“Cousin. We could play something fashionable, and give better value.”

Monteagle smiled. “It’s Harry.” Meaning Southampton, of course. “You know how he is when he has his heart set on something.”

“We’ll pay forty shillings more than your ordinary fee, cousin,” Catesby added.

Again the look, Burbage to Sly to Will.

An Earl and a Baron. There’s no way to refuse without risking the company.

For forty pieces of silver.

Indeed.

“All right,” Will said, and Burbage nodded.

It wasn’t until Catesby had counted the silver into Will’s hand that Monteagle added, “Of course, you must include the scene in which Richard loses his crown.”

Act IV, scene xviii

I know sir, what it is to kill a man,

It works remorse of conscience in me,

I take no pleasure to be murderous,

Nor care for blood when wine will quench my thirst.

–Christopher Marlowe,

Tamburlaine the Great,Part II, Act IV, scene i

Mary Poley’s voice had never been musical. It was as gypsy‑wild as her mad black hair, but she leaned close to Kit now and leveled it as she laid a hand on his arm. “Thou didst send Will to look after us, Master Marlin.”

I told Will this was a bad idea.He turned to look her in the eye, his back to the gallery railing. “Mistress Poley, I’m not certain I take your meaning–”

She looked up at him and shook her head. “Can’t fool old Tom Watson’s sister, Kitling. Shall I kiss each of thy scars to prove I know thy body well?”

She dropped her gaze from his eyes and seemed to be looking past him, but he didn’t turn to see where. “Mary–”

“Hush, Kit. I’m grateful. And Robin is too. He’s courting his master’s daughter, you know. She’s to go in service at the end of the year, but I do think he’ll marry her when she returns and his apprenticeship is done.”

“He seems a fine lad.”

“For all his looks, Kit, he’s a sweet soul. More like thee than my husband, damn him to hell.”

“I’m working on it,” Kit answered dryly. She laughed, and closed her hand around his arm. “Thou hast nothing to justify to me, Mary.”

“Not all men would see it so. Why didst thou not get me word thou hadst lived? I hope it was not that thou hadst no trust in Robert Poley’s wife.”

“I told no one. I was on the Oueen’s business.”

“And now art home?” There was hope in it, like a razor dragged lightly over Kit’s skin. He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. She blinked. “Christ. Thou hast aged not an hour.”

“Not home,” he said. “Christofer Marley is as dead as Tom Watson, I fear.”

“Then why hast thou returned?”

The railing was rough against his back. He turned to lean forward, looking down over the Mermaid, the bustle of poets and players and drunks. He rubbed fingers over the time‑polished dark wood of the railing and lost an argument with a frown. “To say good‑bye.”

“Ah.” She stepped up beside him and snuggled close, a compactly elfin warmth. No great beauty, Mary Poley, but a comforting sort of fey. He bent and kissed the top of her head; there weren’t many women Kit was tall enough to perform that office upon. “Wilt pass Will somewhat of interest for me, Kitling? I’ve had no luck in cutting him out of the crowd for a privy conversation.”

“Aye, I will.” Will.A name that still had the power to stop his breath. Aye, and I’d traffic with Hell for thee all over again, for moments such as this.Kit searched the crowd below, but there was no sign of Will. Or, come to think of it, Burbage. There stood Edmund Shakespeare, talking with Henslowe and Alleyn, John Fletcher watching with interest. Ben Jonson had finally arrived and was carrying on a conversation with Chapman that looked at once animated and hushed, involving much waving about of hands.

Mary gulped breath; he felt it swell her slight body where she curled under his arm. “Robert’s about something.”

“Not Robin your lad?”

“No, Robert my husband – ”

“‘–damn him to Hell.’ ”

“Precisely.”

“What is he about, Mary?” She had Kit’s complete attention now but he maintained the casual pose, a man in flirtation with a likely woman, both of them watching the flow and ebb of the gathering below.

A grunt, her little noise of frustration. “I know not. Mistress Mathews at the Groaning Sergeant is a friend of mine, and she says Robert and Richard Baines were in there of a morning, well pleased and talking of duping some Earl.”

“That could be important. What Earl, and how duped? Dost know more?”

“The Queen’s old favorite, I think, from what Mistress Mathews overheard. Essex, I mean. Robert Devereaux. I do not know what it is they mean to have him do, but she said that Baines was positively gloating about compelling such a man to do his bidding.”

Kit shuddered, having some experience with Baines’ compulsions. Even the quiet ones. “What else did she say?”

“Only that men and prentices came and went and met with the two of them all the morning, and a good deal of silver seemed to change hands – ”

She stopped speaking suddenly. Kit knew from the way her breath halted that his own body had gone entirely rigid in her offhand grasp. It could be but a resemblance,he cautioned himself. Especially from this angle.“Mary,” he said carefully. “What is the name of that man, the blond one coming out of the back room beside Will and Dick?”

“Why, Robert Catesby,” she answered, all innocence.

His left hand tightened on the railing. His right pulled her close. “Oh, holy Hell,” he blasphemed. “Mary, thou’rt a princess among women, and a canny one at that. I’ll carry my affection for thee to a second grave, if I get one. So please, please, do not take it amiss that I needs must talk to Will on this instant, my dear, and that I may not have the chance to bid thee farewell again.”

He stepped back. She caught his coarse linen shirt collar in her reed‑fine hand and tugged him down to lightly kiss his mouth. “Go with God.”

He laughed as he turned away. “Oh,” he said. “If only.”

Act IV, scene xix

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,

Bound for the prize of all too precious you,

That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,

Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

–William Shakespeare, Sonnet 86

This can only end ill,” Kit said. Will, hurrying fresh‑barbered and clean‑scrubbed through the streets to the bank where he meant to hire a wherry to Southwark and the Globe, glanced over at his friend and nodded. “Aye, there’s no clean way clear of this mess, love. But then, we knew the truth of that when we stepped into it.” Sudden worry diverted his conversation. “Kit, this is thy second day out of Faerie–”

Kit smiled, a steadying hand on Will’s elbow as they clambered down the steps to the bank. The Thames had never frozen over, this winter, and the banks were clear of ice by now. A sign, perhaps, that Baines’ Prometheans were losing ground at last.

“I’ve one more at least before it troubles me. What concerns me more is that I’ve dreamed of Catesby–my ill dreams–and I’ve verily seen him in a room, talking privily with Baines. I can’t think but that his presence on this errand with Lord Monteagle means that there will be trouble over this play.”

“Trouble for the Lord Chamberlain’s Men–” Kit handed Will into the boat as if Will were a lady in a farthingale, and Will glowered at him but didn’t resist. Mind thy Limitations, Master Shakespeare. Or like as not thou’lt tumble into the muddy brown Thames and drown.