She seemed to remain conscious -- just -- with her silver eyes showing between eyelids so far lowered that they looked like slits upon her pale face.
“Just a while longer milady,” Will said, though it was a while longer indeed -- almost an hour's walk to his lodgings. And once there, what could he do? How did one revive a dying elf?
Yet, looking at the beautiful pale face, the ethereal sweetness of the delicately drawn features, Will knew he couldn’t allow her to die without fighting for her life.
She was a dream he’d dreamed when all the world and love were young, and now, in this time of dying dreams, Will did not wish to see Silver die also.
He grabbed a fresh hold on her arm, and, with his arm around her, prepared to drag her all the way to Southwark, if need be.
It would be a long way.
Scene Eight
Southwark -- a neighborhood of hastily built, slummy-looking houses, many of them leaning one on the other, like drunkards desirous of company. Where an alleyway or passage is left between two houses, it is invariably taken up with rickety stairs. One of these houses, the bottom part of which houses a hat shop, is a three-floor-tall, dark-brown, shabby building. The inevitable rickety stairs up the side lead all the way to the third floor. Across from the house is a tavern, whose sign “The Crook and Flail” swings in the modest breeze. Beneath the sign, Kit Marlowe stands. An older, shorter man in severe black clothing approaches him.
“And I thought I should tell you, Sir,” the short, man said, bowing slightly and speaking in the tone of one continuing a conversation.
“What?” Kit asked, startled, pulled forcibly back from his contemplation of the far-distant door, up the rickety staircase, and the seemingly even farther-distant dirty window up top, its diamond-shaped panes opaque with dirt and grease. Looking at the man, he amended, “Beg your pardon?”
The man looked pained at Kit’s rudeness, and barely contained a sigh. He touched his hand to his dark hair, nonetheless, and bowed again, with maybe too much show of respect. “I think I should tell you that this tavern only opens after sundown.” The man spoke with a deep nasal French accent and something to his tone, and the glance he cast Kit told Kit that the man thought Kit a reprobate lush, for being out at this hour, searching for a drink.
Kit looked up, realizing for the first time that he stood underneath a tavern sign. “Oh. I did not seek a tavern. I sought...lodging. Yes, yes, lodging.” Carried away by this happy idea, he forged on. “A friend of mine, a Mr. Will Shakespeare, has told me you rented rooms.” He assumed the little man had come from the house across the street, but even had he not, he would probably know Will as a neighbor.
“No, Sir,” the man said, and this time looked truly respectful, as he bowed again. “No, I mean, not really. Our only room is let to the good Will, as my wife and I and our daughter and my three apprentices take up the rest of the house. But, should Will leave the room, well, then I’m sure I’d be happy to rent to a gentleman such as you.”
The man cast a look at Kit’s attire and it was quite obvious to Kit that, despite his own puritan clothing, this man was skilled enough at evaluating clothes to have judged Kit a better -- or at least higher paying -- tenant than Will.
“Oh,” Kit said, and struggled in vain to find an excuse, any excuse that would allow him to stay here and watch the house for a sign of life.
He’d followed Will here, so entranced and hypnotized by the sight of Lady Silver that he’d cared little where he went. And now he knew not what to do or say, except that he did not want to go away from here. He did not. “You do not know if my friend Will would be home, then, do you?”
“Ah, m’sieur, no, he is not. The poor Will, how he’s been worrying himself over the theaters being closed, and the good wife back in Stratford, waiting for money. I fear, I very much fear,” the good French puritan looked duly pained, “That if he does not soon find a way to keep his income here in London, he will have to go back to the country.... In which case, Sir, you could have the lodging.” He cast a glance at Kit.
Kit nodded, and tried to show eagerness, but added, “But it would be a pity to lose Will.” In truth, he knew not what he said, only that he wanted to keep talking and stay here, so maybe Silver would look out of that window, or walk down that staircase, or in some other way make herself known.
