Текст книги "Hell and Earth"

It is too Late: the life of all his blood

Is touch’d corruptibly; and his pure brain,

Which some suppose the soul’s frail dwelling‑house,

Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,

Foretell the ending of mortality.

–William Shakespeare, King John,Act V scene vii

London had never seemed so gray and chill, but Will was warm enough in the corner by the fire, at the Mermaid Tavern. He leaned back against a timber, a cup of warm wine in his hands, and sighed. A man taken by the Faeries can never truly be content again.And then he remembered Kit’s voice. You must not say such things

Nay, nor even think them, Christofer? I hope you’ve found us that Bible, my friend.

The wine was sweet with sugar and cinnamon, concealing the pungency of Morgan’s herbs. Will sipped a little, and held it in his mouth for the strength and the sting before allowing it to trickle down his throat. He stretched his feet toward the fire, dreaming, and almost spilled the steaming wine across his stockings when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.

It was the playmaker Ben Jonson, his ugly countenance writhing into a grin. “An old man sleeping by the fire,” Ben said. He was gaining weight, and no longer resembled an over‑tall hat‑tree with a coat slung around it.

“A young cur snapping at his heels, ” Will answered irritably. He sat up and set his wine on the table, beside an untouched portion of beef‑and‑turnip pie.

Ben shrugged shamelessly and pulled the bench opposite out. “You’ve not been in London of late – ”

“Home with Annie,” Will said. It wasn’t at all a lie; he had been to Stratford. And before that, months in Faerie with Kit Marlowe, who had dwelled there since his murder. There he had met the Queen of Faerie, and another Queen, the redoubtable Morgan le Fey. Will cleared his throat, and continued. “But back now. Richard said he’d meet me. How went the construction of the new Theatre?”

“Dick’s calling it the Globe,” Ben said. He raised his chin inquiringly, searching for a servant. “‘Tis up. Have you seen the landlord, gentle Will? I’m famished–”

Will craned his neck but couldn’t spot the Mermaid’s landlord, who was also named Will. They heaped thick on the ground, Wills, as leaves on the streambank in autumn. “Here” –he pushed his pie to Ben – “I’ve no appetite tonight.”

“Pining for your lovely wife already? Will, you don’t eat enough to sustain a lady’s brachet.” But Ben took the food up and chewed it with relish; he was renowned a trencherman. “I hear you’ve a new comedy – ”

“You hear many things for a Saturday morning in January. Aye, ‘tis true. Not much like thine Every Man,though.” Will’s hands grew cold, and he retrieved his cup for the warmth of it. The worn blue door swung open, and a cluster of five or six hurried through it, unwinding their cloaks and mufflers just inside and shaking off the snow. “There’s the famous Richard Burbage now, with all his admirers.” Will waved to his friends, half rising from his bench. Morgan’s herbs made a world of difference; better than any cure the doctor Simon Forman could offer. “And there’s the landlord gone to take his wrap. Richard’s arrived in the world, Ben–what? Why’rt regarding me so?”

“Richard’s not the only one arrived,” Ben said. “And resting on his laurels, mayhap.”

Will deflected both flattery and chiding with his left hand. “Not after me to write a humors comedy again?”

“They fill seats – ”

“Aye,” Will said as if that ended it. “And so do I. Look, there’s Mary Poley. Can that great blond lout beside her be Robin?”

Ben turned to look over his shoulder. “In the apprentice blues? Aye, ‘tis. He’s the image of his bastard of a father, more’s the pity.”

Aye, he is.The lad–Will’s dead son Hamnet’s age, near enough, and Will pushed that thought firmly away–was growing from round‑faced boyishness into Poley’s sharp chin, his high forehead, and straight yellow hair that showed no signs of fading to honey‑brown with maturity. And should I tell Kit thus‑and‑such?

Mary’s eyes met his over Robin’s shoulder, and she smiled and tugged Burbage toward the corner.

– no.

Ben had turned on the bench and watched as Mary, Burbage, Robin, the poet George Chapman, the landlord, and the golden‑haired cavalier Robert Catesby made their way into the corner already occupied by Ben and Will. “Master Jonson,” Will the landlord said. “Ale, perhaps? Something else to eat?”

“Ale” – Ben coughed pastry crumbs and wiped his lips with the back of a hamlike hand – “would go nicely. Good morrow, Mistress Poley, Master Robin. George, Dick, Robert.”

“Good morrow,” Burbage said as the landlord departed, and slid onto the bench beside Will, who gestured Mary and Robin to sit as well.

“Good morrow, all.”

