Ink and Steel pa-3

by Elizabeth Bear

  ‘Post script: Amusing to put the speech on Queen Mab in the poor lad’s mouth, then have him stabbed under his friend’s arm. I wish Tricky Tom Watson were alive to see: he so would laugh. It reminds me of the time Will Bradley would have had my head if Tom hadn’t got his blade between us, as I am sure youintended it to. Poor William should have known better than to start a quarrel with a poet; we travel, like starveling dogs, in packs. It saddens me to think now that all three of us who fought that night are dead. Your loyalty warms me in a colder world than my words or yours could express, but you must have caution in these things, for all it flatters me to be remembered.’

  ‘Dearest Mercutio, London continues much of the same. Recusants and moneylenders pilloried in the north square, RB after me to pen more plays though I have given him four this year already. And I have spoken with FW, who is yes gravely ill and failing. He says he also had word from you that his cousin is genuine, and the peer you dub Peascod-doublet more truly the villain. I should tell you that TW spoke with me concerning you and I and the craft of playmending sometime back. I gave him nothing then. In the light of new intelligence, is it your estimation that he may be trusted? I asked RB to consider that slanders leveled against your name may source themselves in EDV. He thinks rather they come from Gloriana, though why she might wish your name blackened I know not. MP and her son are well indeed, and under my care. A story is making the rounds at the Mermaid that a half-dozen sober Londoners witnessed the blood-soaked ghost of Kit Marley on a Cheapside street in the rain this summer, prophesying doom on those who murdered him. The better versions of the story have lightning dancing around the ghost’s shoulders like a cloak, a naked sword in its hand, and a whining Robert Poley cringing at its feet.

  Of course, no one believes it. Where would you find six sober Londoners all at once? There are a few stories the sober Londoners tell of EDV as well. I asked RB of the Spanish choirboy he’s rumored to have imported, and RB assured me it was basest slander. The choirboy was Italian. Horatio something. I suppose that’s one way to stick it to the Papists. Your true Romeo.’

  Act II, scene viii

  Orlando:

  My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

  Rosalind:

  Break an hour’s promise in love! He that will

  divide a minute into a thousand parts, and break but

  a part of the thousandth part of a minute in the

  affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid

  hath clapped him o the shoulder, but I’ll warrant

  him heart-whole.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, As You like It

  Will stepped down from a hired coach weary, bruised to the bone, sorely afflicted with chilblains, and nibbled by fleas. He’d fallen uneasily half asleep with his fingers protruding from under a carriage robe clutched to his chin. He worked them now, trying to bring sensation to cold-chapped skin. The coachman liberated his luggage and slid it down beside the wheels; the ground was too frozen for the trunk to be damaged by mud. The tired bay snorted. Will skirted the horse nervously, and caught one end handle on the trunk to drag it toward the cottage with its close-thatched roof. He closed his eyes, smelling kindled fire and baking bread, and stopped himself a half gesture before he rapped on his own front door. Instead he breathed deep, then pulled the latch-cord and shouldered the green-painted portal open, letting his trunk bump over the threshold.

  “Annie?” She straightened and turned to him, aproned and dressed in good gray woolen, leather shoes on her stockinged feet against the winter chill of the rush-strewn floor, her befloured hands spread wide. Will. She stepped closer. Will kicked the door shut and bumped it with his heel to make certain of the latch. Leaving his trunk half blocking the threshold, he met her halfway between the door and the table and caught her wrists, holding her whitened hands back when he kissed her mouth. She giggled like a girl. He wiped flour off his cheek when he stepped away.

  “I’ve a rental house for you to look at.”

  “Annie, let a man get his boots off,” he protested, and she laughed again. “I’m famous, wife. Romeo and Juliet. Dost care?”

  “I’ll read your plays,” she said stolidly, turning to wash her hands, when they bring you home again. He came and poured the water for her so she would not beflour the ewer, and watched her hands tumble over each other like courting birds.

