“How did you know of my dreams?”
“Sweet, Murchaud isn’t so sound a sleeper as that. They are somewhat spectacular.” She smiled.
He blinked, considering. “Morgan, thank you.” It fell from his lips unheralded, and he paused a moment to examine the sentiment behind it. —‘Thank you for saving my life?’ ‘Letting me awaken with some shred of my dignity intact, after last night’s display?’ ‘Just being there?’— He didn’t know.
He stood and collected his clothes from the back of her chair, and struggled into them while she laughed. “People will talk.”
“Let them,” he answered, and licked his palm to push his hair back from his face. Impulsively, he bent and kissed her on the cheek.
She covered the place with her hand, her expression unreadable. “Such haste.”
“I’ve an obligation,” he said, stamping his boots down, still quite dishevelled. Anon?”
“Anon,” she answered, and did not rise to see him to the door. But he could hear her laughter chasing him as he fled back to his own room, and … Someone had been there before him. A single candle burned on the mantel, and propped up beside it was a tall silver blade. Something shimmered before them, half real. A bundle of papers of mismatched size and color, ragged at the edges, so thick it was rolled and tied with a grosgrain ribbon instead of folded and sealed.
Kit hesitated in the doorway, his sleeves unbuttoned, head aching and stomach sour, his rich court doublet hanging open over last night’s crumpled shirt. Do you ever feel at the mercy of conspirators, Sir Christofer? Why, no. Never in my life.Sblood, he cursed, and kicked the door shut with his heel before he crossed the room. He snatched the letter from the mantel, and brought it across the room to the window and the last light of sunset to read. Sorting the pages rapidly, he recognized sheets of plays and poetry, Will’s hand and someone else’s, shoving them all aside until he found the thick ten pages of letter.
“Oh, Will.” Head pounding but no longer spinning, Kit sat on the edge of the bed to read Will’s shaky, hasty secretary’s hand. When he finished, he set the pages aside and stared for a moment out the window, watching the pale phosphorescence of the twilit sea, hoping it would calm the cold terror in his chest. As if entranced, he stood, buttoned his sleeves and laced his points, buttoned the doublet, adjusted the hang of his sword, and settled a dagger on the right side of his belt. As an afterthought, he slipped a dirk into his boot, and then as he reached for the door he glanced down and laughed at himself, going to war in court silks and pearls.
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;
While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth
September, 1598
Thou wouldst have hated Ben Jonson, Kit .& as I write that line, & read it over, it strikes me; I write as if to a dead man truly, & now I wonder if I have in some madness invented thy survival. Ben is brilliant. I mocked him for writing in humors, & he presented a comedy Every Man, tis called that I cannot overly fault. To prove me wrong as much as himself right. Brilliant, & of much use to Tom & I. Tom asks after you. He’s been knighted. Audrey is pregnant again. Mary’s son Robin is apprenticed a chandler. Her Majesty has survived another anniversary of her birth, by the grace of God, & Richard has procured a property in Southwark not far from the beargarden & the Rose, where he will raise our new playhouse, which we have decided will be called the Globe. If we can free our materials from the odious Master Allen, our old landlord, we’ll have it up by Spring. & no near neighbors to answer to, by God, for all we’ll have to build it on timbers over a sewer ditch. Like an ark when God sends His rains to cleanse the unfaithful, we vile players can clamber into our sinful playhouse & raft to safety on the swollen Thames. So we will have only the lord Mayor to contend with. The flag is already painted, & the motto chosen. Totus mundus agithistrionem which thou wilt be able to translate as well as ever I could. Ben, whom I did mention previous, has found himself new trouble. His tempermight o’ershadow even thine: I oft imagine if thou wert still with us, thee & he would likely have come to blows. You would have loathed him with a passion I’m sorry I shall not witness. Let me set the stage: Master Jonson is near sixteen stone of man, trained as a soldier & he wears a sword daily. His wits are quicker on paper than in a tavern, for all he is an excellent poet, & he’s as quick to take offense as any man. Thus it is not too much questioned that he killed the rattish Gabriel Spencer in a duel. It wasn’t a duel, but out of unpleasant necessity, for Spencer became too well acquainted with our plans, & our Ben only avoided the Tyburn tree through claiming benefit of clergy for he reads latin & forfeiting his chattels. Also he was branded on the hand, & cannot write until it heals. I’ve sent him to Stratford to stay with Annie for a week or two, which is not so unwise as it seems: better than to keep him in the city; lest another quarrel be provoked, or he insist even now in taking part in the merriment Tom and I have planned. The foolishness of this is that it forces advancement of mine own plans. Lord Burghley too has left us; the Queen’s guiding Spirit died, they say, in Her Majesty’s arms last month, after even her cosseting could not save him. The mood is somber. His son, Sir Robert, has become secretary of state. Which leads me to my current problems. I’ve been charged by that selfsame Robert Cecil with the eradication of Master Poley & Master Baines. & the additional complication that Ben writes to say he’s seen thine old acquaintance Nick Skeres in Stratford. I have a sense of things moving under the surface, Kit, & I wish I could gaff them & lift them into the light. Still, Tom & Ben & I have hit upon a plan for dealing with Baines & Poley. ALL it needs is a little expedition to plant some false coin kindly provided by Sir Robert in their chambers, & a search. Thou wilt appreciate the irony of this. Ben was to make the entrance, but his circumstances now forbid it. If I could be assured that this letter would reach thee, I should beg thine assistance, for thy habit of walking through walls would be most salutary in this cause. I’ve thought long on this, & in addition to my ms. of the Dream, I’ve included a fair copy an act or two of Ben’s. & some poems. Which will discuss later, as I do not believe I would have the courage to include them if I thought thou wouldst ever collect this thy letter. Be glad thou canst not see what poor George has wrought on thy leander. To be fair, tisn’t bad. But it is not Kit.
A fool and more than a fool, Will cursed himself under his breath, stepping into the stirrup Tom Walsingham made of his hands. He bent his head close to Tom’s ear.
“Why am I shinnying in the window? Could you pick me up?”
There was that. He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder and gripped his dagger in his teeth, steadying himself against the wall. Tom’s strength surprised him. He’s three years older than I am, damn it.
Tom’s shoulders moved under Will’s soft-soled shoes, his hands bracing Will’s thighs, and Will was glad of the growing darkness in the garden, as his face heated at a sudden image of Tom, and Kit. Will spat the dagger into his hand and slipped its narrow blade between the shutters. On the second try, he caught the bar. On the third try, he lifted it successfully, and held his breath as it clunked rather than clattered to the window ledge between the shutters and the glass. The sash shifted easily, and the space was sufficient for a skinny man to slip through.