License to Quill (18 page)

“Your birds are not working.”

Sir Francis Bacon looked up from his reading. “They work harder than you, master bard.”

“I beg to differ,” Shakespeare replied. “Also, I beg your pardon for my appearance.” The playwright had black ink on his face and a throbbing bruise on his forehead.

“I have no time for beggars,” Bacon snapped. He put the papers he was reading facedown under an astrolabe on his desk and once more threw a cloth over the chalkboard behind him. Although Shakespeare had been a Double-O operative for more than six months at this point, it did not make England's greatest scientist any happier to see England's greatest playwright this morning. Quite the contrary, Bacon preferred knowing when the bard would be visiting weeks in advance so that they could meet on the Tower Green without setting foot in his workshops. In a way, the renowned thinker's distrust of the playwright was prudent. Although Shakespeare had no intent to cause trouble, he did enjoy reading everything on Bacon's blackboard before it was covered.

“1066 William” stood out to Shakespeare for obvious reasons. He had to keep them to himself, however, for Sir Francis Bacon was in no mood to talk.

“Why are you interrupting me this time?”

The bard looked away from the blackboard. “Your birds are not working.”

The unwelcoming scientist stared back at the playwright. “And what, in all frankness, is that supposed to mean?”

“It's the ravens, Master Bacon. They are not doing their job.”

“Yes, they are. You may leave.”

“But I
can't
leave,” Shakespeare fumed. “Someone was stalking me outside my building last night. Your ravens alerted me to his presence, but they did not attack him. Instead, they went after someone else: a woman for the sounds of her screams.”

“Did you get a look at this woman?” the scientist inquired.

“No.”

“Well, the ravens did, and it sounds like they deemed her a threat. You can thank me by leaving. I have work to do, playwright.” Bacon shoved Shakespeare aside and returned to his desk.

“What about the person who was spying on me?”

“Why should I believe this other person even exists?”

“Because I saw him!” Shakespeare shouted with his bloodshot eyes throbbing. “He was staring at me from the rooftops last night. In the cold! Does that not alarm you?”

“How could you have seen this person if you say it was nighttime?”

“He was holding a lantern.”

“Are you sure of it?”

“Yes,”
the exasperated playwright groaned. Still weak with sleeplessness, he stared helplessly at the uncaring scientist. “I need help, Master Bacon. I met with the conspirators last night. If they had someone follow me home, my entire mission could be compromised. Our security breached. My life forfeit!”

Shakespeare tailored this last line at his own expense so that the scientist would ridicule him some more. It was the best approach, the bard gambled, for getting what he needed out of Bacon. Eventually, the man would have nothing more condescending to offer than his condescending assistance. However, the scientist stunned Shakespeare by returning his saddened looks with sincerity. The steely glare in his eyes softened while the bard's brightened with hope. “I never thought I would say this,” Bacon sighed. The great thinker folded his hands and leaned forward as he disclosed with disappointment: “You are a poor player, playwright.”

Unmasked, the bard grimaced. “You do realize my investigation could be impeded if I am even
slightly
killed.”

“The ravens have safeguarded you thus far, master bard. If you don't like being alive enough to complain about it, then I suggest you start liking the other side of my door.”

“But my life is in danger! And it is all because your birds failed to intercept my assailant!”

“If the ravens considered him or her a threat, you would have been the first to know.”

“But I
did
know!”

“Master bard, you wouldn't know an obvious fact if it hit you in the face.” Bacon glanced at Shakespeare's bruises as he said this. “… Again. So please, for your sake, don't let the door hit you on your way out. Good day.” Considering the matter settled, Bacon picked up his papers and resumed his reading.

“This is worthless.…” Shakespeare scoffed.

The scientist remained silent.

Seeing the situation lost, the bard turned away. As he was about to walk out of the building, however, he hesitated. “How good are the ravens outside of the city?” he asked.

“Do I need to summon the guards, master bard?”

“Master Bacon,” Shakespeare continued, “I have to leave for Warwickshire tomorrow. While there, I need to somehow spy on these conspirators from afar, through a forest. I don't know how I will do it or what to expect, but before I go, can you assure me that your ravens will keep me safe?”

Once more, Bacon looked up from his documents, which he held close to his chest so that Shakespeare could not read them. “You are leaving the city?”

“I just told you.”

“No.
Why
are you leaving the city?”

The bard bit his lip, not knowing how much he could share. However, realizing he was out of options, he shared: “The conspirators will be meeting with witches.”

At last, William Shakespeare had Sir Francis Bacon's attention. Albeit reluctantly, the scientist set down his pages and studied the bard down and up. “You said you met with your adversaries last night. Correct?”

“Yes.”

Bacon raised an eyebrow. “Did you dine with them?”

Shakespeare's brow wrinkled. “Yes?”

“Were any of these witches present?”

The bard shook his head. “I don't think so.”

Bacon's face intensified. “Did you see who prepared your food? Did you pour your own beverage?”

Confused and alarmed, Shakespeare replied with a soft-spoken “no.”

Apparently, “no” was not the right answer. The scientist stood up from his chair with both arms at his sides. “How feel you, master bard?”

Shakespeare's heart was jumping. “I feel tired.”

“Just tired?”

“I had very little sleep last night.”

Bacon's concerns shifted to the bump on Shakespeare's forehead. “That's not a bubo, is it?”

The bard raised his stained hand to his brow. “No. I just had a tumble this morning.”

“And your skin?”

“It's ink, Master Bacon.”

“All of it?”

“Yes,”
the bard grumbled. “I also had an accident with my inkwell.”

