Ink and Steel (27 page)

“What brings you to my door, Sir Kit?” An arch smile, and her hand on his collar—her physical hand, twisting the cloth and bringing him inside. He moved as led, helpless under her touch, and thought of a stud horse rendered passive by the twist of a twitch on his lip.

Kit opened his mouth, would have spoken—accused her—but the taste of bloody iron choked him. A vividly tactile memory of powerlessness: the savage wrench of his dislocated shoulder, gory drool slicking his chin and choking his throat with the effort of screaming— and breathing—through a mouth full of barbed metal, thinking
If I could talk, I could explain my way out of this—

There hadn't been any talking. Not for a long time.

And it was still better than what Essex's faction did to poor Thomas Kyd.
What greater cruelty to a playmaker than shatter his hand?

Stop his tongue, show him his dignity and his sovereignty and his voice as easily rent from him as a girl's—Lavinia in
Titus
: raped, dismembered, siLenced. She could have been a poet too, for all the benefit it got her.

Kit bit down on his tongue, knotted his fist on that nail, the pain shocking, before the memory went further.

—ah, but I Lived.
And there
was
satisfaction in that. “What have you—”
Like talking through a mouth full of blood. God help me. God have mercy . . .
“What have you
done
to me?”

“Claimed you,” she said, and shut and latched the door, taking her time, giving him a moment to notice the airy interior of her cottage, the mud-chinked walls hung with tapestries and baubles and herbs. Roses grew through the gaps under the eaves to tangle across the loft where a high window gave them light: a perfumed, nodding mass of flowers. Her loom dominated the single room, her wide uncanopied bed against the far wall, a massive iron cauldron crouched upon the hearth.

“Iron,” he said, and let his bloody hand fall to his side, spattering a few drops on the rush-strewn slates rammed into the earthen floor.

“Aye,” she said. “I'm afraid a little steel won't protect you from Morgan le Fey. And I did no more to you than any lady might. I left you your freedom of speech and deed, which is more than the Mebd would have granted.”

She took up his bleeding hand and studied it; he hadn't the strength to drag it away, and sagged against the wall beside the door, the stentorian echo of his own breath filling his ears. “Freedom of deed? When I come to your bidding like a mannerly stud to the breeding paddock—”

“Have I interfered in your comings and goings?” She raised his fingers to her mouth and kissed the blood away. He turned his head as if he could burrow into the rough wool of the tapestry behind him. Her mouth claimed his fingertips.

He moaned.

She let his hand fall, then, and whispered, “Have I forbidden you London, for all 'tis foolery that takes you there? Have I forbidden you to amuse yourself as you wish, or made you pace at my heels like a cur? Do I grant you dignity? Arrogance and errantry, and how like a
man
not to understand what he's given, and when his mistress is permissive, and how much more pleasant his station than it could be. At least a dog understands kindness.”

He pressed his back against the wall, stomach-sick, eyes burning. Even when she stepped back, it was not distance enough. “A cur, is it? Shall I bark at your door, madam? What
dignity
includes a slave's collar and chains, a mark of shame?”

She turned away and moved toward her loom. He couldn't watch her: it was a sort of agony to be in her presence, and searing pride alone kept him from prostrating himself before her. His fingers stung, still dripping blood. The coolness of her voice cut through his fury. “I see the first approach has come, then. Who brought the flower to your attention?”

The wall was hard behind the tapestry. He blinked and straightened away from it. “Geoffrey the Stag. Wait—no. Puck and Cairbre, and the lamia Amaranth.”

“Excellent.” A rustle as she moved. He wished the taste of blood in his mouth were real; he wanted to spit. “Look at me.”

He looked. She stood as proud as a lioness, her long neck a predatory arch under her hair. He could have wept with his need to bury his face in it, but he thought she would have smiled to see his tears.

