your liveries?”

“Ready, my lord.”

Lord Hunsdon nodded. His eye caught Will’s. “Master Shakespeare.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“I must speak with you a moment.” His gesture made it plain he meant for Will to follow him, so Will fell in behind.

Hunsdon lowered his voice as they walked to the center of the presence chamber, far from the tapestried walls. He paused beside a heap of jewel-toned cushions intended to provide comfort to the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting as they sat upon the floor.

“Tell me what you saw last night, William.”

Will looked up, surprised. “My lord, how did you hear?”

Hunsdon just smiled.

“I believe I saw the Prince of Darkness. My lord.”

“Well, I cannot say Sir Francis lived in a good expectation of God’s eternal grace, but that is unsettling. And a bad omen on top of ill auguries, and Dee’s horoscope for the coming year.” Hunsdon rubbed his chin one-handed, hard enough that Will heard the wiry rasp of threads of beard against hiss kin.

“This is the Queen’s nine-times-seventh birth day, and Dr. Dee’s charts indicate that it will be an auspicious night to bring forces to bear against her such as we have not yet encountered.”

“Worse than the plague?” No answer but a level look, and Will swallowed and glanced up at the beamed ceiling, far overhead.

“Yes. What think you of Tom Walsingham?” A level look from the lord Chamberlain. Kit trusted him. But that wasn’t what Hunsdon asked. Will closed his eyes, feeling in a pocket for the slick outline of his now-habitual shilling. He turned it in his fingers, staring down in thought.

[Mine impression of him is very fair, my lord. Quick to act. Protective of those around him.”

“Could he serve his Queen?”