Robin Poley blushed his shy smile, too proud to step behind his mother the way he might have, a few years earlier. He bit his lip and rubbed calloused, burn‑marked hands on the wax‑stained blue broadcloth of his apprentice’s gown. “Master Shakespeare. Master Jonson.”

His voice cracked halfway through each name, and Will laughed. “Sit, lad. Master Catesby, I have news of your family from Stratford – ”

Robert Catesby, encumbered by his rapier, did not sit, but leaned against the wall on the far side of the fire. It popped and flared, spreading warmth, and he peeled off his meltwater‑jeweled gloves and tucked them into his belt. “You were home for Christmas, Master Shakespeare? Did you celebrate with my cousins, then?”

Will met the handsome man’s eyes, understanding the question. The Catesbys, like the Ardens and the Hathaways and the Shakespeares themselves, were among the Stratford families who clung to the old religion, and Robert Catesby was asking – obliquely–if his family had been to an outlawed Catholic Mass.

“All the families gathered,” Will said. “I understand your cousin Richard is betrothed.”

“Excellent news – ” Catesby grinned, showing good teeth, and Will looked down. “And all your family well?”

“My parents are growing old,” Will said. It galled him to admit it, and he hid the emotion behind a sip of wine. Time, lay thy whip down– “But my brothers and Joan are well, and mine own girls. My youngest brother Edmund is here in London, playing for Henslowe, poor fool – George, you look uneasy, sir.

Chapman shrugged, taking a steaming cup from the tray of the landlord’s daughter‑in‑law as she fulfilled their orders. “Speaking of Edmunds. Hast seen Edmund Spenser recently, Will?”

“I’ve been in Stratford,” Will answered, reaching out to tousle Robin’s hair. “And I barely know Spenser. He moves more in thy circles, George.” With his eyes, Will directed the question to Ben. Ben shrugged and pushed the ruins of the beef pie away, taking his ale from the young woman’s hands.

Nay, not in a week or more …” Jonson shrugged. “He’s not the common tavern sort. No matter how stirring the company.”

“Methinks I’ll pay his house a visit when my wine is done,” Chapman said.

“He may be with his patron, the Earl of Essex. Perhaps a letter?” Burbage leaned forward and pinched his nose between his fingers to stifle a sneeze. “Although they say Essex is back in Gloriana’s good graces, and Spenser never left them. They could easily be with the after‑Christmas progress.”

Burbage’s eyes were level on Will’s, and there was a warning there. Burbage, like Will, was a Oueen’s Man–an intelligencer in service of Elizabeth. And more: both of them were members of the Prometheus Club, using story and sorcery to sustain England against her many enemies. And the Prometheus Club was divided. Essex was not their ally, and Elizabeth had never hesitated to play one faction against another if she thought it would lend strength to her own position.

Will had, as he had said, been away. If Essex–with hisPromethean links–was in the Oueen’s graces, did that mean the Lord Chamberlain’s men were out of them? Or was there equilibrium again?

Will raised his eyebrows in silent question, but Richard had no chance to suggest an answer in such a crowd.

“Nay,” Catesby said. “I’m well known to the Earl, and came from his household but yestermorn. Spenser is not among Essex’s servants at this time.”

Mary patted Burbage on the back. “He might be ill,” she said slowly. “It took my brother Tom so quickly, I had not time even to visit before he died.”

Her quiet statement left the table silent. Tom Watson, the poet –and a Promethean as well–had died of plague with a young wife and a baby left behind. Plague was one of the weapons that Will’s faction spurned.

Essex’s group was not so fastidious.

Will glanced up at Chapman, who pursed his lips. “We’ll go when we finish our wine,” Chapman said. Ben nodded and inverted his tankard over his mouth. Will gulped what he could of his own wine through a narrowed throat, casting the herb‑tainted dregs among the rushes with a would‑be casual gesture and upending the cup on the table to drain the last droplets, lest he poison some unsuspecting friend on the wolfsbane Morgan had prescribed for his ague.

“I’m ready,” Will said as Ben stood. “Keep the bench warm for me, Robin.” He stepped over the boy with a smile.

Mary half stood, her hands wrapped white around the base of her cup. Catesby and Richard too would have quit their places, but Ben shook his head. “You’re cold: stay and get warm. Will and I will walk out – ”

“And George will walk out with you, ” Chapman said, raising his hand to summon the landlord from his place near the taps.

Despite snow, the streets bustled; after the idleness and revelry of the Twelve Days of Christmas, London had business. Will, halt with his illness, minced carefully on the icy stones, Chapman holding his elbow. “How much farther, Ben?”

