Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  But he and Anne had an agreement, she to tend his offspring and growing property interests at home, and he to keep the money flowing west into her capable hands. Only Anne’s recently adopted stiff-lipped morality would make her outraged by Sive—not jealousy.

  “Buy some more nuts or move it,” a seller huffed completely unmoved by Will’s impression of a lovesick traveller. “You’re blocking my customers.”

  Will rolled his eyes; the last outbreak of plague had not done anything to improve people’s humour. It was enough these days to get what you could out of life before the Grim Reaper came, and the nut-seller obviously had his eye on making a healthy profit before the sickle fell. Will moved on before he was strong-armed into another purchase.

  A none too gentle hand-picked at his sleeve before he could get far. “They say nuts are good for your man workings, Will, so perhaps you should get some more,” Jack Cowling’s narrow face was all grin, “But then again perhaps you shouldn’t. Anymore mooning over women and there’ll not be another play out of you.”

  Will, despite his morbid thoughts, smiled back. There was something affable about Jack, a natural born actor, who could make the most of his only passable face, and turn it into a variety of forms. His wit and good humour also stood him in good stead for the life of a player. Though some other senior partners in the troupe looked down their noses at the boys, Will liked a reminder of his very humble beginnings.

  “One day soon you’ll understand, Jack.”

  A flash of panic robbed the teenager of all blood in his face. He had played all Will’s female leads, but like all the boys, he knew full well that it could not be forever. Lately the first down of manhood had crept to his cheeks, and it remained to be seen if he could make the transition to playing male roles. In truth very few boys carried on once their voice broke. Too used to the mannerisms and walk of women that they practiced for years to achieve, it went against them later.

  Jack flicked his sand and gold hair back from his face and ducked his head, “I hope not, Will.”

  An awkward moment passed, both thinking the same thing, and both struggling for a way to avoid saying it. Jack broke it with a half laugh, “I don’t know if this is a good time or no, Will. Perhaps you’d like to talk the part over later.” He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Why?” An odd chill scampered up Will’s spine.

  “Couple of people asking about you over by the tinker’s there, heard them as I was coming to meet you.” Jack, used to the nature of life in London, didn’t point, just moved his eyes in their direction. Will saw the tops of two dark heads moving towards him, like undersea monsters pushing their way through the bobbing refuse of the crowd.

  Chewing the corner of his lip for a moment, Will considered. Henslowe and Tarlton had taught him well; in the face of misinformed debt collectors, always retreat. They were as stubborn as bulls, and as brainless as a carp, and the only method open to the often cash strapped players was to run for it.

  “Thanks, Jack,” Will patted him on the back. "I’ll catch up with you later.” The lad more than understood, and in fact was already making his own strategic withdrawal. Pulling his cap low over his eyes, he nodded to Will and crept away in the opposite direction.

  Avoidance was a skill a player learned after a few weeks in London, and Will managed to slip away quickly enough. But as Will walked the last few streets to the Theatre he did a quick mental assessment. Admittedly, in his early days in London he had accrued a number of debts to shady characters, but since things had been going so well at the theatre he had managed to avoid unpleasant threats and even more unpleasant realities. So who was so very eager to catch up with him? That was the trouble of becoming better known; it was getting harder to blend into the crowd. Everyone was all too eager to point out Will Shakespeare.

  It was going to be nigh on impossible to avoid whoever these people were forever.

  Tarlton had offered one other piece of sterling advice about debtors; when absolutely forced to face them, at least choose the ground yourself. With that in mind, Will had now almost completely circled back to the Theatre. Here he loitered, rather skilfully he thought for one not used to loitering, by the bakehouse across the road, back turned to the theatre door, and listened.

  Danger was near, and though he still feared the Art, he would have been worse than a fool not to realize its advantages. So as he leaned over the chill wall, his heightened senses leapt ahead of him.