  “The bread smells wonderful.”

  “Wonderful enough to wake the children, do you suppose?” She glanced at him sideways, drying her hands on her apron. “Still slugabed?” He smiled, looking up at the loft. “Did you tell them I was coming?”

  “I …” She stopped. “I didn’t want to disappoint them.”

  “Ah.” The sour taste was no more than a night spent in the Davenant’s Inn before resuming his coach seat to finish this journey.

  He nudged his trunk out of the doorway, pushing up a thin ridge of rush stems. Annie’s eyes were on him, kinder than he had any right to.

  “Do you think I can get Hamnet down here over my shoulder before he wakes, the way I used to?”

  “He’s bigger than you remember Will! Be careful… ”.

  But he was already halfway up the ladder, and turned to press a silencing finger to his lips. “At least let me try.”

  Annie laced her fingers behind her backside, half turned her head, and smiled and sighed as if they were a single gesture. But she held her tongue, and Will resumed his climb. Soft morning sunlight from a casement under the eave filled the loft, the air cold enough that Will’s breath steamed in coils. Will cat-footed to bedsteads ranged side by side along the left-hand wall; the wider held a pair of sweetly snoring lumps and the narrower only one. He paused, a few steps away from the children, and breathed their rich, sleeping scent. It made him lightheaded, as if he were breathing in the pale gold winter sunshine, filled up until he inflated, buoyed, floating forward to unearth his son from quilts and comforters and the featherbed covering the rustling straw-filled tick.

  Hamnet slept with his thumb in his mouth, knees drawn up, hips tucked forward, body turned fully at the waist so that his opposite shoulder was in contact with the featherbed. Golden eyelashes fluttered against the boy’s rosy cheeks as Will moved to block the square of sunlight dappling his face, dust motes flitting between them like atomies.

  Will crouched, dislodging Hamnet’s thumb gently, and with both hands picked up his sleeping son. He flopped the boy’s slack warm arms around his neck and cradled him close. He squatted on the edge of the girls bed, then, and leaned Hamnet’s still-towheaded curls against his shoulder as he tugged the coverlet down. Susanna lay with her arms widespread as if embracing the morning, Judith’s brown head resting on the soft part of her shoulder. The younger girl coiled around a pillow possessively, her braid snaking across her sister’s breast.

  Susanna’s eyes flicked open when the light brushed her face, but Judith cuddled closer to her pillow and mumbled. And then Susanna’s hazel eyes went wide, and as Will saw her draw breath to shriek in delight he put his finger to his lips. She choked on it, clapped her hand over her mouth, and giggled. Will pointed to the ladder and to Judith, and Susanna nodded and reached to shake her sister awake.

  He actually got Hamnet halfway down to Anne’s stifled laughter before the boy squirmed awake and blinked sleepily through the tangled blond curls. And then Hamnet did squeal, and cling, while the girls laughed over the edge of the loft.

  Will propped his feet on the bench before the fire while Susanna showed Judith how to sew the braids of ivy into swags to hang over the windows and the door, and Hamnet stole fallen leaves with which to tease Anne’s calico cat. The cat, fat with winter mousing, purred and flattened her whiskers smugly, but she couldn’t be bothered to extend a claw after the leaves.

  Will, watching, covered his mouth and smiled into his sleeve. Still weary with the brutal coach ride, he must have dozed before the fire, because a knock on the door startled him awake.

  “That
will be your brother Edmund,” Anne said, crossing in a sweep of skirts. “He’s come to take Hamnet to fetch the Yule log”

  “Uncle Edmund!” The boy bounced up even as Will dropped his feet on the floor. His youngest brother a mere twice seven years shook snow off his cloak and hefted an axe. “Ready to go out and slog through the snow with the men, puppy Will!”

  “Ted.” Will stood, a broad grin stretching his cheeks. “You’ve grown.”

  “You re home.” Edmund looked him up and down. He was already almost Will’s height, and his shoulders half filled the doorway.