Satisfied, the scientist nodded. “Follow me, master bard.” Bacon led the way through the building's labyrinth of laboratories while the silent playwright worried whether he had somehow contracted the plague.

Shakespeare followed Bacon back to the Double-O's medical stores, where they found several assistants hard at work force-feeding poison to prisoners. The playwright winced at their screams, which apparently had no effect on the doctors—including Bacon. The scientist briskly moved in and out of the scene for a leather pouch he took from one of the vomit-strewn tables.

“Do you know what this is?” Bacon asked as he handed the pouch to Shakespeare.

The bard looked the leather purse over. “Dog skin?” he judged.

The scientist narrowed his eyes and untied the bag's strings. The purse was filled with a fine, rust-colored powder. “This is
terra sigillata
,” Bacon explained. “Medicinal earth. It's used as far off as the Americas,
*
and research shows that the soil can successfully counteract poisons.
†
Mix a spoonful with wine and take it whenever you eat or drink with your enemies. You should be able to survive a double dose of whatever they give you—provided you take the proof quickly, of course.”

“How quickly?” Shakespeare asked.

“As soon as you realize that you have been poisoned. The sooner you take it, the more effective its powers will be. Just be warned, master bard: even if taken correctly, the experience can be unpleasant. You will suffer great pain, but tests show you will likely survive the ordeal.”

“That doesn't sound like something to look forward to,” said Shakespeare as he tied the pouch to his belt. “What if I take the soil before I am poisoned? Will that ease the experience?” The playwright's eyes shifted to and from the prisoners writhing behind Bacon.

“If you wish to experiment on the subject, you are welcome to, master bard. Just make sure you die someplace close enough for us to examine your corpse.”

“I'll remember,” Shakespeare agreed as Bacon led him into the armory.

“I assume you'll be taking Aston.”

“I assumed I would as well.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“At least a fortnight. I have to ride out tomorrow.”

“It will be cold out there. Here…” Bacon handed Shakespeare a heavy pelt of white fur rolled into a bundle. “Take this with you, and make sure you use it.”

“It looks warm!” the bard piped. “Thank you.”

“It's for Aston,” Bacon sneered. “This one is for you.” Shakespeare was then handed a white cloak heavier than the black one he was wearing. “Make sure you wear this when you travel by day. Wear your black cloak over it at night. As long as you keep a safe distance from your targets, no one should be able to see you or Aston in the snow.”

“That will have to be some distance,” Shakespeare grumbled. “Master Bacon, I don't think this will be enough. I need a better way to spy on my targets.”

Bacon paused. For the moment, the great thinker did not have a solution. “You said they will meet in the woods?”

“Yes.”

“How many of them?”

The bard shrugged. “I don't know. It could be a few people, or it could be a horde. The conspirators boasted that the cunning folk have many allies. If their numbers are great, I have no idea how I will be able to spy on them without being discovered.”

Bacon squinted in thought. He then glanced at the playwright's moving mouth. “Do you know how to read lips, master bard?”

“Of course,” the actor replied.

Checkmated, Bacon resigned himself to the only move he had left. “Very well.” He led Shakespeare back to his laboratory, prepared to part with his most treasured possession. “The farther you travel from London, the fewer ravens you will have to act as your guardians. In consequence, I must advise that you stay as far away from your targets as possible during their meeting.”

“Then why bother going?” the bard fumed. “Master Bacon, how will I learn anything during this meeting if you keep telling me that I must keep my distance the whole time?”

Bacon opened a drawer and pulled out an uncanny invention. It was a long, shining cylinder of retractable brass with a glass lens fitted onto both of its ends.

“What is that?” asked Shakespeare.

Bacon pulled the contraption until it extended to the length of both his arms outstretched.
“Magia naturalis,”
he answered. “This clever device was put together by one of our Italian counterparts.
*
It uses convex and concave lenses to allow its user to view distant objects as if they were closer. Test it before you leave, master bard. You will be able to make out the farthest windmills from atop the White Tower.” The scientist closed the device, wrapped it in its leather sheath, and then handed it to the stunned playwright.

“Remarkable,” Shakespeare observed. “It should make for an interesting tour of the country.” As the playwright threw the device over his shoulder, however, Sir Francis Bacon caught him.

“Master bard, I do not think you understand the situation you have just put yourself into. That device is precisely what I said it is:
magia naturalis
—natural magic. This is no power that any witches or wizards obtain through a pact with the Devil; it is the natural philosophy of how the world functions. It is God's handiwork, master bard. It is the closest thing the Double-O has to Divine weapons, and it is the best defense we have against the dark arts. If you can use this tool to learn more about our enemies, then I will gladly part with it. But I cannot stress this enough, master bard: you
must
bring it back to us. And preferably in one piece. There are only two of these devices in the entire kingdom.”

Shakespeare turned his head sideways. “Really? I could have sworn that I've seen one of these before. In W's office.”

Bacon nodded. “The one you hold is its brother. Do not break it, master bard. And above everything else,
do not
let it fall into the hands of the enemy.”

“I won't,” Shakespeare promised with a smile. He offered Bacon his hand, but the scientist turned his back on him and returned to his desk. Seeing that his time was up, the dramatist bowed and exited the Ordnance Office to try out his newest toy.

Bacon waited until Shakespeare closed the door before resuming his reading: a handwritten account of Marco Polo's encounters with Chinese astrologers. Much like the manuscript that made Shakespeare's telescope possible, these pages were also a recent arrival from Venice.

 

Chapter XX