Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  This was my campaign, then: to enchant Master Tilney to change the Macbeth script to contain the dread charm I need immortalised and published for future witches’ use. ’Twould require naught but the simple bit of psy-ops magic I’d been ready to try on Shakespeare himself, and then all would be done and dusted within minutes.

  It seems there were several crises emerging as I neared the massive entrance gate to the priory. In a long building beyond the huge stone gateway, a scream was followed by a small cloud of smoke erupting out a window, mayhap a hazard of pyrotechnic undertakings. Also I heard a clamour of wood, as platforms all fell against each other in another chamber within. Lastly, the noise of a great shredding of fabric was followed by cursing from an open door close to the gate. Clearly, there was much mayhem for the Master to attend to.

  And yet when I asked for entrance and defined myself as a witch, ’twasn’t long I had to wait before being brought directly to the great hall. Himself was just done reviewing a comedy by a company of boy players, the vainest snot-nosed brats that ever our Lord sent to abuse the ears of a London audience. He’d approved of whatever shite they were doing, and as I entered that large chamber, he was giving counsel to their manager. Tilney was easy to spot: tall, silver-haired, and carrying himself handsomely; the manager was younger and less distinguished. I waited by the door until the manager and all his damp-lipped bratty boys had filed out.

  Tilney looked over towards me, and our eyes locked—his are grey, cold as frost, unsentimental they are, and all I noticed were the eyes for a bit. After a pause, he ordered his staff to attend to their disasters and not distract him while I was with him. There remained a man or two in the shadows, but they carried themselves like underlings accustomed to waiting, and he ignored them.

  As I said: the hall in which the players must be demonstrating their scripts is large enough, and the architecture of it astonished me more than some palaces I’ve been in. The middle bit of the ceiling was raised up with clerestory windows, letting in even more light than the mess of large stained glass. To one side, near the grand fireplace, was a table at which sat the Master, with room for manuscripts, and pens and quills and inkwells, and scrap bits of paper and parchment for the taking of notes.

  Not a young man is this Edmund Tilney. Straight-backed and clear-eyed, to be sure, but a grizzled look to his otherwise hawk-noble features. I approached the table, demure as I could, which isn’t so demure to be honest, and gave him courtesy by bending a knee a bit while making sure my cleavage was attractively visible.

  “You would have audience with me?” he asked. Pierced me through, his voice did. Strange that an old fella like that, and none too handsome, could yet strike me as being so poised. He declined to let his eyes stray to my bosom.

  “Indeed, sir, yea,” I said, bending the knee again. “My name is Grace, or Gráinne as they call me in my home country, and as I told your man already”—and here I lowered my voice a tad—“I am a witch.”

  “’Tis a rare witch would say it so openly these days to a servant of His Majesty. Especially an Irish witch. So I was intrigued by your arrival. Tell me your—”

  And I was just about to begin to weave a spell when we were interrupted by a door opening on the far wall. A well-appointed gentleman of middle years entered, toweling his dinner from off his chin with a linen kerchief. “Master, ’tis urgent,” he said, not sounding urgent. “There has been an accident in the fabrics warehouse—”

  “Yes, I heard, Charles,” said Tilney briskly. “I will have a sub-clerk bring you a list of damages within an hour, and the budget for replacing what is damaged.”

  The gentleman raised a hand that expressed gratitude, then sauntered back out the corner door, casual as you please. Must have been one of his underlings who lives on the premises, wandering in from dinner in his own dining chamber.

  “Go on,” said Tilney to me.

  “I come to talk about the Scottish play,” I said. He tch’d his tongue behind his teeth. “Shakespeare’s Scottish play,” I amended, again about to begin to weave the spell.

  “I know which Scottish play you meant, woman. I swear to Heaven, he wrote that accursed thing purely to devil me,” said Tilney. The word woman leapt out from all the other ones and gave me a pleasurable little shudder, although normally I would be taking umbrage at such a tone. It made such an impression, I thought I might take a moment to chat him up before enchanting him. “It purports to celebrate His Majesty’s heritage, but along the way it paints an evil portrait of a Scottish king,” he was saying. “After the catastrophe last year of Ben Jonson landing in prison for a single line in Eastward, Ho—’tis impolitic to imply anything is evil about any Scotsman. And yet Mr. Shakespeare has gone and written a play in which the leading role is an evil Scotsman.”