  “Well, get your boots on, then.” Hamnet bounced on his toes. Will looked at Annie. Annie didn’t quite nod, that would have been too much like permission but she smiled.

  “Bring more ivy if you find it, or bay,” she said. “Christmas eve supper shall be at your father’s house; the girls and I will meet you. I promised to help cook.”

  The sun turned the western horizon to flame-colored taffeta while the three of them, Hamnet, Edmund, and Will, leaned into the traces and sledged an enormous log through ankle-deep snow. Or, in fairness, Will and Edmund sledged. Hamnet ran rings around them, the winter sunlight glimmering on his hair, now a hare, now a hound, now ‘Uncle Edmund, look!’ a lumbering bear.

  Edmund looked, and laughed, and Will looked at Edmund and understood, with a moment of bitterness he didn’t deserve, who was raising his son. Will covered the hurt with a player’s smile, and caught Edmund’s eye before he ducked under the traces to chase his bear-cub down the lane, growling like a hound. They floundered through a snowdrift and into a deserted pasturage, Will half a step behind the boy.

  “Run, bear cub! The hounds are on you!”

  Hamnet turned at bay against a hurdle, and Will drew up.

  “I’m Sackerson, the boy growled. The strongest bear in Britain! I’ll eat up any hound that comes after me!”

  Will laughed and crouched down, hands spread, watching his boy coil to leap at him. That Hamnet would trust Will to catch him cracked his grin to show his teeth in more than mockery of a hunting dog’s snarl.

  “Hounds are smarter than bears.” He gasped as something took him, as if the snowy grass under his feet were yanked like a carpet, and he found himself flat on his back with Hamnet crouched over him, small fists clenched on the neck of his jerkin, roaring triumphantly.

  “Lad,” Will coughed. “Off!” Hamnet jumped back, and suddenly Edmund’s hands were on him, the Yule log abandoned in the lane, a worried brother brushing snow from his collar and hair, pulling him to his feet. “What happened?”

  “Fell”, Will said, and shoved his right hand into the slit in his jerkin and the pocket beneath so Edmund wouldn’t see it shake. He wouldn’t say more in front of Hamnet, but Edmund’s lips pursed and he kept a hand on Will’s elbow until they were back in the lane, and did the lion’s share of the drawing.

  Another half-hour’s labor brought them through the festive streets of Stratford to the front door of Will’s childhood home. Edmund pushed the door open to the parlor where the great bed stood, halloing unnecessarily as the whole family: Joan; her husband, Will; Gilbert; Richard and guests turned with applause.

  The rich smell of brawn roasting and bread baking, of mince pie and fruit pie and plum porridge, was almost as sustaining as food itself. There would be no cold pottage in the Shakespeare house tonight.

  In the hall, where the hearth roared in readiness for their burden, some of the guests were playing at snapdragon, picking raisins from a bowl of flaming brandy. Will saw one man dressed in almost Puritan severity quench scorched fingers in his mouth.

  Will dropped the traces and kicked snow from his boots against the threshold before stepping over onto rushes scattering the blue limestone floor. He and Edmund dragged the log in with Hamnet’s interference. Then Will left it to his brother’s labor, turning away from the precipitous stair on the left and into the hall, with its walls hung in holly and painted cloth. He could hear Hamnet and Edmund untying the Yule log, and he realized suddenly that they’d forgotten the ivy or bay and then his father’s arms were around him, John Shakespeare stumping forward on a bentwood cane and wrapping his oldest son in palsied arms, leaning as much as embracing, clinging to his boy gone to London and mouthing words about Will come home, in velvet and silk taffeta like a fine gentleman. His father’s words were slurred, one running into the other, and Will knew from the stern, proud look on his mother Mary’s face that he was not to remark on it. The cousins close and distant huddled in a room hot with their bodies and the leaping flames of the hearth, among them men and women Will had never seen.

