Текст книги "Hell and Earth"
Автор книги: Elizabeth Bear
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
One thought, one grace, one wonder at the least,
Which into words no virtue can digest…
–Christopher Marlowe,
Tamburlaine the Great,Part I, Act V, scene i
The troll’s company kept him sane, and the earring–Will’s earring, Kit got the troll to admit in its usual circuitous manner–kept the agony at bay. The news of Will’s escape was enough to grant Kit new strength of intent. He’ll come for me. He won’t leave me here.He knew it, with the same calm certainty with which he’d known that he could not leave Will to take his own place in Hell.
Somehow, whenever they heard the sounds of the bolts being shot above, the troll always managed to squeeze its enormous bulk into the handspan‑wide clay drain before Baines could lift the lid and see it. Kit wondered, and chalked it up to magic, and didn’t try to touch the troll after the time his iron bonds raised blisters on its slick, shiny hide.
On All Saints’ Day–the troll said–Baines came back with more food and water. “Only a few more days until we’re needed.”
“Fifteen Sagittarius,” Kit murmured, taking no comfort in having been right. He gritted his teeth, knowing that he had to get out of the Pit if Will was to have a chance of finding him. “I’m ready to bargain, Baines.”
A chuckle. “Not faking your death of chills and ague any more, I see. What do you have to bargain with, then, Kitten?”
Edward de Vere’s old nickname for him. Kit clenched his aching hands against his thighs. “Myself,” he said. “You said you wouldn’t kill me. After.”
No, Baines answered, leaning down with his hands on his knees, like a man bending to converse with a very small boy. “In truth, puss, I’d hurt you as little as I know how. I’m not without pity or heart.”
Does it mean the irons again?” Strange, how he could think of that so calmly, when his mind skittered away from the rest.
Not as bad–Kit, give me thy parole that thou wilt not fight nor try to flee, and I’ll bring thee up so we can discuss this like civilized men.”
«Kit, what art thou about?»
He tasted the angel’s fear. Stalling.“Come and get me.”
Baines let a long ladder of rope and dowels unwind down the side of the oubliette and stood back from the edge. He must have had it ready there by the rim, just in case Kit broke. It galled Kit to know how predictable he had been. “I can’t climb with these hands, Dick.” They were better than they had been, but still swollen and infected around the bands.
“Thou’rt scared of a little pain, puss?” A pause. “Aye, and tie the bridle to the bottom of the ladder before thou dost ascend. I should not like to have to climb down after it.”
Wishing the troll still stood beside him, Kit did as he was bid, and then made his laborious way up the height of the ladder, his fingers leaving streaks of bloody lymph on the rungs while he prayed thanks to the troll for its company, and to Mehiel for his strength.
“See?” Baines grasped Kit’s wrist in a hand like a manacle and almost lifted him over the edge of the pit. He tugged the ladder up behind, and tipped the lid shut with a booted toe. Kit stood, examining his hands in the light, and did not realize that he might perhaps have tackled Baines and plowed him into the oubliette until Baines turned back to him. “Let me have a look at those hands, puss.”
Mutely, Kit held them out. Baines clucked. “They need cleaning, aye. But I think thou wilt not die of poisoned blood, for all it hurts thee. Still, thou art brave, puss. Art not?”
Despair crushed the breath out of Kit. «This is what moves mortals to suicide, Kit. Is it not?»
Kit nodded mutely, an answer to Mehiel more than it was to Baines. “What will you have of us?” And then realized too late what he’d said, when Baines quirked a little smile and examined him from filthy toes to matted hair.
“Nothing until you’re bathed,” he said. “Then you may rest until Tuesday.”
“And what happens on Tuesday? ” 15 Sagittarius.
“Parliament meets,” Baines answers. “The old King dies, and his sons and his peerage with him, and we take Princess Elizabeth and make her Queen.”
“Elizabeth’s a girl in short skirts.”
“The better to raise her as she should be raised, ” Baines answered. “Mr. Secretary–the Earl of Salisbury–will be Lord Protector. And I can control Salisbury.”