“Well, he’s tried everything. He even held the horses, you know for pay, outside the Bear gardens, where the bear bating is, for a while. But he said he could not bear the late nights, used as he is to the country schedule of early nights and early mornings too. And, really, for a theater gentleman, Mr. Will keeps very regular hours and rarely goes out drinking.” He smiled at Kit. “As I suppose you know, since you’re his friend.”
“Oh, yes, yes, Master Will Shakespeare is a model of virtue,” Kit said, and something in his heart stung and protested that maybe this was why even elves preferred Will.
“But, enfin, today he stopped by an hour ago and, he has told us that this evening he won’t be joining us for dinner. He has an appointment with the young earl of Southampton who is a great admirer of theater, now, is he not?” The question was obviously rhetorical, as the little man plunged on. “He has an appointment to show the earl some of his poetry and maybe the good earl will give him a chance to put on his plays in the private theater the earl had set up for him, won’t he?”
This question was obviously not rhetorical, and Kit caught his breath and cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, who knows? Milord Southampton has given his patronage to many a worse poet.”
“Well, so Master Will will not be coming home for dinner, either, as he will, of course, be in the earl’s company at his house. But for that, you’d have the pleasure of seeing your friend come dinner time. Indeed, he has dinner with us most nights.”
“Ah, it is no problem. I’ll look for him tomorrow, then,” Kit said, and yet didn’t move. Unlike the little man, Kit knew that Will was inside. He’d followed Silver and Will here, breathless, attempting to catch up with them.
With his breath caught in his throat, he’d followed Silver and Will here, and watched them ascend the narrow precipitous wooden stairs that, climbing up the side of the house, led to Will’s room on the topmost floor.
He’d watched Will dart out and visit the little hat shop, then go back into his room again.
Since then Marlowe had been riveted to that spot, watching that door as though it were the door to heaven or the pathway to salvation. From those, Kit believed himself well excluded, but from this....
He remembered that short summer, now so far away and yet still fresh in memory, like yesterday’s meal or this morning’s awakening from slumber.
He remembered Silver’s hands, and her smile, and the sweet smell of summer sweat, beneath great trees, in the quiet woods. And like a fool who can’t let go of folly, like a child, ill-awakened from a dream who yet talks on the spinning toys and the glazed fruits of his fantasy, thus Kit stood, riveted by his desire to that mundane corner of that narrow Southwark street, watching that grim little door in the tall, grey, awkward building.
Apprentices and merchants walked past, busy with their own concerns, and if they gave him more than a passing look it was because his clothes looked too fine for this time of day in Southwark.
Marlowe watched. Up in the narrow window, he thought he caught a glimpse of dark hair, a body. He imagined it was Silver’s, but, at that distance, it might have been Will, or even just the reflection of the sky on the irregular glass of the window. Yet Marlowe wanted it to be Silver. He willed the window open, he willed to see Silver’s perfect features, even from this distance, even if it availed him nothing.
Would it avail him nothing?
Kit remembered too well the pain of parting, and the look on Quicksilver’s face when -- in his male aspect -- he had told Kit goodbye. Kit had wished to see pain or regret there, but all he could remember of pain and regret now was his own, embossed and embedded in the memory from which
he still flinched, like a cur from a kick.
The look in Quicksilver’s moss-green eyes, those many years ago, when parting from Kit beneath the great, green trees of the forest where they’d loved so long and so well, had been boredom with a strange, overlaid mischievousness. Nothing else.
Kit shifted his feet, on the mud of the lane. Cursed be the day he’d beheld the creature and so shamelessly lost heart and reason. Cursed be it, as Kit was cursed. Because, even with the sting in his heart, from the elf’s remembered scorn, even with his head hurting from the memory of the elf’s dismissal of him, that dismissal of what could only have been an amusing pastime for Quicksilver and had been Kit’s own, life-twisting, heart clenching one love -- even now, Kit wished his false love to return.
Fool, fool that he was, but what could he do, but stand there and look at that window, and that door, and stare and wait for a glimpse of Silver?
He was not so foolish he’d climb the stairs and knock at the door. Oh, he remembered the scorn in Quicksilver’s eyes much too well.