  “I don’t care a gnat’s arse about the Scots part,” I said. “I care about the witches’ spells.”

  A long-suffering expression. “Yes. The city is abuzz with anticipation on that subject too,” he said. “But ’tis of no substance. I have seen the play recited before me yesterday, and the supposed witchcraft is all comedic. The witches are written purely for ridicule and give no offence.”

  “Sure it should be comedic,” said I, “but you will cause yourself trouble if you do not amend what’s writ.”

  He frowned at me. “Explain yourself.”

  “I have heard those witchy bits—wasn’t I at the Mermaid Tavern t’other night when Shakespeare brought the script to Cuthbert to read? And I heard the witches’ spells recited aloud, and I am come to tell you: it might sound comical, but ’tis real witchcraft he has put in there. And most potent evil spells at that.”

  Tilney looked mildly startled.

  “I speak true. There be a witch in James’s court, and she will recognise the witchcraft. And witchcraft being treasonous, ’tis her duty as His Majesty’s subject to expose it.”

  This caused him more amazement. “A witch in James’s court? James is the greatest witch hunter in all our history.”

  “Yes, so here’s what will follow. She has already confessed to the witchcraft—’tis the gossip of all England’s witches. But here is the key argument: to maintain her status as repentant witch, her duty is to be rooting out current witchiness and reporting it to the King. She must demonstrate her fidelity to him, else be cast out and risk imprisonment, even death.”

  “Who be this witch?” he demanded, but happily the door from which I’d entered opened suddenly, and a handsome young man entered, holding up two big-bellied stringed instruments.

  “Pardon, sir, but the lutenist must—”

  “That one, it holds its tuning better,” Tilney said, pointing to the fella’s left hand, and the fella ducked out again. Tilney turned back to me.

  “’Tis not meet I name her,” I said. “I promise you, however, no witch would imperil another witch without just cause . . . but some playwright fella she doesn’t know? She’d be throwing him under the bus all right.”

  “She’d what?”

  Feckin’ anachronisms. “She’d make a scapegoat of him. She’d throw him to the wolves. But more important, also yourself, sir. You being the one entrusted with protecting the realm from witchcraft, you will be held responsible if you allow witchcraft to slip into a play performed at court. And I’m informing you, that’s what you just put your stamp of approval to yestereve.”

  A little frown. “Shakespeare is the one who wrote it, why did you not confront him?”

  “Faith, sir, I tried, but some other witch has charmed him to believe he invented the lines himself! He would not heed me. Thus it falls to you, sir, to be making sure those spells he put in there are never uttered on the stage at all, but especially not when the players perform at court.” I know I should have simply used magic to make him change the lines to my real spells and be done with it, but I confess I was taking pleasure in those patrician eyes boring into mine, sure all tingly it made me, and I didn’t mind if it continued a minute more before enc
hanting him. So I continued to cheerfully dissemble: “If the Court Witch hears those lines, she will accuse both Shakespeare and yourself of consorting with witches. ’Tis not only her duty as His Majesty’s subject, it will be her delight, for ’twill allow her to condemn someone other than her fellow witches. If reputation is to be believed, you are widowed with no heirs, yet a property owner with a desirous court appointment. Might there be those who want you out of the way?”

  Tilney started at that.

  “George Buck,” he said in a flinty voice. (That being, if you’ll recall, the young Revels officer who years back made sure Tilney’s romantic humiliation was the talk of London town.)

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir?”

  “George Buck is counting the hours before I pass from this life so he may take my office. He has been promised the reversion—it is established he will inherit the title of Master of the Revels at my death.”

  “Well, there you are then, sir. Mr. Buck may be conspiring with a witch to make mischief against you, by making sure a witch spell ends up in the script.” This was grand bollocks, of course, but no matter, for it did the trick of unsettling him.