And I’m sure Salisbury thinks he can control Baines.“Salisbury knows of this? You would murder a Kingand shed that sacred blood on England’s stones?”
“As Edward the Second was murdered?” Baines smiled. “Sacrifice, puss. A murder serves no purpose. The sacrifice of the head of God’s Church in England, along with his Archbishop, timed to coincide with the subjugation of an angel–”
«Kit!»
Not now, Mehiel.
“I see,” Kit said. “How can you be so sure of Mehiel’s subjugation, Dick?” His arms itched, but he would not scratch the filth on his skin before Baines.
Baines smiled. “Walk with me. I think I know just the room to keep thee in. It will be barred, I fear.”
“It would not be like you to be negligent with trust.”
“No. ‘Twould not. This is where the choices enter into it. Thy choices as well, puss. Oh”–interrupting himself–“I’ll have someone fetch thee a salve for those hands. Poor puss. As I was saying–as Mehiel does, so must do God. Especially once we have weakened the influence of the Church of England so, and here on British soil, where the Catholic dogma has already been broken.”
“I know,” Kit answered. He let Baines open the thick ironbound door and hold it for him. Together they paced the corridors, Kit so weak with exhaustion that it was all he could do not to stagger. He knew better than to humiliate himself by trying to escape.
“The angel can be influenced by thee. By what thou dost. Willing or unwilling.”
“Willing is better.”
“Of course.”
“And that’s all you want of us? And then we’re free?”
“Us, is it now?” Baines sounded pleased, and Kit shuddered.
“As you wish,” he answered, biting his tongue on everything sharp he wanted to say. Stay alive,he reminded himself. Justice later.He studied his feet, the skin red and irritated under a layer of dirt.
“Not free, perhaps. Not at first. But eventually, it could be aspired to. Thy very existence, Kit, and that angel in thy bosom, binds God to earthly will as he has not been bound since the Archangel impregnated Mary. We’ve counterfeited a prophet.”
Lucifer,Kit thought, in pain. Oh, Morningstar. Thou art as clever as thou art beautiful my love.He swallowed. “The Christ preached tolerance.”
“Aye, and the God we’d give the world is much the same. A God for the common man, rather than a God for Popes and Kings. Is that so wrong?” Baines’ voice almost took on a pleading note. “It’s peace we offer the world: an end to the black sorceries that foul men’s minds, an end to the power of Faeries who steal babes from cradles and poets from graves. A Senate like Rome, perhaps, or a democracy like Athens. Peace. An end to tyranny.”
A Senate whose power is founded in blood.Kit closed his eyes. As the power of the Tudors and Stewarts is not?Baines fell silent, and they walked together–slowly, in deference to Kit’s weakened state–until they came to a barred oaken door. Can there be an end to Kings?
“Your quarters, ” Baines said, lifting the bar.
Kit paused in the opening. Morgan wants peace. The Mebd wants peace. Baines wants–ha!– peace. The King’s peace? Or the peace of Rome?
Who would have thought three separate peaces so irreconcilable?“I’ve thought on what you said.”
“Aye?”
He nodded. The words that he forced out were the most difficult he’d ever spoken.
“I’ll cooperate.
It was almost worth it, he thought later, to be clean and cleanly dressed, and to lay himself down in a bed furnished in white sheets and woolen blankets, while a cold November rain pearled on the glass. A crooked‑winged raven huddled in the embrasure beyond, and Kit remembered the story he’d spoken of with Murchaud, by the bier of Arthur, King of the Britons. I wonder if the legend that Britain will fall if the ravens ever abandon the Tower of London is linked to the story that Arthur’s soul became a raven when he died?
But the story’s not true. I know where Arthur lies.
«All stories are true.» something whispered against his ear. He meant to answer the angel, too, but the last thought he managed before warm old sleep claimed him was that his pillow smelled strangely of Will Shakespeare’s hair pomade.
Despite everything, it helped him sleep.
Act V, scene xvi
Knock, knock; never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil‑porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.
