As for myself? I am thick with news, & will make haste to lay it before thee. James of Scotland & England is King, & all is not well, my love.

Ev’ry bell in London tolled his welcome.

The King landed at the Tower of London on eleventh May, having taken some care to ensure hid progress from the north would be suitably stately that his arrival would not encroach on Elizabeth’s state funeral. Ben designed the triumphal arch through which he entered the city, and Ned Alleyn, a bit coldly clad, delivered a speech penned by Tom Dekker. The poets will have their day– and Ben got a charm into his working, which may help or it may not. Sir Robert Cecil came with him, having ridden north to York to greet our new Monarch. I did hear later that the ravens at the Tower flew up to greet the King’s barge, & that the small zoo of lions within that ancient stronghold’s precincts roared him welcome from their cages.

Gossip had been running through the streets on a river of wine & ale, &– between performances– I soak it in from my accustomed chair at the Mermaid. I am become quite the fixture there; thou wilt be pleased to know I have made a fine recovery of my fever, & in fact feel stronger now than I did before it.

Sadly, the same cannot be said for London. James had been crowned in a time of plague such as London has not suffered since thy murder, dear friend. Almost a decade since, & again crosses mark doorboards & whole families sicken. ‘Tis not, methinks, auspicious.

One of the dead is Ben’s son. Still when they cannot have us, they strike at our children.

Ah, but on to those gossips. They say, dear friend, that the new King is as great a hunter & lover of sport as the old Queen. They say ‘tis time England had a man’s hand on the tiller again. They say James dances at court & tumbles with his children: he has three, & another in his fair Queen’s belly. They say that that Queen loves dancing as well, & plays– which bodes well– & the masques of Ben Jonson.

Moreover. They day she is Catholic, & her husband the King Protestant. & I am not the only one who has breathed a low sigh of relief & permitted himself a giddy measure of hope at that small truth.

We players wore scarlet for the coronation: we are the King’s– rather than the Lord Chamberlain’s– Men now, & Grooms of the Bedchamber. Which one would suppose might give me some greater power to tug the King’s earlobe & press the suit of our Bible, but alas, ‘tis the Great Chamber only, and not the Privy– ‘tis but a ceremonial toy, as someone I know was wont to day. And James has adopted Cecil, & raised him to the peerage no less, & Cecil will not see it done.

I’ve managed to remind Monteagle of my assistance in seeing him & Southampton released from the Tower, & that may serve us well. Elizabeth’s good Sir Walter, I fear, has taken their place in duress, for James does not trust him. Many changes are afoot, & I for one shall tread most carefully.

Still, Annie is well, the girls tall as trees. Tom sends his affection, & Ben has rejoined our fold along with Chapman. All of us would like to see thee come again to our evening’s entertainments, if I may call them that. Well, all but Ben perhaps, & he will endure. I cannot say age has settled him, precisely, except it has. After a fashion. Or it may simply be that his wife is in London now, and it may be that they will reconcile. And if she will not content him, he has the wives of other men to hawk after–

Have a care. The Prometheans are very quiet. The plague notwithstanding. Young master Benjamin Jonson buried at seven years notwithstanding, as well. Though, if anything, that has made our Ben more determined. He speaks not of it, but he’s cold with purpose now.

We have that in common.

Oh, Kit, shouldst see what I am writing. Our adventures in Lucifer’s demesne–I know so neither of us talk of them o’ermuch, but the plays I am making now, daresay, are not like anything thou hast seen before–nay, I shall not tease thee.

But come, love.

I have things to show thee.

thy Will

The door of the library swung open, and Kit looked up from quiet conversation with Amaranth to see Murchaud framed against its dark red wood. “Kit,” the Prince said, smiling, “a moment of your time?”

“Your Highness,” Kit answered, not unironically. He made a bow over Amaranth’s hand and turned to follow Murchaud. They went in silence up the stairs; Murchaud led Kit to his rooms and unlocked the door with quiet concentration.

Kit followed calmly. Oh, won’t this inspire gossip in the court.“Murchaud?” he asked, when the door was latched again.

The Elf‑knight’s shoulders drooped like wings as soon as their privacy was assured. “She’s no better,” he said shortly, and went to pour wine for them both.

Kit followed at his heels, trying not to think that he must have looked like a faithful cur at his master’s boot. “Is she worse?”

“No. I’ve never heard of anything like. ‘Tis possible the Faerie Queen grew so linked with Gloriana in the minds of England’s folk that Gloriana’s passing could take the Mebd with it. And if the Mebd dies without loosing her bonds, all those Fae who are knotted in her hair die with her.”

“Would she do that? Take you all to the grave?” Kit was unprepared for the barb of panic that stabbed his breast; he took the wine–littered with bits of peppery nasturtium flowers like confetti–and covered his face with the rim.

“Come, sit.” Murchaud gestured him to one of two chairs on either side of the low table near the window. There was a chessboard set up, and beside it lay a book marked with a ribbon that Kit had been reading–before Will came to Faerie. And Murchaud has not seen fit to return it to the Library.Kit planted himself in the chair and set his glass down. Murchaud settled opposite. “She might,” the Elf‑knight said, nodding judiciously “Wilt fight for her, Christofer?”

“Poetry?”

“Aye.” Murchaud swirled his wine as much as drank it, seeming to savor the aroma.

“I will, ” Kit answered. A familial silence fell between them, and at last Kit succumbed to the siren song of the book on the table. He picked it up and thumbed through, trying to see if he remembered what led up to the place where the ribbon lay.

Murchaud let the quiet linger long enough that his voice startled Kit when he spoke again. “Dost trust me, my Christofer?”

Kit raised his eyes over the top of his book and met Murchaud’s gaze. “Thy Christofer? Surely not–”

Murchaud braced his boot on the low table between them, turning a black chess knight between his fingers. “Then whose else art thou?”

Which gave Kit pause. “The Devil’s. I suppose.”

“And not thine own?” Murchaud stood, a movement too fluid to seem as abrupt as it was, and began to pace, revealing to Kit that this was not an idle conversation.

“Had I everthat luxury?”

Which made Murchaud turn his head and blink softly. “Does any man?

“Or any elf? No.” Kit sighed. “Aye, my Prince. I trust thee as much as I might trust any Elf‑knight.”

“Which is to say not at all.”

Kit shrugged and set his book aside, then reached for the wineglass on the table. He raised it in salute, watching Murchaud roll the chess knight across the back of his fingers, as Will was wont to do with coins. “Why all this sudden concern with trust?”

“There is a wound festers in thee.”

“Who, me?” Kit sipped his wine and managed an airy dismissal with the back of his left hand. “I assure thee, I am festerment‑free.”