  He gave me a searching look that to be honest made my very toes tingle. “But why are you warning me of this?”

  “Because ’tis as troubling to me as it should be to you, sir. Sure, your hearing me out is in my own interest! Aren’t I a witch? The more often His Majesty is made to think there is treacherous magic afoot in the city, the harder ’tis for the likes of me to just get by. This is mutual self-interest, so ’tis.”

  He stared again, that cold stare of a grey-eyed hawk, and how strange it was that—although I will not be saying I wanted to rustle his family jewels, which were no doubt more withered than I care to think on—I was captivated by his gaze.

  “Thank you for alerting me,” he said coldly. “I shall consider asking Mr. Shakespeare to rewrite the spells.”

  “But that won’t help at all, sir,” I insisted, “for whoever be the witch meddling with him, she will just meddle again. The spells must be rewritten by someone who is manifestly not under any magical influence. Thus, I offer to rewrite them myself.”

  At this he gave me an ironical smile. “Of course you do. Now this makes sense. You would add witchcraft to it. That will not happen. Be gone, and trouble me no more.”

  I laughed merrily, pretending he had it all wrong. “Don’t play me for a fool, sir, for isn’t the whole point here to keep witchcraft out of it, so that the Court Witch will not squawk about it? Sure I be merely trying to stay safe in a city where I am daily suspected of harbouring treasonous intentions by just breathing. The wisest way to be achieving safety is to help you rid the script of real sorcery and thus to relax the vigilance of the redeemed witch in James’s court. ’Tis looking out for meself is what I’m doing here.”

  “I see your point, but I am capable of writing such simplistic ditties, so I do not require your assistance.”

  “But the witch may well bewitch you, sir. None can be certain they haven’t been bewitched, excepting witches themselves.”

  “What a convenient argument for you. ’Tis absurd to suggest the only way to protect myself from witchery is to trust a witch I do not even know. From Ireland, no less.”

  At this, realising our pleasurable conversation had run its course and died, I drew breath to summon what the Blevins does call psy-ops magic, to charm Tilney into putting my real magic spells into the Macbeth script, that future witches may have use of them.

  But then I stopped myself.

  Influencing a mind with magic can oft be neutralised by another witch; influencing a mind with reasons cannot be. He was, somewhat, responding to my reasons. If I was just a wee bit mischievous, perhaps I could convince him wholly—without the use of magic. That would leave no glamour, no magical thumbprint if you will. And so, were Tristan and his crew to be growing suspicious that I was up to something, ’twould be harder for them to catch me at it.

  “In that case, sir, will you show me the manuscript, that I may alert you to the spells? They appear in just two scenes, so you need not worry yourself with the rest of it.”

  To this, Tilney sceptically agreed and opened the manuscript, which was lying in full view in the centre of his untidy table. I brushed through the first scene, which has no spells to speak of; told him that the “thrice again, to make up nine” bit in the next scene contained a minor, harmless spell to summon thunder; and then, adopting an anxious affect, did I point out to him the supposed “deadly spell” of the final witch scene—the one beginning “Double, double, toil and trouble.” “You must reform this page sir,” I counselled him. “And I beseech you let me return to you once you have done so, that I may ensure you have not writ new lines under the influence of George Buck’s witch.”

  To this too did he somewhat grumpily agree.

  Then did I hie myself back here to the home country to record all of this, that you, my friend Cara, may see how I take measured steps towards my goal. For once I have contrived to set the real spell into the script, and it is published and read by millions over the coming centuries, then the moment I have even slightly loosened the tyrannic noose of technology, untold witches across the globe will have unimaginable power at the literal tips of their tongues. Even if I am gone, they may rise up and destroy their enemies! Takes my breath away to even think of it, so’t does!

  And now I must return to the future, where I shall make sure to cross paths with you again and measure your character, to know if I should open my plans to you. Also, I must ensure the Blevins hasn’t ruined things in my absence! For there be much to keep track of back at DODO.