–William Shakespeare, Macbeth,Act II, scene iii
“There,” Murchaud said, tapping the cool surface of the Darkling Glass. “There is your cellar, Master Poet, and there is your oubliette.”
“Not mine, surely.” But Will stepped closer, leaning forward over Murchaud’s shoulder. “Can we see inside?”
“‘Tis dark,” Murchaud answered. “But fetch a lantern and I’ll send you through to have a look.”
“Fair enough,” Will answered, and went to find a page. He returned with the requested lantern, as well as a pry bar and a rope. “How do I get him back?” If I can get him out at all.
“I’ll come with you,” Murchaud said gently.
Will swallowed, his pulse dizzying. “Just as well,” he said, hefting the silver crowbar in his hand. “There’s no guarantee I can lift that lid alone.” He hesitated, and looked up at Murchaud as Murchaud took his hand to lead him through the mirror. “Does a Prince of Faerie love a mortal man?”
“It’s not encouraged.” The Elf‑knight stepped forward, and Will went with him.
Faint light filtered into the rough, cold chamber. Will’s breath smoked in raw air; he was surprised to notice that Murchaud’s did not.
The Elf‑knight stayed close to the unfinished stone wall, as far from the massive iron cover of the oubliette as practical. He was dry‑washing his hands as if they ached, until he noticed Will looking. Then he folded his arms one over the other and waited in a stance as falsely relaxed as parade rest.
Will leaned on the pry bar and bent over the oubliette, worry pressing like a thumb into the hollow of his throat. The chisel tip of the bar left a paler gouge in the floor when he lifted it again. “It’s unlocked,” Will said. “That likes me not.”
“Can you lift it?”
“No.”
The Elf‑knight came forward, tugging black hide gloves over each long finger.
“Take the far end, ” Will offered. Murchaud bent down beside him and grasped the butt of the bar once Will had seated it under the lip. With a well‑oiled creak, the cover lifted a few dark inches. Will gagged at the reek that filtered out. He and Murchaud shared a grim look, and Will said, “‘Tis recently occupied.”
“We must look,” Murchaud answered. “Hold the bar.” He took his hands away slowly enough that Will, sweating, could take the strain. Will’s forearms trembled with effort, but for once his hands weren’t shaking–with palsy or with fear.
“Your Highness,” Will said. “‘Tis steel – ”
Murchaud ignored him, squatting with easy strength and slipping his gloved hands into the crack. He grunted – once– his only outward sign of pain. And stood and raised the lid as if it weighed nothing, laying it open so gently as to make no sound. He leaned it back against the hinges and pressed his hands together, palm to palm, and then he turned away. “Lower the lantern, Master Shakespeare.”
Will sighed, tied the rope to its handle, and slowly let it drop into the pit, terrified of what he might find. He struggled to let the rope out smoothly so that the candle wouldn’t flicker. “Leaving me to face this alone?” he asked Murchaud when the lantern was two‑thirds of the way down.
“Nay,” the Elf‑knight replied, returning. He’d stripped the gloves off, and Will could see the blistered and peeling flesh on his hands. “Perhaps,” he said, in a tone that made Will pause and look up.
“There are reasons it’s not encouraged,” Will said, understanding.
“What is not encouraged?” Murchaud was looking down now, leaning ever so slightly forward into the pit and watching the light flicker on its damp mortared walls.
“For elf‑Princes to love mortal men.” The lantern swung lower, revealing a blessedly empty pit. Will breathed a shuddering sigh and let the rope go slack, his hands falling to rest at his waist.
A faint smile softened the elf‑Prince’s face, half concealed by his fine black beard. “So our Kit is learning,” Murchaud said, turning to look at Will. “You are breaking his heart, Master Shakespeare.”
Will began pulling the lantern up. “And I should leave such tasks to you, Your Highness?”
“It’s a heart, I think, has been broken enough.”
“Ah.” The lantern retrieved, Will turned away. “Shall we search the cellars for him?”
‘He washere. But he is long gone.”
