“Aye,” Ben answered. “Well, there’s your Catholic plot. What do the Prometheans want?”

“The Prometheans have Kit,” Will said, “and the Fae have been intending something for a long while now, and biding their time. Both sides treat Kit as if he’s some sort of accounting piece. And I swear he knows why, although he will not tell me.”

“What about thy Prince? Or the Fae Queen who came to nurse thee in thine illness?”

“MyPrince?” Will smiled at Tom. “Kit’s Prince, you mean. You know, I rather suspect he’s watching us now: I would be, were I in his place.” Will glanced up and around, and calmly addressed the air above his head. “Prince Murchaud? Are you listening, Your Highness?”

A shimmer hung on the air, and Murchaud stepped through it. “You know me too well, Master Poet. And Kit is not a counting piece to me.” The Prince nodded to Ben and Tom once each. Ben swung his boots down to the floor.

No. But he is important to your plans. And those of your wife.” Will lifted his chin to catch Murchaud’s gaze, thinking when did I grow so comfortable challenging Princes?

“Valuable,” Murchaud answered. “I can tell you what it is my wife seeks: sovereignty for Faerie, and freedom from old bargains.”

Lucifer,” Will said. “Everyone wants to remake the world.”

“Indeed. And the Prometheans’ ritual will give them the power to do it. Or us, if we manage to take that power from them. Since you discovered where they are holding Sir Kit, and we failed to retrieve him, the Mebd has decided that the Faerie Court will ride to the Tower of London on the fifth of November, shortly before dawn.” Murchaud folded his arms, the green silk of his sleeves draping heavily. His brow creased; Will thought the expression was disapproval. “Once the Promethean ritual begins at which Kit’s presence is so necessary.”

Will glanced at Tom for advice. Tom merely inclined his head slightly. Continue.

“We wait until they begin? Is that not dangerous?”

“I do not know where Kit is,” Murchaud answered. “I can make a strongly educated supposition as to where the ritual will be held.”

Will sighed. “Kit. I’d not see him endure torture.”

“The Mebd is unimpressed by suffering. The Daoine Sidhe ride at dawn; I cannot stay them longer. There will be power raised that dawn, and all are loath to miss it. And–”

Will waited the Prince’s hesitation through. “Aye, your Highness?”

“–once the Prometheans’ power is raised, and linked to Kit, he becomes the keystone to their ritual. If the Queens come to his rescue then, once the power is in him–”

“You mean, once he’s raped and savaged.”

“Yes.” Silence, as Murchaud turned and met their eyes. “If my mother or my wife can command Kit, then, then they can command all of that strength, and claim a victory over the Prometheans. They hope.”

“And we leave Kit trapped a few more days, under who knows what sort of duress–”

“They must bring him from his cell to complete the ritual,” Murchaud said. And then he cleared his throat, after a long pause. “It will likely be in the Roman chapel that’s buried under the Tower precincts. Some of us… some of us might choose to arrive a few hours early.”

Will chewed his lip. “I shall be there. I’m sure Sir Walter would not begrudge a companion or two to keep him company in his captivity, and a late night of drinking and dicing is not unheard of among men who have no business in the morning, except with their prison walls.”

The Prince nodded to Will’s cane. “Thou’rt not going. Thou hast not the strength.”

“You could barely stand the iron realm long enough to see me freed. What if there’s bars? An iron gate? I’d hate to explain to your mother how I permitted you to burst into flames in a mortal prison.”

Ben snorted laughter, and a smile even lifted the corner of Murchaud’s mouth.

“Thou’lt walk back into a prison after we risked our lives to get thee out?” Tom asked mildly.

“There’s a difference between being kidnapped and held in secrecy, ” Will said, “and walking in the front gate in plain view of everyone. Salisbury wouldn’t dare hold me publicly, especially not were I in the company of Sir Thomas Walsingham and the esteemed playmaker, Ben Jonson, a favorite of Anne of Denmark’s. I’m a Groom of the Bedchamber, a King’s Man. And His Majesty is veryfond of my plays.”

“If His Majesty survives Tuesday night,” Ben said.

Will shrugged. “Two can play at Salisbury’s game. He as much as told me England needed a King who was willing to make decisions, or let them be made for him by competent advisors. I cannot guess what his disposition of events is likely to be, if the King does die at Westminster, or even if he intends the King to die or merely to shock him into action rather than this endless equivocation, at which he does not excel as Elizabeth did. But if several upright citizens can all attest that Salisbury knew treason was planned in advance–”

“Then he can hardly hope to benefit from it, if it is carried out successfully,” Ben finished in Will’s silence. “And so he must prevent it. Your logic’s sound, I wot.”

“I’ll attest it,” Tom said. “I’ve not much to risk. My star at court is less than bright these days, in any case–and I do not find James’ entourage as much to my liking as Elizabeth’s.”

Ben rose, slowly, and turned to Will. “With Chapman having been in Salisbury’s pay, it’s likely the Earl knows us well enough to anticipate every move we make, Will.”

Will shook his head. His bare left ear felt strange. “In any case, we can only do our best.”

“It will mean Catholic heads when the plot is discovered.” Ben sounded resigned rather than angry. He pressed the meaty, branded heel of his right hand to his eye socket.

“It may help a little,” Will answered, without real hope, “that the warning comes from a Catholic mouth.”

Will himself went to see Monteagle, wearing his scarlet livery, his thinning hair tied back with a ribbon to match. The Baron was at home, and Will was shown in at once and offered mulled wine and ale with spices, which he accepted gratefully. Then he stood beside the fire in the parlor, warming his chilled toes and fingers, and awaited his host’s convenience.

It was not long in coming.

“Cousin,” Monteagle said warmly. “Thou comest at an interesting hour.”

“So I’ve heard,” Will answered, making as much of a bow as he felt capable of just then. “What do you know about Robert Catesby and Westminster, Cousin?”

Monteagle blanched. “Are you here as a King’s Man?” he asked carefully. “Or on behalf of the Earl of Salisbury ?”

“I’m here as a loyal subject of the crown,” Will answered. “You do know something, then.”

“I’ve told Salisbury everything I know,” Monteagle answered. “I should not tell you this, Will, but I trust your motives–Francis Tresham is Salisbury’s man too. The King’s advisors are well aware of the plot. I take it they have not yet spoken to the King?”

“I do not know the answer to that for certain,” Will said, but he thought perhaps he did. “Will you do me a favor, Cousin?”

“Anything.” Monteagle’s voice was serious, his face calm. A steadier man, Will thought, than the foolish boy who had ridden with Essex only four and a half short years before.

“Let Salisbury know that if he does not approach the King by the end of the day–”

“Someone else will?” The Baron nodded. “Aye.” And sighed. “I like it not, Will. We’re hanging men we grew up beside. It does not seem–meet–to choose sides against them.”

Will shook his head. “It is neither meet nor fair,” he answered. “But it is politics. What’s the nature of the treason? Do you know?”

“Aye,” Monteagle answered. “There’s thirty‑six barrels of gunpowder concealed in the cellar under the House of Lords. Catesby and his friends planned to blow the whole damned Parliament to Glory.”