  And further, I’ve a righteous taste for blood now, so it’s eager I am to take down more of my foes.

  Blevins agreed to the Sicily Mosaic Gambit easy enough—that’s my fiendishly clever scheme of making a wee change back in the fourth century that will butterfly-effect its way to a large change in the 1800s, regarding where the Royal Observatory is to be built. But sometimes that Constantine Rudge fella’s a little too on-the-ball for my liking, so he is. (You may have met the fellow, he works for the government but is close mates with Fugger . . .) Early on I was glad to have his friendship, as it ensured my good standing with the Fuggers . . . but leave it to Rudge, and he will sort out that if the Royal Observatory moves, it will no longer be in the path of totality when the 1851 eclipse occurs . . . meaning, there will be no way to take that feckin’ photograph. Which is precisely why I must be reverse engineering things to move the Royal Observatory.

  And that is how to begin erasing things.

  ENTRY IN PRIVATE DIARY OF

  Edmund Tilney

  ALBEMARLE HOUSE, 7 APRIL 1606

  Today has been sorely vexing to the spirit. The causes of this vexation being three.

  Cause the first: The parsimony of our esteemed sovereign. When His Majesty ascended to the throne—the same week that he began to sell knighthoods at thirty pounds to feed his coffers—my salary and budget were each reduced to what they were a quarter century ago, yet I am expected to present to the royal court twice the entertainments. I have managed these past three years to accomplish this, but as of today’s accountings I see that this new masque, The Masque of Lightness, taxes my coffers beyond repair.

  Cause the second: The snivelling, ambitious George Buck (who among other travesties has bought himself a knighthood) is once again at my heels. He will assume my office upon my death or retirement, and I do not begrudge him the reversion—but the man is bent upon removing me before my time. I learned today that he has publicly been referring to himself as the new Master for a year, and none of my superiors will take him to task for it, as though waiting patiently for me to draw my last breath. I must counterfeit indifference to such disrespect, but ’tis galling. I was alerted also that he might be conspiring with a witch against my bodily well-being, although I reserve a certain well of disbelief on this topic.

  Cause the third and M
OST DISTRESSING: As I have been writing these several months, I seek to submit to His Majesty my magnum opus, Topographical Descriptions, Regiments, and Policies. ’Tis a work on diplomacy, and my chief goal is that it may free me of the tedium of the Revels Office by raising my esteem in the eyes of His Majesty. The Lord Chamberlain my superior, Lord Thomas Howard, the Right Honorable the Earl of Suffolk, is my distant kinsman, but this morning, I received word from him that he will not support me in this. He has stated that I have no history in the diplomatic service, to which I replied that after thirty years working with prideful players and, moreover, keeping Jones and Jonson from coming to blows, I am of necessity the most excellent of diplomats. And while I have not travelled, due to my ceaseless labour in executing the tedious duties of my office, I have read copious tomes on topography, geography, history, and philosophy (in numerous languages, all of which I have fluently) and distilled the best of each of them into one very readable volume. Further—I have said to him—I was years ago published of a book most excellently received and widely purchased, dedicated to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, A Brief and Pleasant Discourse of the Duties in Marriage, and I was able to write that whilst still a bachelor.

  I have been at work on this Topographical, etc., manuscript for decades. After playing the champion for other writers, I hold it dear, in the waning era of my life, that I am worthy of this honour: that my book shall be received and treasured by the King, who will then raise me to a more prestigious, lucrative office for my twilight years. It is the least that God can bless me with after my decades of promoting others while toiling in obscurity myself.

  Still the Lord Chamberlain will not assist me. And most other courtiers around Their Majesties are changeable or quarrelsome, or else I am in lawsuits with them over properties and monies owed. So there are naught else I can turn to for assistance.

  Except, perhaps, in a roundabout way, today’s unexpected visitor to my offices. She might help.

  Exchange of posts by Lieutenant General Octavian K. Frink (Director of National Intelligence), Dr. Constantine Rudge (head of IARPA, advisor to DODO), and Dr. Roger Blevins (head of DODO) on private ODIN channel