Kit removed his fashionable gloves and worried at them, twisting and turning them between his sweaty hands.
The little Frenchman still stood, a little way off, staring at Kit. Kit sighed. He would have to go. He supposed in a neighborhood like this, even in London, neighbor watched for neighbor and, despite the richness of his dress, he would not be allowed to stand and loiter long beneath neighborhood tavern signs. He bowed slightly to the little man. “I will go now,” he said. “If you’ll so kindly inform me at what time you usually entertain Will for dinner, I’ll look for him tomorrow at that time.” Presumably the good Will, being a creature of habits, would search out his dinner today at roughly the same time he usually ate it. And then the lady would be alone in Will’s room.
“Of course, Sir. We usually have dinner around five o’clock, just as the taverns open.”
Again Kit Marlowe nodded, this time smiling. He’d come back at five, and if the taverns were open then, so much the better. Surely there would be many strangers in the area at the time, and that would give cover to Kit’s presence.
And tonight, win or lose, he would see Silver face to face.
Scene Nine
The terrace of the faerie palace, where Ariel stands, as if turned to stone, gazing disbelievingly at a centaur.
“What did you say, Sir?” she asked, her voice an unaccountable whisper. “I’m afraid I must have mistaken your meaning.” Though in fact, she was quite, quite sure she hadn’t. She saw and heard everything with unusual clarity those few moments: the rustle of the leaves in the trees, the moonlight shining on the dappled horse body.
She smelled the centaur’s smell, too, mingled with human sweat, beneath the odd scent of cinnamon. The whole of it, suddenly, felt as if it would turn her stomach. She put her hand back to the cold stone balustrade, and held tightly.
The centaur smiled, flashing golden teeth in the moonlight. “Ah, my pretty, do not pretend.” He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her unresisting body forward. Ariel felt too stunned to find the strength to fight.
“You cannot pretend to me you’re so much in love with your dandy of a husband.” The centaur laughed, a raw, hoarse chuckle. “The gossip is that he is not even a proper male, but a creature that changes between male and female with the seasons. Surely no elf such as this, no such low creature, deserves to sit on the throne of faerieland. And from your looks to him last evening, I can very well tell that you don’t hold him in very high regard.”
Ariel struggled to talk, but the sweat of the creature, the smell of him -- animal and human and spicy -- combined to make her feel that if she opened her mouth, she would throw up. She kept her lips tightly clenched and tried to take two steps back.
But Hylas kept his arm around her, his tail whipping contentedly at the evening air. His chuckle ground out again, harsh, like two stones, one pushed against the other. “I wager he hasn’t performed the proper duties of a husband very well either. If you ever see him in your room at all, I’d be amazed.”
The revulsion reached a peak within Ariel.
If she had indeed enjoyed Quicksilver’s favors these past months, his words might not have stung as bitter as they now did, but the sting of the centaur’s blow was bitter and ardent and gave her renewed force to pull back.
She lifted her hand and, almost before she knew what she was doing, slapped the creature full hard on the face. She was but a weak woman and he was a centaur. But this week woman was the Queen of faerieland and a bit of power had gone with her anger along her arm and into her slap.
The centaur bellowed and reared, and Ariel stepped back quickly and hugged the marble balustrade to evade the horse hooves that flailed at the air in front of her.
If the centaur had chosen to strike then, he could have thrown Ariel down over the tree tops of Arden, because she was so startled that she didn’t resort to magic to shield herself.
But the centaur controlled himself, and brought his hooves down, side by the side on the cool marble ground.
His features were set in haughty anger, his eyes blazed and he held his mouth tight. On his golden left cheek, the imprint of Ariel’s hand glowed red as if branded there.
He made Ariel a stiff bow. “I see, milady, you do not take jest very well.”
Ariel half leaned back over the baluster, took a painful breath. “Jest?”
“Surely, a lady of your experience and intelligence must know I jest when I say these things.” He bowed. “But I see that the mortal’s day -- our fair night -- is well advanced, and I’ll to my bed in search of rest, that I may plead my case before your majesty again tomorrow.”