“How do you know?”
“The troll told you. And besides” – a delicate wrinkling of that aristocratic nose –“I can smell him.”
“Can you smell where they tookhim?”
“Alas.” Murchaud stepped back. “The trail is cold.”
“I’m a fool,” Will said suddenly, dropping his left hand from his earlobe. He looked up at Tom, who leaned in silent contemplation against the casement, frosting cool glass with his breath. “A fool and twice a fool.”
Ben closed Kit’s Greek Bible carefully over the ribbon and set it aside. “How a fool, Will?”
“Because here we sit, wracking our brains on how to save Kit and thwart Salisbury, the Catholics, andthe Prometheans, and the answer is in our very hands.” He reached for his cane and struggled up before Tom could help him. “My cousin William Parker. Baron Monteagle. Who owes me his life, I might add, and is close with Catesby and his lot.”
Tom blinked. “How does that assist us, Will? Perhaps if we could sort one plot from another we would stand half a chance of averting them, but they’re intertwined as nettles, my friend.”
“Look at what we know.” Will raised his left hand and ticked off points. “Kit saw signs in the heavens that the fifth of November was the day on which the Prometheans would arrange their sacrifice. He saw the downfall of old ways, the death of Kings.”
“The King has been useful to Salisbury,” Ben said. “I do not think Robert Cecil stands to overturn the monarchy.”
“No,” Tom answered. “But the Catholics do.”
“And the Prometheans,” Will answered. “And knowing how they operate, we must assume that Baines and Poley and their lot are using my Catholic cousins as some sort of a stalking‑horse or distraction – ”
“Fawkes and Catesby have been fussing about Westminster a great deal lately,” Ben said, leaning back in his chair. He lifted his enormous hobnailed boot and propped it on the low bench before the fire. “And they’ve been less than forthcoming of late. Parliament meets in four days. I imagine what happens will happen then.”
“What if they assassinate the King?”
“Hell,” Ben answered. “The King, the Queen, and both their sons will receive the House of Lords that day. If anything happened, it would be all England’s peerage and the royal family down to Princess Elizabeth – ”
“Who is all of nine years old.” Tom laced his fingers together as if he really wished to strangle something.
“Aye,” Ben answered. “Well, there’s your Catholic plot. What do the Prometheans want?”
“The Prometheans have Kit,” Will said, “and the Fae have been intending something for a long while now, and biding their time. Both sides treat Kit as if he’s some sort of accounting piece. And I swear he knows why, although he will not tell me.”
“What about thy Prince? Or the Fae Queen who came to nurse thee in thine illness?”
“MyPrince?” Will smiled at Tom. “Kit’s Prince, you mean. You know, I rather suspect he’s watching us now: I would be, were I in his place.” Will glanced up and around, and calmly addressed the air above his head. “Prince Murchaud? Are you listening, Your Highness?”
A shimmer hung on the air, and Murchaud stepped through it. “You know me too well, Master Poet. And Kit is not a counting piece to me.” The Prince nodded to Ben and Tom once each. Ben swung his boots down to the floor.
No. But he is important to your plans. And those of your wife.” Will lifted his chin to catch Murchaud’s gaze, thinking when did I grow so comfortable challenging Princes?
“Valuable,” Murchaud answered. “I can tell you what it is my wife seeks: sovereignty for Faerie, and freedom from old bargains.”
Lucifer,” Will said. “Everyone wants to remake the world.”
“Indeed. And the Prometheans’ ritual will give them the power to do it. Or us, if we manage to take that power from them. Since you discovered where they are holding Sir Kit, and we failed to retrieve him, the Mebd has decided that the Faerie Court will ride to the Tower of London on the fifth of November, shortly before dawn.” Murchaud folded his arms, the green silk of his sleeves draping heavily. His brow creased; Will thought the expression was disapproval. “Once the Promethean ritual begins at which Kit’s presence is so necessary.”
Will glanced at Tom for advice. Tom merely inclined his head slightly. Continue.
“We wait until they begin? Is that not dangerous?”