  Two burly men shouldering their way through a London crowd was nothing unusual. They could have been anyone’s hired muscle, and the common folk gave way in the face of such grim faced determination. However as Will sensed their approach he turned for a better look and almost froze to the spot. The steel grey eyes that bored into him across the street held no emotion that he was familiar with as expressionless and empty as those of a fish; a more perfect example of animated flesh could not be imagined. Will’s body spasmed in a physical reaction that sent pain snapping up his spine. Not human, every inch of him responded to that, and in every line their purpose was displayed; his destruction.

  A pregnant woman got brushed aside like a twig, and a beggar boy received a mindless blow to his ribs when he made the mistake of getting in their way.

  This was unnatural business, and could only involve Sive and her terrible unseen husband.

  With a tight knot developing in his stomach, Will turned suddenly, consumed with the need to find her. All he knew was that whatever made Sive afraid must be very bad indeed; in such a situation his place was with her.

  London was home, Will knew the back streets and little corners. At that second, and in that situation it didn’t matter to him what Sive was, he loved her, and he wasn’t going to let anyone hurt her. Will only hoped that he was quick enough.

  * * *

  Puck could hear the whisperings of the Fey, as he wandered down the path to Shottery. Indeed, the sound had never strayed very far from him. The Fey world did not forget its own, even when it was being torn apart.

  His eye travelled over the bare curves of the hills, admiring how winter displayed the beautiful bones of the land. Seasons were still a thing of marvel to Puck, something that he awaited with anticipation. The Fey was eternal summer and spring, but here the world turned to ice and snow. He found beauty in its harshness, and how even in the coldest depths, it still managed to promise later kindness.

  He was content in Stratford. While he had idled away fruitful autumns, golden summers, flowery springs and stark winters in the bosom of Will’s family, Sive had only just begun her work. He had felt her arrival in the mortal realm and known that his time of rest was over. Both he and the splinter of Brigit within him feared the change, feared the loss of simple pleasures.

  Pleasures such as today held. The twins were not far out of sight, fine pale heads bent together in conversation only they could understand. Puck admitted cheating now and then, dipping into their minds to see if they had any of their father’s Art. His gift hadn't touched either of the younger Shakespeares, only the elder Susanna had any hint of it. Best to let it lie, Puck had decided, it had brought Will nothing but trouble, and there was no need to burden these little ones any further than they were. What with their father so seldom home, and their mother becoming more and more bitter, the children had latched onto Puck as someone deserving of their affection. He had used a little of his Art to give him the illusion of kinship to the family and had been more than happy with the result.

  The three of them strolled along amicably through the clear winter day; Puck now and then chortling at the young human’s antics. Hamnet had grinned back when he stomped in the mud, getting his sister’s clean kirtle sopping. He knew full well that discipline was not ‘Uncle Robert’s’ way.

  Puck admitted he was content here. The Shakespeares had fallen in with his glamour, and taken him into hearth and home. And he suspected, all those miles away, Sive was beginning to feel the same. Though the strains of Fey music reached him here, they
were only pieces of a half remembered song, and one that he no longer had to dance to. For the first occasion in a very long time, Puck the Trickster was both free and happy. Brigit was quiet, not even disturbing his dreams. Take what pleasure you can from the moment, Puck reminded himself.

  And then the mortal world trembled. Long pale Fey ears picked it up first, a far off rumble of mortal thunder, but a sudden stilling of the Fey music accompanied it.

  Puck froze, all senses he had available straining for more information. Ahead the twins had stopped, craning their tousled heads to the changing sky. Dark clouds tumbled over the hills, emerging from the very interior of the earth itself, and smothered the sunlight so that even Puck’s superior senses left him momentarily without sight.

  The smile evaporated from his lips as he rushed to the twins. Bundling the frightened Judith and Hamnet into the frozen ditch, he tried to get as much of his body as possible between them and whatever danger was coming.

  “What’s going on, uncle?” the trembling Hamnet asked, his eyes wide as an owl’s.