Like that, nimble and impossibly swift for so large a creature, Hylas cantered across the terrace and into the palace, through the double glass doors.
Ariel was left on the terrace, trembling slightly. She did not believe, not for a moment, that the centaur had spoken in jest. The utter seriousness of his proposals was what turned her stomach and gave her a dizzying feeling that she had, somehow, betrayed Quicksilver.
Had her expression looking at her husband been so derisive? Had she looked like she cared so little for his fate or his heart or his throne that this creature, this wild creature from the wild marshes of the South should presume.... Should presume....
She couldn’t complete the thought. She stood, transfixed, taking deep breaths of the night air.
She loved her lord. She knew she did. How could someone mistake her so?
“Milady?” someone said quietly from the corner of the terrace, where the deep shadows of the building cast a dark spot, hidden from the searching moonlight. “Milady? Are you well?”
She stirred and looked at the darkness. Would this be another conspirator?
But the tall figure who detached himself from the building and walked towards her was all too familiar, his dark hair tumbled down his back, his bright green eyes attentive and he wore the sort of exquisite green livery that could only belong to Quicksilver’s personal servant, his commander of armies.
“Malachite?” Ariel asked, catching her breath and not knowing whether to be embarrassed or afraid. Should Malachite himself prove unreliable, should he make her proposals of sedition and revolution, proposals of treason to her lord just now Ariel thought she would willingly fling herself over the low parapet.
But Malachite bowed at the waist, and said, “Are you well, Milady?”
“You heard.... You heard.... What did you hear?” She pulled her disarrayed hair back, fretfully
Malachite sighed. “That which brings no dishonor to anyone but Hylas. You acquitted yourself well, milady.” Malachite smiled, slightly, a respectful smile that still betrayed he was impressed by his frail queen. “I came in as he made his dishonorable proposal to you, and I would have intervened, only you acquitted yourself quite well and I thought it better to stay away from him. He looked enraged, I didn’t feel any calmer, and it seemed a bad time to start a squabble. He is an envoy
of his tribe.”
Ariel took a deep breath. “I know,” she said. “I know. Think you that the entire tribe partakes his sedition, or is this his own desire?”
Malachite shook his dark head. His features, more incisive than those of normal elves, set in an expression she couldn't identify. “I don’t know milady. The lord.... It is a fact that there is sedition abroad amid the tribes and races. The lord.... My Lord Quicksilver....” He always stopped short of completing some sentence.
“He’s weak, he’s weak, he’s weak,” Ariel chanted to herself, feeling her own cheeks flame at saying it. Such a thing to say about her own husband, and yet, perhaps it was better to say it, to leave it out there, in the open, shining with the moon, than to have the thought betray itself from her gestures, move from her fingertips, drip like treason from her eyes. “And this weak and idle theme will undo us all.”
Malachite flamed at the word, a pallor first subduing his features and then a dark blush, like spilled blood, climbing upward from the collar of his green suit to the roots of his black hair. “Milady,” he said. “Milady.”
Such a wild cry, and Ariel thought he would reproach her, but what he whispered next -- a meek, slow whisper -- was worse than reproach.
“There’s some who say the old king would be better, murderer or no.”
“The—” The thought choked Ariel’s throat. She remembered the vision she’d had, the wild wolf thing with its dark, dank, blood-stained cravings. They’d prefer that to sweet Quicksilver. Oh, the damage was great indeed. Perhaps it could not be repaired.
“You know what evil such thoughts bring,” Malachite said. “If enough of us have them, and us being creatures of such power. Is it not possible—” He blushed even darker, though she would have thought it impossible. “Is it not possible that us being magical creatures our very thoughts caused -- ” He sighed. “You must pardon me, but I overheard your conversation, before the king left, and I wonder, I wonder very much if it weren’t the thoughts of all these magical creatures that woke the evil and brought it back to existence, that brought him breathing down our necks again. And if the master isn’t wrong in leaving his kingdom unattended to go search for evil in another place.”
All Night Awake Page 38