“I do not know where Kit is,” Murchaud answered. “I can make a strongly educated supposition as to where the ritual will be held.”
Will sighed. “Kit. I’d not see him endure torture.”
“The Mebd is unimpressed by suffering. The Daoine Sidhe ride at dawn; I cannot stay them longer. There will be power raised that dawn, and all are loath to miss it. And–”
Will waited the Prince’s hesitation through. “Aye, your Highness?”
“–once the Prometheans’ power is raised, and linked to Kit, he becomes the keystone to their ritual. If the Queens come to his rescue then, once the power is in him–”
“You mean, once he’s raped and savaged.”
“Yes.” Silence, as Murchaud turned and met their eyes. “If my mother or my wife can command Kit, then, then they can command all of that strength, and claim a victory over the Prometheans. They hope.”
“And we leave Kit trapped a few more days, under who knows what sort of duress–”
“They must bring him from his cell to complete the ritual,” Murchaud said. And then he cleared his throat, after a long pause. “It will likely be in the Roman chapel that’s buried under the Tower precincts. Some of us… some of us might choose to arrive a few hours early.”
Will chewed his lip. “I shall be there. I’m sure Sir Walter would not begrudge a companion or two to keep him company in his captivity, and a late night of drinking and dicing is not unheard of among men who have no business in the morning, except with their prison walls.”
The Prince nodded to Will’s cane. “Thou’rt not going. Thou hast not the strength.”
“You could barely stand the iron realm long enough to see me freed. What if there’s bars? An iron gate? I’d hate to explain to your mother how I permitted you to burst into flames in a mortal prison.”
Ben snorted laughter, and a smile even lifted the corner of Murchaud’s mouth.
“Thou’lt walk back into a prison after we risked our lives to get thee out?” Tom asked mildly.
“There’s a difference between being kidnapped and held in secrecy, ” Will said, “and walking in the front gate in plain view of everyone. Salisbury wouldn’t dare hold me publicly, especially not were I in the company of Sir Thomas Walsingham and the esteemed playmaker, Ben Jonson, a favorite of Anne of Denmark’s. I’m a Groom of the Bedchamber, a King’s Man. And His Majesty is veryfond of my plays.”
“If His Majesty survives Tuesday night,” Ben said.
Will shrugged. “Two can play at Salisbury’s game. He as much as told me England needed a King who was willing to make decisions, or let them be made for him by competent advisors. I cannot guess what his disposition of events is likely to be, if the King does die at Westminster, or even if he intends the King to die or merely to shock him into action rather than this endless equivocation, at which he does not excel as Elizabeth did. But if several upright citizens can all attest that Salisbury knew treason was planned in advance–”
“Then he can hardly hope to benefit from it, if it is carried out successfully,” Ben finished in Will’s silence. “And so he must prevent it. Your logic’s sound, I wot.”
“I’ll attest it,” Tom said. “I’ve not much to risk. My star at court is less than bright these days, in any case–and I do not find James’ entourage as much to my liking as Elizabeth’s.”
Ben rose, slowly, and turned to Will. “With Chapman having been in Salisbury’s pay, it’s likely the Earl knows us well enough to anticipate every move we make, Will.”
Will shook his head. His bare left ear felt strange. “In any case, we can only do our best.”
“It will mean Catholic heads when the plot is discovered.” Ben sounded resigned rather than angry. He pressed the meaty, branded heel of his right hand to his eye socket.
“It may help a little,” Will answered, without real hope, “that the warning comes from a Catholic mouth.”
Will himself went to see Monteagle, wearing his scarlet livery, his thinning hair tied back with a ribbon to match. The Baron was at home, and Will was shown in at once and offered mulled wine and ale with spices, which he accepted gratefully. Then he stood beside the fire in the parlor, warming his chilled toes and fingers, and awaited his host’s convenience.
It was not long in coming.
“Cousin,” Monteagle said warmly. “Thou comest at an interesting hour.”