  “I don’t know, boy, but I fear a storm; stay down.” The twins huddled together. Puck shrugged off his thick coat and dropped it over them. It wasn’t much protection against even a normal downpour, and he had little hope of it protecting them from the likes of Mordant. Still with their eyes shielded he could at least put on his proper Fey attire. Sloughing off human shape and swapping it for the thick-muscled feline form, he awaited the arrival of whatever the storm bought, with fang and claw ready.

  Wreaths of moisture hung in the air, and the acid tang of lightning almost overwhelmed Puck’s feline senses. He had no hope of defeating Mordant, and this would end with his and the twins’ deaths in the ditch. Flight for him was not an option; he had played the role of guardian too long to abandon it now.

  The veil of the worlds rippled and tore before Puck’s eyes, and he slitted the feline’s pupils. It blinded him for a moment, so he was unable to see through the glare of white light.

  So Auberon fell almost unnoticed at his feet. Then the rip sealed itself, the clouds tumbled back, and balance was restored to the mortal realm. Puck shed the form of fangs and claws and put on his respectable uncle Robert shape.

  And yet once normality returned, the king of the Fey still lay at his feet like one of Will’s crumpled bits of poetry. Auberon’s shimmering robe lay in shreds and was coated with the mud of an unforgiving mortal world. Indeed his pale flawless features lay in it so that only his silver white hair was visible. For a moment Puck was uncertain what to do.

  “Who is it?” Hamnet’s trembling voice at his shoulder reminded him that the twins should not see the strangeness and danger that followed on the heels of such an event.

  “A poor victim of some brigand,” Puck helped the dazed Judith up from the ditch. “I’ll see him home, you two best return to your mother. Undoubtedly this wretch’s story is not suitable for youngsters’ ears.”

  The twins pouted and made some half-hearted protests, but the unnatural storm had shaken them, and their mother’s hearth suddenly looked very inviting.

  Puck watched them scamper back down the road towards Stratford and cast a light glamour over them to make sure they didn’t stop along the way. Then he turned to his erstwhile King.

  Rolling him over, Puck at first thought he might have to bury him, for there were very few signs of life, and his normal paleness so increased that he looked drained of all blood. For a creature so full of wrath, he looked deflated. But placing his ear down to Auberon’s dry lips, Puck was able to detect the faintest of breezes.

  The Trickster crouched and considered, head on one side rubbing his chin in an almost human manner. He could not take the King to Henley Street even if the idea was amusing. Neither could he abandon Auberon and leave him lying in the road.

  He needed some place where the chances of him attracting unwanted Fey attention were the least. Puck grinned; why hadn’t he thought of it straight away?

  With perhaps something less than parent care, he tossed the king of the Fey over one shoulder, and made off towards the river Avon.

  Sive had chosen an excellent spot to meet with Will, one where the distortions of the nearby river carried away most all the signs of Art. Running water, like iron, affected each Fey in different ways, but it always masked their workings. The Bean-Nighe gave her pronouncements of doom near rivers, but it also was a barrier to lesser Fey.

  It made an excellent spot to hide, so Puck constructed a simple lean-to under the shade of a willow tree ten feet from the waving reeds of the riverbank. Some part of him couldn’t help chuckling at the thought of the King in such rude quarters. Still, considering how Auberon had treated the Trickster in the past, he was lucky not to be lying in the roadside mud.

  But grateful appeared not to be in the King’s repertoire. Ripped and scraped he might be, but it had not softened any edges, nor blunted his arrogance.

  “You!” he rolled his eyes and let out a disappointed groan. “I can hardly believe the luck of it. Where is my sister?”

  “Well that’s very nice, I must say,” Puck stretched out his hand and began to examine his fingernails, “Here I am after putting myself out and all by scraping you off the roadside, and you still don’t have the decency to say ‘thank you’. What on earth can your mother have taught you?”