“You're mine,” she said, coming closer. “Don't fight me, Kit: I've outlived kings and outwitted princes, and bent the noblest of knights to my will. In the end, they all did as I bid, or they died: I was a goddess before I became as you see me now. Although”—her fingers cool on his throat—“even Lancelot never fought me as you do.”

“Lancelot?” A froggy croak, clogged as the troll's.

“You're worth three of him,” she answered with a storied smile. “Except on the battlefield. Where he
was
unstoppable. But that's the sort of swordsman I need least in this new world.”

“Why me?”

“Because the Mebd wanted you, and I could get you for her. And get you
from
her.”

He tried to speak, coughed instead. She stepped back, blessedly, and he battled the words until they came. “Geoffrey said the Faerie host cannot fight without a mortal man.”

“ 'Tis true. We have no reality apart from thy folk. And thy folk have no magic apart from us.”

“And that's what you need me for?”

“Yes. That and the pleasure of your company.” A wink turned his stomach and tightened his groin. “You're angry with me. You think what I've done to you is a sort of rape.”

“Isn't it?”

“Rather,” she answered. “But, then, so little of a woman's lot is what she wills, I cannot see it as much different from a husband's treatment of a wife.”

“That is not a responsibility I will bear, strictly by merit of my sex.” The spikes that had worn at his tongue and palate had been barely knobs, really. They had wanted him able to talk, afterward: the sort of bridle used for unruly wives, and not the sort reserved for heretics and blasphemers.
Which had been meant to be a humiliation, too.

“No, I don't think you can be blamed for how men treat their wives and daughters. But.” A pause as she laid a hand on his shoulder. “You might consider how much greater a dignity I grant you than
my
lord granted me. You, my sweet Christofer, have always your lady's leave to speak your mind. How many women have so much privilege?”

“You'll assess me the acts of a man a thousand years dust?”

“If I bear Eve's sins, you may as well have Lot's. No matter. You'll do as I bid, though I'd rather you do it willing.”

“Willing—” Cold terror, suddenly. Worse because he knew that when she touched him, if he whimpered it would not be with disgust, or fear, as long as her hands were on him.

Her movements were like a dance: nearer, further. An increase and a decrease of pressure. Laughing behind the deadly earnest of her gaze. “If you fight me, Kit, I'll break you. I've seen your scars. I have some idea of what it would take.”

His gut ached at the memory of her touch, the vagueness and blind lust with which she had afflicted his thoughts.

He fought his voice level. “And if I offer you my service—willing— in your coming battle, does that earn me your favor enough to beg the answer to a question?”

A shake of her skirts unkilted them; her petticoat fell to brush the floor. She sighed. “You may always question me. I consider it a fair payment for your inability to refuse. And I prefer a spirited mount to a brokenhearted nag.”

“What if I wish—” He couldn't bring himself to say it.

She knew. “The sovereignty of thy person? 'Tis more than a wife gets, but I have the bond I need of thee.” She winked. “Although I might miss a well-warmed bed now and again. I can drag that magic off thee.”

She snapped her fingers. He felt as if something—a snapping branch, cracking ice—
broke
to make the sound.

“Lady.” He relaxed as much as he dared, feeling suddenly—light. He straightened away from the wall. “Tell me of Bard's cloaks.”

“Bard's cloaks? The cloaks of bards? What of them?”

“Is there virtue in them?”

“Aye, yes,” she said. “The magic of goodwill, a protection woven of the pleasure they have given those they give pleasure to. Has someone offered to start you one?”

“A troll,” he said, and shrugged when she glowered at him. “One more question an it please you?”

“Aye?” She shook her skirts again, unhappy with how they had settled, ducking her black head so the rivers of her hair washed over her.

Kit watched her move, and breathed a sigh to see only a lovely, dark woman, somewhat older than himself. “Who do we intend to do battle with?”

She looked up and smiled. “Elizabeth's enemies are mine own. Although we fight them differently. The Prometheus Club.”

“Oh, bloody Hell. Morgan, you should have just
said
so.”

Act II, scene x

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
The Life and Death of Richard II