Ahead, Ben checked his sweeping stride to allow Will and Chapman to catch him. He turned back over his shoulder. “Just down the street–”

Edmund Spenser’s lodgings in King’s Street were on the ground level, a narrow door opening on a narrower alley, leaning buildings close enough that Ben’s shoulders brushed one wall and then the other, by turns. Only a thin curtain of snow fell here, for the roofs all but kissed overhead.

The big man drew up by that doorway, waiting for Will and Chapman to come up behind him before he raised his fist to knock. His breath streamed out in the shadows under the storm clouds, reminding Will uncomfortably of other things. Will looked at the black outline of his boots against the sugared cobblestones.

Ben’s fist made a flat, hollow sound like a hammer. Will held his breath: no answer. Something about the door and the dark light in the narrow alley and the chillbreathing through the planks and the old, white‑washed stucco of the wall made it harder to release that breath again.

“He’s not here,” Chapman said, twisting his cloak between his hands.

Ben grunted, raised that maul of a fist, and hammered on the door again. I hope his glover charges him extra for the cheveril.

“Edmund! Spenser!Open the door.” Nothing. He rattled it on its hinges. Latched. “Shall I fetch his landlord, then?”

Will edged into the narrow crack between Ben and the house; he peeled off his glove, put his hand out, and laid the palm against the wood. That dank chill that was more than the January and the falling snow swept through his veins and gnawed at his heart, like a ferret through a rabbithole. Will gasped and cradled the hand to his chest, tugging it under his cloak to dispel the frost. He stepped away, leaned against the far wall of the alley. Not far enough.

“Ben,” he said, rubbing cold fingers to warm them enough so they’d uncurl and he could wedge them back inside his glove. “Break the door down.”

Ben hesitated only a moment, and glanced only at Will: never at Chapman. Will looked down at his hand and finished settling his glove.

“The door.”

“On your head be it, ” Ben said. He swept off his cap, handed it to Will, and hurled himself at the warped pine panels.

They never stood a chance. Will thought the door would burst its latch; instead, the panels splintered before Ben’s hunched shoulder with a sound like split firewood. The big man went through, kept his balance, and staggered three steps further, one hand on the broken wood to keep the door from bouncing closed. He covered his mouth with his free hand, doubling as if kicked in the bollocks. Will stepped forward after Ben as the cold within the room flowed forth. It clung to Will like icy water, saturating his body and dragging him down.

The cold.

And the smell.

Ben, to his credit, held his ground–gagging, but unflinching. Will paused with his hand on the splintered door frame, wishing blindly for a moment that Kit were there –for his witchlight, for his blade, for his witty rejoinders–and then kicked himself into movement. ‘Tis better than Sir Francis Walsingham’s deathbed,he thought, and then wondered if that were only because the room was so very, very cold. Colder than the cold outdoors, but well appointed, with two chairs, a stool, and a bench beside a table near the shuttered window on the front wall, for whatever light might edge through the gap between houses.

Will’s fingers wrapped something in his pocket: a sharp iron thorn. A bootnail, the one that Kit had asked back of Will before his departure from Faerie. Which Kit had passed through flame and fed strange words to, and dropped a droplet of his own blood upon. A talisman from a lover to a loved, and black witchcraft, and the sort of thing that damned one to Hell. And Will, clutching it so tight his signet cut his flesh, would have spat in the face of the man who said so.

The floor creaked under his feet, creaked again as Chapman stepped over the threshold and hesitated, his blocky body damping what little light entered. “George, step in or step out,” Ben said. Chapman lurched left, leaning against the wall inside the door, a kerchief clapped over his mouth and nose.

Contagion,” Chapman said, voice shaking.  “You know what we’ll find.”

Despite Will’s earlier thought, he realized now that the smell was precisely the reek of Sir Francis’ sickroom. Will came within, noticing the door to a second room slightly ajar. What had killed Sir Francis– aye, and probably what carried off Lord Strange as well, and poor Tom Watson–was neither plague nor poison, but blackest sorcery. He knew because he felt its prickle on his neck, identical to the sensation of Kit waving his hand, bringing every candle in a room to light. Identical to the sensation he felt when an audience was rapt in his power–that prickle, of observance, as if something roused itself and watched. There were parchments on the table, beside a stub of candle. Will drew out flint and his dagger and kindled a light; the ashes in the grate had long gone cold. Ben lifted the pages toward the door. “The Faerie Queene,”he said. “Just one stanza. Over and over and over–

“When I awoke, and found her place devoid,

And naught but pressed grass, where she had lain,

I sorrowed all so much, as earst I joyed,

And washed all her place with watery eyed.

