All Night Awake (82 page)

No one would kill Kit, and, this time, the betrayal he’d commit was the betrayal of the whole world.

For the world, Kit would be saved. At the price of the world, Kit would never die.

Tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow would creep in this petty pace from day to day until the last syllable of recorded time, and all his yesterdays had lighted fools the way to dusty death.

Scene Forty Two

Outside Mistress Bull’s, Will ties the reins of a tired-looking horse to a stone ring attached to the side of the house, beside the door. The smell of fish and rotting raises as if from the depths of the river where drowned mariners and dead warriors decompose.

W
ill should have bought a better horse. But his money ran to no more than a nag, a bag of bones, a creature of meager canter and tired steps.

Yet it had got him to Deptford. Saddle-sore, tired, wet through from the pouring rain, sweaty from the stifling heat, Will pounded on the door of Mistress Bull’s house.

He still did not know what he would do, but whatever it was, he must do it fast, for the sun was setting and soon the wolf would be stronger than anything Will might undertake.

What to undertake remained a round puzzle, a mystery he knew not how to solve.

Will feared Marlowe might have to be killed; Will very much wished that Marlowe could be saved.

At least... he thought of mad Marlowe, Marlowe attacking him in the dark of night in a Southwark alley. At least he would like to save the Marlowe who made the immortal poetry that lifted and lilted within Will’s own heart.

At least that. If only they could save the poet, and set aside whatever other darkness had come through and polluted this creature of the muses.

Let the wolf take the rest, let him have it and destroy it and die with it. But allow Marlowe’s yet-unwritten poetry to come to fruition, allow Marlowe’s golden words to live on.

Will dismounted in front of the narrow wooden door and knocked.

No one answered the door, and the house didn’t look like a rooming house, or the sort of purlieu that Kit Marlowe would haunt. It was too big, too imposing, too grand.

He knocked again, and his knock echoed as if upon an empty palace. Will felt too common, too gross, too indecisive.

What was he doing here? He should go back.

But he could not go back. He stood, rooted to the spot. The image of Ariel and Quicksilver came to him. Cold and fleeting, magical creatures though they were, they were creatures of a fair magic that made the cold world worth living in.

And then there was Will’s family, whose fate, he guessed, was tied to keeping the balance of the worlds -- faerie and human in their proper place. And in seeing that the foul wolf did not win.

Will raised his hand and knocked.

Scene Forty Three

The same small shabby rental room, now made even more crowded by the addition of Will. Mistress Bull -- perceived as no more than a shadow in the darkened hallway -- closes the door behind Will.

K
it half stood, as Will came into the room. He half stood in panic fear, and wished he could yell at Will to run, run and not come back.

Silly, provincial Shakespeare, in his russet suit, with his receding hairline and his face creased and puffy like faces get when people haven’t slept for too long.

God alone knew how Will had got past Mistress Bull, or what he’d told her. Not that he needed to say much. If, in any way, he’d revealed that he knew her to be harboring intelligencers, she’d have brought him here, to let them deal with him.

For any man that discovered that Eleanor Bull’s often served as a safe house for members of the secret service, a place where they could do whatever dirty deeds were called for, aye, any common man possessed of that knowledge was a threat and must be killed.

So Kit stood, and tried to scream at Will to run. Even were this a normal gathering, and the wolf not present, Will would be dead, dead in his entering the room.

But Kit’s mouth, opened, uttered only silence.

He made a keen noise of frustration that called all eyes to him.

“I’ve come to help you,” Will said. He spoke plainly, and looked Kit Marlowe in the eye with a frankness that Kit hadn’t seen, hadn’t hoped to see in oh, so long. “I’ve come to help you, if you but tell me how.”

Poley, and Skeres exchanged looks, and Frizer made a barking laughter deep in his throat.

Kit felt laughter bubble out of his throat, too, the wolf’s howled, bitter laughter. “Oh, you can help me well enough, you sorry puppet. Only lend your throat to my dagger, allow me to drink your life.”

Kit shuddered at the words, and at the thought, at the thought of Will dead.

Provincial and inadequate, Will was, but something good and strong burned in him, something Kit could see all the brighter for it lacking wholly in himself.

And with Will, Quicksilver would die, and Lady Silver who was Kit’s one love -- or if not his true love, the closest thing such a poor show as Kit had ever come to love.

Kit’s heart beat disordered in his chest, as he tried to command his strength to obey him. Him, and not the wolf.

Oh, for some iron to touch, for some iron to plunge into Kit’s own traitorous chest, while yet the wolf remained dazed by his contact with the metal.

With a tremor that shook his whole body, like an ague, an unexpected fever, Kit bit his lower lip, willing pain to allow him self-control.

Though his own lips felt like unwieldy cork, his tongue like wood, he bent them to his wishes. Through the pain and the taste of his own blood, he said, “Go,” to Will, who stood amazed. And then again, “Flee. All is lost.”

