–William Shakespeare, from Sonnet 124

Will held his wrist out, turned over so the unworked buttons showed. “Ted, couldst see to these? Thank thee–”

“Court clothes,” Edmund said. “So high and mighty is my brother now–”

“Hah.” Will picked his wine up with his other hand and drained the goblet down to the bitter, aconite‑flavored dregs. He polished the cup with his handkerchief and set it on the trestle, upside down. “I am summoned to attend, is all. The King’s Men are no different at court from drawing‑room furniture: meant to fill up the corners, but hardly of any real use. Hast thou any news for me?

“Robin Poley,” Edmund said, fastening the final button on Will’s splendid doublet.

“Robin Poley? Or Robert Poley?”

“The elder.”

“What of him?”

“Is a Yeoman of the Guard of the Tower of London now.”

Will paused in the act of tugging his sleeve down over his shirt cuff. “… really.”

“Aye. Cecil’s doing, again. Although I suppose I must call Cecil the Earl of Salisbury now–”

“Where ears can hear, you must. Christ on the Cross. Sixteen hundred and five, and I have no better mind what old Lord Burghley’s second son is after than I did twelve years ago, Ted. He plays the white and black pieces both, a double game that defies all understanding. But he has got himself raised an Earl, so I suppose whatever his game might be, he is winning it. Do I look grand enough for church with a King?”

Edmund stepped back, sucking on his lower lip until he nodded once, judiciously. “Cecil’s at odds with the King, they say–”

“Aye.” Will checked the mirror over his mantel, and ran both hands along the sides of his neck to pluck what remained of his hair from his collar. “Well, is and is not. The King wants Scots around him, but he needsSalisbury. What he’s got is good Calvinists, and he’s still urging that the Bishops be diligent in their pursuit of Catholics.” For all his own proclivities are not so Calvinist as that. Gloriana’s failings were what they were, but she was never a hypocrite.Will stopped, and fixed Edmund with a look. I wrote to Anne and told her to see she got herself and the girls to church, Edmund. And I want to see thee in attendance too.”

“Will–” Edmund sighed. “‘Tis my faith thou dost so lightly dismiss.”

“Aye,” Will answered. “And I am eldest now, with Father gone, and thou dost owe me that much duty. Thy life is worth more, and thy family’s safety. Catholicism has been outlawed,Edmund. Recusants are not tolerated now. You will obey me.”

“What’s a life worth without faith?” Edmund looked Will square in the eye, but Will would not glance down.

“I won’t forbid thee whatever–diversions–thou dost seek,” Will said. “But thou wilt to Church. I’ll not see thee stocked or hanged.”

His brother matched gazes with Will for what seemed like an hour, but Will–frankly–had the weight of experience. And the authority of the eldest son behind his edict. Edmund dropped his eyes to the floor.

“As you bid.” Edmund glanced up again as a church bell tolled the hour. “And now thou must hurry. Or thou wilt be late for thy King.”

Infirmity, if not age, granted Will the consideration of a stool in the corner near the fire, but he found it rather warm for a midmorning. Especially when Burbage, also resplendent in James’ livery, had cleverly staked out the corner nearest the wine on the sideboard – incidentally doing his usual fine job of framing himself against dark wood that showed off his fair curls to advantage.

If it weren’t for the King’s scarlet, however, Will would vanish against the paneling like a ghost. Which suited his mood admirably, come to think of it; his mood was fey, and dark lines of poetry taunted him.

Burbage refilled his goblet a second time before Will could think to forbid it, and Will swore himself solemnly to drink no more after this last cup. “Thou’lt have me drunk before the King, Richard,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

Matters not,” Burbage answered. “I’m drunk every day, and it’s done me no harm–”

“Not until thou diest of yellow jaundice,” Will said dryly. “Or thy belly swells up like a berry full of juice.”

“Well, a man’s got to die of something.” That bit of philosophy accomplished, Burbage turned to check Will’s reaction. “The King,” he hissed, and dropped a flourishing bow even as Will was turning to make his own obeisance.

“Your Highness,” Will and Burbage said, speaking in unison as if rehearsed. And after fifteen years playing together, ‘tis no surprise if we pick up the cue.

“Master Players.” James the First of England had ruddy cheeks, contrasting with slack, pale skin and a sad‑eyed, wary expression. Will thought he looked haunted, and he had not lost a trace of his thick Scottish accent in two years in the south. Can we hope you are about plotting some new masterwork to entertain us with?”

“Always plotting,” Will answered. “What would please the King?”

James made a bit of a show of thinking. “You know our Annie loves masques and divertissements. We had Ben Jonson’s Masque of Blacknessat court just this winter past. But perhaps something a little more exciting, for the lads. I worry a bit at their mother’s influence: women are such frivolous things, and she has her ideas.”

“Ideas, Your Highness?” Will was grateful that Burbage spoke to fill the King’s expectant silence.

“I fear being so beset by witches as we were at our old lodgings has made her dependent on Papist rituals to keep ill spirits away,” James said frankly, dropping into the informal speech that was his habit. “Silly conceits, and a woman will have them. But I do not want her leading my boys from good Protestant ethics. I’ll see my little Elizabeth crowned queen before Henry or Charles king, if she turns them Catholic.” The King shrugged, carelessly tipping some drops of wine over the edge of his cup. “So perhaps something with Scottish kings and the mischief of witchcraft–”

“Do you have a plot in mind, Your Highness?”

“We saw a Latin trifle at Oxford at the beginning of the month. That Ouinn fellow. You know him?”

“Tres Sybillae. ”

“That’s the one.”

“Your Highness wishes a play about King MacBeth.”

“The usurper, rightfully deposed.” It was a gentle rebuke, as such things went, delivered with a smile. The King turned to acknowledge Robert Cecil as the new Earl of Salisbury came up alongside him. “It will serve a welcome distraction in a time of plague. I’ve prorogued Parliament for fear of it: we’ll meet in colder weather. And a good morning to you, my fine Earl Elf. What think you of the fifth of November?”

“It’s a fine day for a hanging, I suppose. Or did you have something else in mind, Your Highness?”

“Parliament. We’ll have some bills come due that must be paid, sooner rather than later–”

“Ah, yes.” Salisbury nodded an acknowledgement as Will filled a cup for him and dropped a bit of sugarloaf in. “Thank you, Master Shakespeare. I think we must talk a bit about expenditures too, Your Highness.”

The King snorted. “A parsimonious elf. Canst not transform some oak leaves to gold, Salisbury, and refill our coffers?”

“Alas–” Salisbury laid a hand on the King’s elbow, and the two men turned aside. But Robert Cecil’s last tenacious glance told Will there would be another conversation, later, out of earshot of the King.

“Is he still opposed to thy Bible?” Burbage asked quietly, when the King and his minister were very well out of earshot.

Will blinked. “How didst thou know about the Bible, Richard?”

Richard Burbage paused, his cup frozen halfway to his mouth as his attention turned inward. He pursed his lips, and answered at last, “Mary Poley mentioned it to me as if it were common knowledge. I thought she must have had the word from thee.”

“No,” Will said, feeling his blood drain from his limbs. “I told her no such thing.”