  Auberon struggled upright, vainly attempted to pull the remains of his clothes into alignment, and ignored Puck’s jibe. “Answer my question Trickster: where is Sive?”

  “Now?”

  “Of course now, you idiot,” Auberon managed to raise enough strength to snarl.

  “Well, currently I imagine she is making the beast with the two backs with a young virile mortal.”

  The King of the Fey looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

  Just in case Puck checked that he hadn’t. He grinned at Auberon, “Now I know what you are thinking: never in a million mortal years, but our Sive the Shining has quite come around to the delights of humanity.”

  The sound of grinding teeth was almost audible, then with a sigh Auberon slumped back against the willow tree. “Much as I would love for you to explain exactly what you mean by that, Trickster, there are far more important things pressing on me.”

  Puck leaned back on his elbows and kicked his heels in the thick grass; his quicksilver mind weighing the options while his body gave the illusion of disinterest. “Having a bit of trouble with Mordant then, are we?”

  The King’s silence said everything he needed to know.

  “You were wrong, weren’t you? And you should have listened to your sister, shouldn’t you?” Somewhere in the rear compartment of his head something Brigit stirred.

  “Trickster,” Auberon moved like a coiled spring, picking Puck up, and slamming him into the tree, “Only you would dare to say I-told-you-so to your King. Believe me, today is not the day to goad me.”

  This spurt of rage washed over Puck. He shrugged nonchalantly in the other’s grip. “As I’ve said before, it’s my nature, Auberon. You keep trying to punish me for being me. Hardly fair.”

  Sive’s brother shook his head and gave up. “At least you are consistent, I suppose, Puck, consistently foolish.”

  Being returned to his feet, the smaller Fey dusted himself off with some dignity. “The difference is, Auberon, that my foolishness does not matter much in the scheme of things, whereas yours does.”

  Auberon’s shoulders slumped, and the fire in his eyes dimmed a little. “I was duped, Puck. Mordant is not the Fey that he used to be—in fact I doubt that he is truly Fey at all now.”

  Things must have become bad indeed if Auberon could admit that. A dread chill invaded Puck’s normally bright heart. “What has happened? And where is that annoying Court that usually travels with you?” Brigit was sitting just behind his eyes waiting for answers.

  The King of the Fey turned his face from Puck’s demanding gaze. “He came down from the hilltop like an ill wind. A grim mist swept
before him over the valley, covering everything and no Art would move it. I could hear their screams, sounds to tear the fibre of your being and rend the mind. Some of us managed to escape to the Evening Realm; we were the lucky few. Moira and so many others did not.”

  “And yet you are here, not much of a King to leave his people,” Puck could hear the bitterness in his own voice.

  “I need to find my sister,” he replied. “I need her power.”

  “So the Summer Realm is gone?” Puck whispered, unable to believe it. The vapid Fey Court had always been a source of amusement and ridicule. He’d laughed at their airy graces, their dependence on protocol, and how things appeared—but yet he could not imagine a world without them. Foolish they had been, but ethereal beauty walked in their footsteps, and that had meant something. Both realms would suffer for their loss.

  “And now I must ask, Puck, you have my aunt’s remains within you—do you know? Is there any hope?”

  He didn’t know the answer to that, and neither did Brigit. Still there was nothing gained in crushing their King; if he could learn how to fight and restore his Court, then Puck would feed him on hope.

  “All that is Fey cannot die, and your sister has been working on a plan against this very day. We shall recover from this, my Liege.”

  Auberon sucked up the deception from Puck’s convincing eyes, and the untruth tasted very bitter to the Trickster. Such deceit had never been his stock in trade, but now he was once again finding himself in alien territory.

  Auberon nodded, recovering some of his normal demeanour. “You are right, Puck, the Fey cannot be lost. Once my sister and I combine forces, nothing in any realm can stand against us. You must tell me where she is so that we can begin.”

  Puck thought of the King rushing in all puffed up with righteous anger and wondered what sort of reception he might find.