But his last words were drowned out by the wolf’s laughter, by the wolf’s power and the wolf’s strength that traveled through Kit’s muscles, reclaiming Kit’s body as his own.

Fully in control, the wolf took Kit’s hand to Kit’s belt, pulling out Kit’s dagger.

Kit fought for control of the arm. Sweat sprang from his forehead stinging into his eyes, as Kit struggled with all his force against his own muscles that moved when he willed them not to.

Yet his arm moved, slowly, slowly, holding the dagger.

With all his force, Kit willed his arm to stay.

Curse it all. He would not do this.

Will Shakespeare, who’d taken a step back at Kit’s warning to flee, stood with his eyes as wide as those of a frightened horse, his face waxy pale. Will put his hand to his dagger. His hand trembled visibly. His gaze riveted itself to Kit’s own hand that fought with the wolf, not to pull Kit’s dagger fully out of its sheath.

Skeres and Poley stepped slyly towards the door, certain that Shakespeare would, of course, try to flee -- something they couldn’t allow, since he knew about this house and had seen them with Kit, whom they had meant to kill.

Shakespeare ignored their sliding steps to the door, and, in fact, seemed not to notice them. His golden falcon eyes remained trained upon Kit, his gaze slowly lifting from the dagger at Kit’s waist to Kit’s own eyes.

“How can I help you, Marlowe?” he asked. “I’m not fleeing. Only tell me how I can help you.” Though his voice shook, his words were resolute, and his gaze met Kit’s with such intensity that Kit felt as though Shakespeare were lending him strength for the fight against the wolf.

Oh, the fool
, Kit thought.
The sheer provincial fool.
Had he then come here to help Kit? Who cared for Kit’s damned soul? Who cared if Kit got killed?

Kit wanted to believe no one did, and yet there was Will, staring at him with unwavering support, with quiet friendship.

Kit had never known anyone to support him who didn’t want something from him in return.

He shook his head, or started to shake it, but the wolf pulled the dagger out farther, and Kit had to concentrate wholly on his arm, on keeping his arm from moving.

He felt a great raging anger against Shakespeare, and, oddly enough, felt his eyes mist with tears.

What was this fool about and why? Why would he try to save Kit? What would that get him, if he did accomplish it?

He’d never had anything from Kit but mocking words and vague, patronizing advice. Did he think he’d get more?

“What do you want?” he managed to ask, though his voice sounded strangled, the wolf attempting to silence him. “What do you want from me?”

Will started. His eyes opened wider, in surprise. It was obvious he’d never thought of wanting anything from Kit. “To help you,” he said. “You... you’re the best poet I know. And we are friends. The tavern....”

Oh, hell. Buy a man a drink and he’ll follow you for the rest of his days? Never had Kit found such easy friendship. And yet, he found tears rolling down his cheeks.

He wanted to shout at Will that he should leave. He wished that he could
make
Will leave.

Didn’t Will realize that the only way out of this was for Kit to die, taking the wolf with him?

This thought, like a scream, fell upon a dreadful quiet in Kit’s own mind.

It was as if Kit’s divided mind, his tumultuous thoughts, had been a fashionable party, a well-heeled group of convivial lords and ladies, upon which a mad jester had walked, shouting unwelcome truths.

Like the silence that would fall on such a jester’s words, was the silence in Kit’s mind, half outraged affront, half disbelief.

The great resounding hall of his reason stayed mute, while the import of his thought sank in.

The only way to free the world of this wolf was to rid the world of Kit Marlowe.

Only that way could Shakespeare be saved. Only that way could Quicksilver be ransomed. Only that way could the world be set aright. Only that way. No other.

The thought, not new, this time loomed inescapable.

Only Kit’s death could set everything right. Yet, was Kit ready to die? Even to save the world?

Scene Forty Four

The small room in Deptford. Nicholas Skeres and Robert Poley stand by the door, looking as if they would block Shakespeare’s escape, but they dart confused glances at Marlowe, whose behavior visibly worries them. Ingram Frizer is still at the table, watching all with his slow, puzzled glance. Will looks at Marlowe, then the other men, then just at Marlowe.

W
ill waited for Marlowe’s answer, feeling more foolish each moment.

His heart beat erratically. His throat hurt with his effort to avoid screaming.

Marlowe stared at him with such an odd expression. No, a warring of expressions: now the wolf’s sharp gaze, now Marlowe’s puzzled little-boy-lost look, pouting lip drawn in as though in pain, grey eyes a-swim in indecision.

Will marked Marlowe’s hand reaching for the dagger; he watched the two men who, by the door, seemed to bar any attempt Will might make at escaping.

Should Will try to escape?

He didn’t want to. He’d come so far to save Marlowe.

A cold sweat sprang from his pores, chilling him.

What was here? What had he got himself into? Would he die at the wolf’s mercy? Or would his end come at Marlowe’s own hand?

Which was his friend, and which his sworn foe, of these two souls trapped within a body?