“So I’ve heard,” Will answered, making as much of a bow as he felt capable of just then. “What do you know about Robert Catesby and Westminster, Cousin?”
Monteagle blanched. “Are you here as a King’s Man?” he asked carefully. “Or on behalf of the Earl of Salisbury ?”
“I’m here as a loyal subject of the crown,” Will answered. “You do know something, then.”
“I’ve told Salisbury everything I know,” Monteagle answered. “I should not tell you this, Will, but I trust your motives–Francis Tresham is Salisbury’s man too. The King’s advisors are well aware of the plot. I take it they have not yet spoken to the King?”
“I do not know the answer to that for certain,” Will said, but he thought perhaps he did. “Will you do me a favor, Cousin?”
“Anything.” Monteagle’s voice was serious, his face calm. A steadier man, Will thought, than the foolish boy who had ridden with Essex only four and a half short years before.
“Let Salisbury know that if he does not approach the King by the end of the day–”
“Someone else will?” The Baron nodded. “Aye.” And sighed. “I like it not, Will. We’re hanging men we grew up beside. It does not seem–meet–to choose sides against them.”
Will shook his head. “It is neither meet nor fair,” he answered. “But it is politics. What’s the nature of the treason? Do you know?”
“Aye,” Monteagle answered. “There’s thirty‑six barrels of gunpowder concealed in the cellar under the House of Lords. Catesby and his friends planned to blow the whole damned Parliament to Glory.”
Act V, scene xvii
What, Mortimer, can ragged stony walls
Immure thy virtue that aspires to Heaven?
–Christopher Marlowe, Edward the Second,Act III, scene iv
On his second night in his room in the Salt Tower, Kit had tried to make his escape through the reflections in the narrow windows; he’d been unable to touch the power or the Darkling Glass at all, and he had wondered at how easily the iron rings on his fingers quelled all the strength he knew he had in him.
He had no clock. Nor was he vouchsafed candle or paper or anything to read. And so he paced, from the bedstead to the window and the window to the bed, pausing occasionally to pick a splinter of the rush matting from the tender sole of his foot or to trace the old markings scraped into the wall–a pierced hand, a pierced heart. Symbols of the passion of the Christ, etched there by Jesuit prisoners who had inhabited his cell before him. At least Kit was fed–what he could force himself to eat of it–and twice a day had a moment’s glimpse of another human face when Baines–or Poley, in his Yeoman’s livery–came to see him cared for.
Two nights later, Kit was simply bored,and sick unto madness with waiting.
“And yet like Faustus in his final hour I count the seconds,” he muttered. He leaned against the embrasure, supported on his forearms, and pressed his forehead against the glass. Baines would come for him before midnight, and then the ritual–he couldn’t bring himself to think of it in more concrete terms–would begin.
«And thou’rt willing to submit to this for a little less pain, a scrap more of dignity?»
When rape is inevitable–Kit answered, and told himself he didn’t remember the exact timbre of Baines’ voice, asking didst thou like it, puss?
I’m willing to submit if it means I’ll get a better chance at Baines,he answered. It’s not as if I could avoid–
«There’s always a way.»
And then Kit realized the angel was looking at the window.
“If we lived, we would be crippled.”
The angel bowed his head. «Kit, we would not live.»
And damn myself for a suicide? Or wouldst thou keep me from dying again, Mehiel? ‘Tis not so far to fall, methinks–«‘Tis some twenty‑five feet from thy window, onto cobblestones. It should suffice. Thou wouldst die with thy brands intact–»
Die, damned a suicide.
«Thou who so boldly defied Lucifer, and told him thou wouldst not repent thy sins, for they were sins of love?»
Kit paused. Slowly, he raised his hand and opened the window latch, then pushed the glass wide and laid his hand on the rough mortared stones of the wall. He leaned out into the icy night air. The windows were small, but a small man might slide through them. Far below he could see lights scattered around the Tower precincts like flower petals on the sheets on a marriage bed. “Die with my brands intact,” he “whispered, as a clock struck half eleven. “Then thou wouldst – ”
«It is suicide for me as well.» Mehiel said calmly. «I will cease to exist. And thou wilt be damned. But Lucifer and the Prometheans both will be thwarted.»
