Murchaud shrugged, pouring more wine. “Something was accomplished, in any case. And Oxford’s face when thou didst draw off thy mask was a worthy sight. With Oxford and Essex both out of court, that’s a little breathing room for Gloriana.”

“Will thinks the Puritans have gotten to Archbishop Whitgift.”

“The Puritans, or the Prometheans?”

“Is there a difference?” Kit leaned against a leather‑topped desk and watched Murchaud pace. “Essex’s Prometheans have their fingers deep in every pie. They play politics layered on politics, and their goals are opaque to me.”

“Their goals are very simple,” Murchaud replied, turning as if startled. “Power, earthly and divine. Revolution, and the overthrow of the old ways.”

“And our ways are better than theirs?” Kit breathed a little easier, the knot under his breastbone easing at having successfully diverted Murchaud. Robin, I do not know how long I can protect you. I do not even understand why it is that I choose to do so.Except Kit had seen men drawn and quartered for the sin of appearing on a list of names that he, Kit, drew up and provided. He thought of Will’s new play and grinned. To choose not is a choice.

“Our ways are what we have,” Murchaud said, reminding Kit of his own words to Will, so many years ago. “I wonder, sometimes, if a compromise could be reached–”

“Like the compromise with Hell?” Kit refreshed his own cup and Murchaud’s as well. He leaned back against the desk, turning the glass between his hands. The pale blue spirals running up the sides caught the light; the room seemed very rich and lush in half darkness.

“I should hope not,” Murchaud answered. He paced the edge of the room, letting his fingers wander over surfaces. “If the Archbishop of Canterbury is weakening, can the Church of England be far behind?”

“Murchaud”–a swallow of wine to loosen Kit’s tongue – “why has the Mebd come here? Not for a play. And not merely for my little masque and unmasking.”

“Oh, aye, for a play. And to discuss Elizabeth’s succession with her. And Elizabeth’s legend – ”

“Ah.” Kit set the glass down on the leather‑topped desk and stretched his fingers, working the ache out of them. “Edward has a jaw like an anvil.”

“‘Tis well thou didst not punch him, then. Is’t broken?”

“Only strained. Bruised a little.”

“Would kiss it well – ”

“Would that thou couldst.” Kit sighed. “What next?”

Murchaud shuddered. “We try to keep Gloriana alive as long as possible. We rid ourselves of as many of the false Promethean agents as we can find. Oxford is an excellent start. Skeres, not the victory I would have chosen, but something nonetheless.”

“We discover–” Kit coughed and lowered his voice. “We discover why Sir Robert is protecting Poley and Baines.”

“Is he?”

“There’s no other explanation.” Kit nodded with conviction. It came more plain to him even as he sought to explain it. “He sends Tom and Will to frame Baines, but it’s not Baines who takes the fall. He allows Will and I to remove Oxford, but only once Essex has discarded him. He opposes Will’s plan for a new Bible, and I would not be surprised if there’s more we don’t know. Yes, I think Robert Cecil is playing a very deep game indeed. And I think I need to talk to Sir Walter about it –

“Sir Robert,” Murchaud said, still pacing. “Believes in what he can grasp and hold. Sir Robert may already have plans for Elizabeth’s successor. Sir Robert may see a weakening of Faerie as bending to his advantage.”

“I can’t imagine that he doesn’t. I’m not sure that he understands that the Prometheans are something other than another chess piece.”

“He doesn’t see them as players?”

“Does he see anyone else as a player? I think he imagines that some tokens merely move themselves about the board when his hand is not on them.” Kit’s own hand was swelling still. He frowned at it. “I did hit Oxford harder than I intended. At least the fingers work.”

“Thou shouldst get Morgan to see to it–”

“Will Morgan see me?”

Murchaud’s lips twitched. “Aye, I imagine she would. There’s more we need to finish before Elizabeth passes.”

“Besides the Prometheans?”

“I set thee to find those who would conspire against my wife. I need names, Kit.”

Kit closed his eyes. “I suppose thou wouldst not believe me an I lied to thee?”

“Your heart is divided,” Murchaud quoted, and came to him. “Thou dost know something, and thou art loath to tell.”

“I know many things I am loath to tell, lover….”

Murchaud smiled at the endearment, but Kit could tell it would not encourage him to relent. He set his wineglass down. “Kit. It is my safety that thou dost put at stake. Mine, and Cairbre’s, as well as the Mebd’s. Thy friends and protectors. Hast thou no loyalty?”

“I have no wish to witness any more hangings in my lifetime, Murchaud.”

“Hah!” Murchaud stepped back, and as he stepped back he reached out with both hands and cupped Kit’s cheeks ever so gently. Kit steeled himself and bore the touch, and managed even not to flinch. “Kitling, we do not hang Faeries.”

“… we don’t?”

“We haven’t enough Faeries to hang, my love. No, the punishment will not be fatal. Or even, perhaps, painful, although the miscreants might find themselves sporting a pig’s head or a cow’s filthy tail. The Mebd has her own ways of enforcing obedience.”

Or ass’s ears,Kit realized, and then put his hand to his mouth as he realized also that he’d said it aloud. His expression must have offered whatever confirmation Murchaud needed, because the Prince nodded once, judiciously, and leaned close to kiss him on the forehead.

“Who else?”

“Geoffrey,” Kit answered, his voice helpless in his own hearing. “Geoffrey and Puck, and the Faerie oaks. That’s all I know.”

“It’s enough,” Murchaud said. “They can be made to tell.”

Act IV, scene xv

0 sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as you have books for good mannerd: I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Countercheque Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that too, with an If.

I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an If as, ‘If you said do, then I said so;’ and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the only peacemaker; much virtue in If.

–William Shakespeare, As You Like It,Act V, scene iii

Spring came late in 1600; Will spent Lent in Stratford and returned in late March to his haunts in London. One cold rainy afternoon shortly after Easter, he leaned back on his bench at the Mermaid and rattled the dice across the planks to Thomas Nashe, who was leaned forward inspecting the backgammon board set between them. “I should have made you play chess.”

You win at chess,” Will answered complacently, reaching for his wine.

“Then perhaps we should alternate. I shouldn’t play at dice with you, Will. No one should. You’ve the Devil’s own luck–”

“If I have it, then he doesn’t. When you meet him, be sure to challenge him at dice.”

Nashe laughed, delighted. “I can count on you, Will. Have you seen Ben lately? ”

“He’s still not speaking to me over the poet’s argument,” Will answered unhappily. He steepled his fingers in front of his nose. “Burbage has hired Dekker to take a few cuts back at Ben. It’s all childishness; I have plays to write. And you – I hear you’ve given up playmaking and pamphleteering entirely, Tom.”

“Poetry for private patrons pays better,” Nashe said without rancor, rattling the dice on the tabletop. He swore softly and moved his chips with a hasty hand. “And poetry seems less likely to find me in jail again. Or my work burned in the market square.”