  “Bring it in, bring it in,” John Shakespeare said. “The feast is upon us.”

  Mary waited for her husband to step back before she came forward and looked up at Will. Her eyes were blue: she had the aristocratic cheekbones and the high brow she’d willed to all her children, the living and the dead. Will saw her noticing the snow and the earth staining his cloak and the knees of his breeches, but she met his eyes and held out a tankard of mulled cider, and only smiled. “Welcome home, Will.”

  “Mother,” he said, and took the wine, searching the crowd for Annie and Susanna.

  “Judith would be with the younger children. God bless you.” Her kiss was roses and homecoming, and he let it drive the memory of balance lost and a lurch into a snowdrift away.

  “How is Father?” An undertone, mumbled around his cider.

  “Not much worse,” she said, and shrugged. “And you?”

  “My plays have been performed before the Queen,” he answered, as he had imagined himself answering, and accepted her gasp and smile and delighted outcry as his due.

  Annie found him before he finished the cider, and drew him through a low timbered archway into the crowded hall by a warm arm around his waist.

  “The brawn is almost ready,” she said.

  He breathed deep: cloves and crackling and the rich aroma of roasting pork.

  “Annie,” he said. “Something happened today.”

  “Not to Hamnet?” She crouched by the fire in the big bricked hearth, tucking her skirts in close as she ladled dripping over the roast. She wore neither bumroll nor farthingale, but a broad country skirt under her apron, and Will bit his tongue at the way those skirts draped between her haunches.

  Three children, and still I fell,” he said. “I think.”

  “Fell?” She set the battered copper ladle aside and stood, turned, frowning. She took his wrists and drew his hands forward, glowering down at them: broad knuckles, long fingers, the last digit of the middle finger on the right one calloused on the inner edge and warped sideways from the pressure of the quill. The right one trembled.

  “Oh, Will.”

  “Years yet,” he said. “I swear I’ll come home to you.”

  “Broken and old so I can nurse thee through thy dotage? What good will you be to me then?” Her voice low, the bitterness hidden under the commonplace tone of wife to husband. “Pray it pass.”

  “Hamnet by, Annie, hush you.”

  “There’s a priest here tonight,” she said suddenly, interrupting. “For Christ’s birth. After the neighbors leave, there will be a midnight Mass.”

  A priest. She meant a Catholic priest. A Catholic Mass. A hanging affair. Will swallowed dryness. “Annie, you must not tell me such things.”

  “Will You were raised to it.”

  He knew. He met her pale eyes and shook his head, tasting salt and sour like a reminder.

  “Anne. Wife. I’m a Queen’s Man now. Do you know what that is?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He drew a stool out from the table and sat, gesturing her to the bench.

  “Hast ever seen a Tyburn hanging, Annie?” She blanched.

  “No. Not seen, perhaps. But heard.”

  “It is as well.” If I have my will, he thought, you never shall see one. Especially mine.“

  “I’ll take Judith and Hamnet home after supper,�
�� he said. “You and Susanna may stay.” She did not argue.

  Act II, scene ix

  Fourscore is but a girl’s age, love is sweet:

  My’veins are withered, and my sinews dry,

  Why do I think of love now I should die?

  CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, Dido, Queen of Carthage

  In the ten days or fortnight it took for Kit to sort out the social order of the low tables, he learned many things that had escaped his notice when he sat by Murchaud’s side. The talk was freer, although his Kit’s presence was greeted with sidelong glances at first. But when Murchaud left court, and Morgan was not seen, and Kit traded his green and violet and silver for the black velvet he truthfully preferred, the conversation flowed more free. Especially as he was seen in the company of the Mebd’s Bard and her Puck, or sitting alone.

  He couldn’t bear the silence of his rooms, and spent long hours walking in the beech wood or along the strand, practicing music poorly with Cairbre or reading in the library. Kit had Latin, Greek, fair French, and slight German, yet he found them inadequate to the books and scrolls and stories there.