“Your Majesty,” Will said, with what dignity he could muster over Kit’s betrayed shout. “I claim the right to go as your teind to Hell.” The Mebd’s lips pursed. She stepped away from Murchaud and from her Puck, while Kit raised his voice in a string of incoherent objections. She crouched before Will, her skirts a pool of green water tumbling around her, and silenced Kit with a brush of her fingers across his angry lips. He must have longed to shout, to rage.
Will felt Kit’s voice fluttering in his throat. But her magic held him silent, and seething he fell impotently still under Will’s hands. And then Kit’s trembling started in earnest, both hands pressed against his mouth, and Will thought, Oh, Jesus. Rheims.
“William Shakespeare,” she murmured. Dost know what thou offerest?”
“Nay,” he said, sick in the bottom of his belly and determined nonetheless. Kit surged against his grip, and Will kneeled down. “But I am willing. Only tell me, Your Majesty, that you will spare my love.”
Kit was weeping. His hands dropped from his mouth and circled Will’s wrists, jerking, chafing, but he fought no more. The Mebd smiled, and nodded, and closed her eyes; Will thought they shone more than they should have. Kit pulled Will’s hand to his mouth and kissed the fingers, a pleading gesture, even his hot gasping breath coming silent through the potency of the Mebd’s negligent spell. Will tugged his hand free, the image of those lips kissing Morgan hot behind his eyes.
“You do us honor,” the Mebd said softly; Will did not miss that she addressed him as an equal in that moment, before she rose and swept away.
Kit slumped as Will pushed himself to his feet; Kit pressed his fist against his mouth and curled on his side, dragging his face down to his knees. “Jesu,” Kit gasped, and Faeries ducked away, wincing; one sprite covered her ears and dropped to the floor. A circle had grown around them. Will stood at its center, turning slowly, and none of the Fae would look down from his regard, and none would quite meet his eyes.
Except Puck, and the Prince. Robin Goodfellow stepped forward, and Murchaud followed him a half step behind. Murchaud bit his lip and nodded to Will. His lips parted as if he would speak, and Will, trembling now, stepped back from Kit’s huddled form. Murchaud knelt, gathering him close, and Will turned away. Puck laid a hand on his wrist, fingers dry as kindling and as knobby a sknotted rope.
“Master Shakespeare.” He drew Will’s attention to the wild-eyed mare. You need to go now. Will bit his lip, trembling harder under the mare’s amber regard. She prodded him with her nose; he fell back. “Robin.” His voice broke; he pretended he didn’t see Kit’s shuddering flinch at the sound. “I am at a loss. I do not ride.”
“Fear not,” Puck answered, taking his elbow. “Thy steed knows the way.”
I am a lord, for so my deeds shall prove;
And yet a shepherd by my Parentage …
HRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Tamburlaine the Great, Part I
Murchaud knotted his fingers in Kit’s hair and dragged Kit’s face against his shoulder, whispering something that might have been intended as comfort. Kit couldn’t understand over the tolling of somber bells, the jingle of the white mare’s harness or, more precisely, he didn’t care to try. He stayed frozen, curled so tight in pain that his chest and shoulders ached. No. Whatever Murchaud said, it vanished in the vanishing hoofbeats, and when Kit raised his head, avoiding the prince’s face, both Will and his white steed were gone. Murchaud clung to him, trying to draw him close. No. Kit pressed his knuckles against the floor and got one foot under himself, and tore free of Murchaud’s embrace. He turned to survey the room; every Fae watching ducked his eyes and withdrew.
“Where is Morgan?” No one answered. Kit reached across the ache filling his belly and grasped the hilt of his sword. “Where is the Queen?” She’d silenced him, a finger to his lips and his voice had swelled in his throat and choked him. He tasted blood.
“Gone with Will,” Puck said quietly, when no one else would meet Kit’s gaze.”
Two Queens to guide him to Hell. Christ on the Cross!Satisfaction heated the emptiness within him as every Fae in the room cringed as if he’d kicked them.
“Damn every one of you,” Kit said, enunciating, the sweat-ridges on his swordhilt cutting hot welts his palm. “Damn you each and every one to Hell.” He looked at Murchaud as he spoke, and the taste of smoke and whiskey filled his mouth. Murchaud only blinked without dropping his gaze.
“No doubt,” he said, “it will be as you prophesy.”
The silence lingered until Kit turned. “I’m going after them.” He dropped his hand from the blade and shrugged his cloak back from his shoulders, sustaining rage lost. “It’s in the songs, after all.”
“Oh, yes, Orfeo.” Not Murchaud’s voice but Cairbre’s, mocking. “Go win thou thy love back from Hell. It should be just a little task for a journeyman.”
Kit didn’t even trouble himself to turn. He kept his eyes trained on Murchaud, and smiled. “Someone has to.”
“I forbid thee to leave this place,” Murchaud said slowly, power and the right of command imbuing his words.
The geas struck Kit like a backhanded blow; he rocked with it, felt it break on the protection of his iron-nailed boots and his patchwork cloak. Thank thee, Morgan. And how did she know?
Kit lifted his chin, hooked his fingers through his belt to keep them off the rapier’s hilt. “Try again?” His throat ached with something—pride, anguish, as Murchaud stepped so carefully between him and the door.
“If thou wilt walk through me,” Murchaud said, “wilt need thy blade.”
“Good, my lords.” Kit looked down reluctantly. He owed Robin the favor of his attention even now. “Puck.”
“Your Highness,” the Puck said, bowing, ignoring Kit with pricked ears and a stiffly erect spine. “Prince Murchaud, an it please you, Sir Christofer must do this thing.”
“There’s no covenant to protect him if he goes.”
“No,” Puck said, shuffling a half step away from Kit. “But we need Shakespeare in the world more than we need Marley in Faerie. And furthermore, you cannot gainsay him.”
“Thou darest tell me what I can do, and cannot, fool?”
Robin waggled donkey’s ears. Soft bells jingled, like the bells on the white mare’s harness. He realized that every other Fae had withdrawn; only Puck, Murchaud, and Cairbre remained. Puck abased himself. “It is in all the songs.”
“BLast!” Kit jumped at the outburst before he realized it was his own. “Am I to make my destiny as dead singers direct?”
“Exactly.”
Kit glanced over his shoulder at Cairbre, finally, and was surprised to seethe master bard grin. “The Puck’s right, Your Highness. Kit has to follow his love to Hell.”
Kit leaned his forehead against the gelding’s sweet-smelling sorrel neck, coarse straw rustling about his ankles, and steeled himself to swing into the saddle.
“All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
“Nay. You can save him,” Robin said from his perch on the stall’s half-door. The sorrel snorted, shaking his head as if in annoyed agreement. ‘Pray stop teasing me with the prospect of an outing, Master Marley, and lead me from this stall,’ Kit extemporized. He chuckled bitterly under his breath, and then caught a glimpse of the gelding’s expression. Damme if he isn’t thinking just that.
“I can’t even save myself, Master Goodfellow.”
“Who among us can?” The Puck slid down from the door and came forward to tug the reins from Kit’s hand. Kit gave them up, and the little Fae led both horse and man out of the stable and into the courtyard. Silver shoes and iron bootnails rang on the pale cobblestones. The courtyard was empty in the moonlight except for the two of them and the gelding; Kit refused on his pride to crane his neck to the windows to see if Murchaud might be peering out.