From that day forth I lov’d that face divine;

From that day forth I cast in careful mind,

To deck her out with labor, and long tyne,

And never vow to rest, till her I find

Nine months I seek in vain yet ni’ll that vow unbind. ”

Damme.Will understood almost without understanding, found himself chanting lines of poetry, anything that came to mind. A history play, Richard II,and Ben gave him an odd look and then nodded, understood, picked it up, murmuring lines of his own – clever epigraphs and riddles, damn his eyes, but Will was in no position to complain. “Poetry, George,” Will said, between verses. It was the only magic he had, and the only protection he had any hope for.

“What?”

“Poetry. Anything. Recite it – ”

George blinked like a frog, but obeyed –

“And t’was the Earl of Oxford: and being offer’d

At that time, by Duke Cassimere, the view

Of hid right royal Army then infield;

Refus’d it, and no foot wad moved, to stir

Out of hut own free fore‑determin’d course;

I wondering at it, asked for it his reason,

It being an offer do much for his honor. ”

Infelicitous,Will thought, but held his peace to murmur his own talismanic words.

I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire:

These high wild hills and rough uneven ways

Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome,

And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,

Making the hard way sweet and delectable. ”

Will’s voice and Chapman’s combined with Ben’s–

“At court I met it, in clothes brave enough,

To be a courtier; and looks grave enough,

To deem a statesman: as I near it came,

It made me a great face; I asked the name.

A Lord, it cried, buried in flesh, and blood,

And such from whom let no man hope least good,

For I will do none; and as little ill,

For I will dare none: Good Lord, walk dead still. ”

– a strange and uneven sort of round between the three of them, but Will felt the pressure ease reluctantly. Raising his voice, he lifted the candle and steeled himself to pull the handle of the half‑open interior door.

He thought himself prepared for what might confront him, he who had been to Hell and back again, who had stood watch over a wife’s near demise in childbed and the second death of Sir Francis Walsingham. He was prepared for the peeling cold, like a wind off the ice‑clotted moor, and he was prepared for the horrific stench.

He wasn’t prepared for the huddled shape under the blankets, Spenser’s form curled thin and frail into an agonized ball. Chapman stayed in the front room. The creak of Ben’s footsteps stopped at the bedroom door.

Will raised the candle and went forward, just in case, but Spenser’s open eyes and the hard‑frozen outline of his form – I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire–told him already what he would feel when he laid his left hand over Spenser’s right: cold stiff flesh like claws of ice, and the candle showed him Spenser’s pale eye rimed with frost and sunken like a day‑old herring’s.

“Contagion,” Ben said softly.

Will shuddered and crossed himself before he quite knew what his hand was about. Something cracked and yellow lay frozen at the corners of Spenser’s mouth; Will remembered Sir Francis and did not think the stuff was mustard. He stepped back, scrubbing his glove on his breeches, tilting the candle aside. “I am a stranger here in– God in Heaven, Ben. Let us quit this place and summon a constable of the watch.”

“Aye,” Ben said, and he and Will trotted from the rancid little room.

They leaned against the wall outside, breathing the cold, sweet air like runners, having dragged the rabbit‑frozen Chapman between them. Ben caught Will’s eye over Chapman’s head, and coughed into his palm. “Edmund Spenser, starved to death for lack of bread.”

“Essex would never–” Chapman began, and Will knew from Ben’s level, warning regard that the big man’s mind was already churning through some subterfuge.

“Go look at the body yourself,” Ben said, lowering his hand again. “Essex obviously hasn’t been keeping him very well, if it has come to this.”

“I don’t understand,” Chapman said, so softly Will barely heard him over the whisper of snowflakes through the air, over the squeak of their compression underfoot.

Will lagged back as Ben paused under the swinging sign for a cobbler, snow thick on his uncovered hair, and turned to look Chapman in the eye. “Twas no plague carried Spenser off,” he said. “But mere starvation. And I mean to see the whole world knows it.”

Will bit his lip in the long silence that followed. It wasn’t starvation either, but sorcery–but Will thought he understood the broad rationale of Ben’s untruth, and was content to let the younger man’s plot play itself out. They turned down the alleyway near the Mermaid before Chapman gathered his thoughts enough to speak again.

“You’re not doing yourself any favors provoking Essex.” Chapman pressed the worn door open on its hinges. The Mermaid had filled in their absence, and a commotion of warmth and noise and smells tumbled past Will as they entered. “If that’s what you mean to do with this accusation that he cares for his servants inadequately.”

“I care not for Essex,” Ben answered, making sure the door shut tight against the snow. “Especially when England’s greatest poet starves to death under his care.”