“What are you reading?” She wrapped her fingertips in her sleeve and turned the book so he could see, but the thick hand-drawn letters defeated him. The illuminations told him it was an herbal, though, and he thought it one in verse. “It’s beautiful.”
“Not quite so old as I am.” She smiled. Her near-black eyes caught sparks of light from her attendant atomies; they swirled about her hair like a tiara of jewels on invisible threads. Unbidden, Will thought of a line of Kit’s poetry
‘O, thou art fairer than the evening air
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.’
And then, unbidden, a response and dark within that light; not so much a star herself. There’s a poem in that no, not a star, not so much a sun …
Her calm voice broke his reverie. “I could grow accustomed to being looked upon so, Master Shakespeare.”
He blushed, and blinked. “My lady is lovely,” he said, and blushed harder when she moved the priceless book aside and reached to take his hand. Her fingers were rough at the tips with callus, the hands shapely and long and the tendons plain against her skin as she turned his over to study the palm.
“Have you ever had your fortune told, Master Shakespeare?”
He bit his lip and shook his head. The dancing lights grew brighter, flitting like the fire-bugs that were supposed to inhabit the darkness of a New World country called Virginia. Her thumb traced the lines of his hand, and as she bent to study them her hair cascaded across his wrist. “The old women of the gipsy caravaneers practice an art handed down from ancient times, they say. They claim a man’s destiny is written in his hand, a predetermined fate.”
“The Puritans agree,” Will said with a smile that hurt the corners of his mouth. “And the Greeks.”
“And the Prometheans,” Morgan continued, without raising her eyes. “Their ideas are not so revolutionary as they believe. My history gives us prophecies of a different order: geas and fulfillment. You won’t have heard of them.
“No, madam.” He watched, fascinated, as she stroked a deep crease beside the heel of his hand.
“This is called Apollo’s. Tis said to indicate creativity and potential for greatness. Combined with the shape of your thumb, a fortune-teller would say that you are intuitive, passionate, intellectual. Quick of wit and great of talent.”
“A fortune-teller would say so? Aye, she said,” with a caressing touch that made him shiver. “I am not a fortune-teller, Master Shakespeare.” Her gaze rose again, her eyes blacker than ever. His shiver redoubled. “I am a witch.”
Strangely, his face tingled as if she stroked his cheek rather than his hand. He looked away, down, anywhere but into her laughing eyes.
“Great of talent, you say.” A chuckle. “Aye. Great enough for most purposes. And here: this line belongs to Saturn. It shows a destiny, as well… ”. Her voice trailed away.
He focused on amusement, on keeping his breaths even and slow when they wanted to flutter in his throat. “What destiny is that, Your Highness?”
“I cannot say, she answered. But if I were a fortune-teller, I would say that you would find it within twenty years, and no longer.”
“Anything could happen in two decades. That’s a fair spread.”
“Not so long as it now seems,” she answered. “Here is the fold that dictates your romantic nature. See how it curves up, and extends long?” She bent closer. “Ah, and it is braided.”
“Braided?”
“Aye. You’ve not one great love in store, Master Shakespeare, but three.”
He laughed. “Surely one great love is enough for any man.”
Her fingers moved again, and he thanked the opaque surface of the table between them for preserving his dignity.
“And this is your life line.”
“And what does that tell you, Morgan le Fey?” The challenge in his own voice surprised him. Her fingers followed the tracery down and under his thumb, stroking the soft flesh at the inside of his wrist. He caught his breath in shock at the delicacy of that touch.
“You will live to go home again, William Shakespeare,” she said.
“Do you say any of this will come true, Your Highness?”
“Tis the rankest charlatanry,” she answered. Bending her head further, she placed a moth’s-wing kiss in the center of his palm. He gasped again and almost pulled his hand away; she held the wrist and transferred her attentions there.
“Your Highness.”
“Hush,” she said, glancing up at him through the pall of her hair. “Say nothing, Poet, save yes or no.”
Will closed his eyes, aching. Annie, he thought hopelessly, and then almost laughed aloud at the next thing he thought: That was in another country, and besides, the wench is dead. Oh, Kit, trust you to make a hellish sort of sense of this.“Yes,” he said, and waited endless instants while Morgan sent her pixy-lights to bar and watch the door.
Rejoice, ye sons of wickedness; mourn, unoffending one,
with hair in disorder over your pitiable neck.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, On the Death of Sir Roger Manwood (translated from the Latin by Arthur F. Stocker)
Kit rolled over and lifted his head from the pillow as the bedroom door opened and Will slipped inside, half invisible in the starlit darkness. “You were gone a while,” he said softly, smiling when Will startled and jumped. I went to the library after all.
Will’s doublet was unbuttoned, his hair disheveled. Kit’s smile broadened. “Didst find what thou sought?”
“Nay.” Will started, pulling off his clothes. And then he stopped and moved toward the cupboard, a paler shape in the darkness. “Well, perhaps. After a fashion. So many books, Kit!”
“Faerie has some joys.” He turned away as Will struggled into a nightshirt. Plumage rustled as Will made himself a place in the featherbed, the perfume of a woman coming with him. Just as well,Kit sighed. Perhaps he’ll lie easier now that he’s reclaimed that.And then he caught the scent of rosemary and lemon balm on Will’s hair, and turned, mouth half open, before he stopped himself. I could wish he’d chosen differently or do you simply wish that you had chosen differently, Marley?
Will, half settled among the pillows, returned Kit’s stare wide-eyed. That as much as anything told Kit how fey his expression must be.
“Kit?”
“Will.” But what do you say? You haven’t a claim on him.“Thou hastn’t anything to prove to me.”
“Perhaps I had something to prove to myself.”
“Ah. Of course.” Kit opened his mouth again, to say whatever he had been about to say, and closed it before the words could escape. “Just be careful, Will.”
Will laughed, softly, and tugged the covers. “What chance have I against the likes of her, sweet Christofer, an she decides she wants me?”
For which Kit had no answer. The thrill of delight in Will’s voice told him more than the words, anyway. He lay back down, a serpent gnawing his bosom, and dreamed of sunlight and herb gardens and the beating wings of ravens and of swans. He woke again before Will did and stretched in the morning sunlight, surprised by how rested he felt. He stood and performed his toilet, stealing a glance at Will before he dressed. The other poet had burrowed so deeply beneath the covers that all Kit glimpsed of him was one ink-stained hand. Kit smiled fondly, for all he still felt seasick with jealousy, and went to collect his rapier from the stand beside the fireplace. I’ll have to get another main gauche,he thought, although he wasn’t sorry to have left the slender blade in de Parma’s back. I wonder what the coroner will make of a silver dagger, beyond the estimate of price?
He turned to check his hair in the mirror over the mantel, tilting his head in curiosity as he noticed the papers stacked there. The roll of poetry didn’t surprise him. The letter addressed in Will’s cramped hand to Thomas Walsingham did, and Kit’s fingers almost brushed it before he tugged his hand back. It’s not as if he made any effort to hide it from me. I could always just ask. If I weren’t so out of the habit.He settled the rapier on his hip one last time, turning for the door. Which reminds me, I should write Tom myself and let him know I’ve queered the game with Baines and Poley.