The cold wind tugged Kit’s hair, a sensation like the caress of Lucifer’s feathers. The crippled raven who always came to visit at suppertime landed on the window ledge, strangely awake in that midnight hour, and on an impulse Kit reached out tentatively and touched its black jet wing. He felt the slick surface of feathers, the deeper warmth of the flesh, and wondered if he’d been a fool to send Lucifer–and Lucifer’s promises of love–from him. The raven endured his caress, and Kit stifled an impulse to gather it up in his arms and cradle it close like one of his small sisters with a poppet.
“Mehiel,” he said, softly. “Art become so tainted by mortality, after twelve years my companion, that thou shouldst preach suicide?”
«An it save God, I am prepared to make the sacrifice.»
“Despair is a sin, angel,” Kit said, and closed the casement frame.
* * *
Baines came for them as the clock struck eleven.
Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:
‘Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to‑morrow
Thou must be made immortal.
–William Shakespeare, Measure for Measure,Act IV, scene ii
A heavy bell tolled midnight, and Will laid his cards faceup on Sir Walter’s ornately carved black wooden desk and raised his eyes.
It’s time,” Murchaud said from his place against the wall. Light‑colored stone with the look of hasty mortaring and great age caught the candlelight, outlining his dark‑clad frame.
Will nodded and stood, resting one hand on smooth waxed wood. “You know where the magic will be worked, Your Highness?”
“There’s a temple under the Tower,” Murchaud said, straightening away from the wall. Unlike Will, Ben, and Tom, he had arrived by unusual means, and still wore his rapier at his hip. “More a chapel, really. Twill be not a comfortable place for me, but I am content to suffer it.”
Sir Walter,” Tom said, rising and bowing. “I am afraid we must then bid you adieu–”
Go,” Raleigh said graciously, rose, and tapped on the door, summoning the guard to inform him that the guests “were ready to be excused and that he himself was ready to go up to bed with his wife, Elizabeth.
If those guests managed to vanish into the shadows between the Garden Tower and the gate, how was he ever to know?
Accurs’d be he that first invented war!
They knew not, ah, they knew not, simple men,
How those were hit by pelting canon‑shot
Stand staggering like a quivering aspen‑leaf
–Christopher Marlowe, Tamburlaine the Great,Part I, Act II scene iv
This isn’t so different from climbing down to Hell,Kit thought, balancing himself with a hand on one wall of the ragged stone stairwell. His shadow writhed before him, cast by the torches Baines, Poley, and the four others walking behind carried.
All in all, he would have preferred the demon with the glowing maw.
He was exquisitely careful how he placed his bare feet on the ragged stone, annoyed all over again that Baines hadn’t given him back his boots. He had to give the bastard credit: on a floor like this one, it was an effective means of keeping him from running.
At least his skin and hair and clothes were clean, and the puffy flesh around his rings was peeling with eczema now rather than infection. Which was an improvement of sorts, and so was the cloak warming his shoulders. Not his own fey cloak–this one was as white as the woolen doublet and breeches that would have made it all that much harder for him to run. If he had planned to. And where would I run?Or perhaps all that white served to mark him a virgin sacrifice, which was a thought worth a slightly hysterical giggle.
“How far down are we going, Richard?”
“All the way,” Baines answered.
The wall grew moist under Kit’s fingertips, wet, sandy earth gritting between his skin and the mortared stone. “It’s a wonder the river hasn’t washed these tunnels away,” he commented. “How old are they?”
“Since Arthur’s day.”
Which was a strange choice of words. Kit almost wished they’d bound his hands, but then he probably would have fallen down the stairs. Essex refused the blindfold,he thought. Can Marley do less?“These must be Roman ruins?”
“Puss, must you chatter so?”
Kit shivered at the fond correction. “I am understandably somewhat nervous, Dick.” The quaver in his voice was less showmanship than he would have wanted it to be.
