License to Quill (38 page)

Nay. Someone else had betrayed the conspirators, and Fawkes was willing to offer his soul to find out whom.

The condemned man closed his ears to the clergyman beside him as he looked over the crowd. He knew that he, or she, had to be out there watching him. Fawkes was determined to find the person who betrayed him. His last seconds stretched into hours as he ran his eyes over the faces of his audience.

And then, he saw someone. A familiar female figure. It was the one sister who the cunning folk kept in London. Fawkes had not seen her in many months and had nearly forgotten that she existed. As the conspirator stared at her, astonished, this youngest sister turned her head to the west.

Fawkes shifted his eyes to the Lady chapel of Westminster Abbey. Although he could not see through its narrow windows, its pinnacles and flying buttresses were blanketed with ravens. The conspirator squinted at the birds, tearing his mind apart over why they haunted him like death throughout the city: at the Tower, and his execution, and …

Fawkes's eyes widened just as the sack was pulled over his head.

Mad with hatred, the conspirator leaped from his platform, snapping his own neck.

He offered his life to whatever god the witches worshiped in exchange for revenge against William Shakespeare.

 

Chapter XLV

The King's Men

“That's disappointing,” Thomas Walsingham remarked from the Lady chapel's windows. Fawkes had denied London the opportunity to see him castrated and disemboweled while still alive.

“A traitor's death is still a traitor's death,” said William Shakespeare. “How we dress it up is unimportant.”

The spymaster smirked and puffed a cloud of smoke as he turned around. “It is interesting that you say that. I have a letter from the king addressed to you.” W reached into his cloak and produced a folded parchment bearing King James's royal seal. “There is one more traitor whose head the king would like to see on a spike.”

“Henry Garnet?” Shakespeare asked as he took the document.

“Well … besides him.”

Walsingham returned to his pipe while Shakespeare turned the letter over. King James's royal seal was unbroken. “Have you read it?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know its contents?”

The spymaster snorted smoke. “Let's just say I know the secretary who wrote it down.”

Shakespeare lowered his eyes and read the letter while W puffed.

The bard's hands began to shake. “You shared my play with the king?”

“Of course I did! You know I had to take it into custody.”

“But … the king! What will he—”

“Just keep reading,” said the spymaster.

The bard returned to the parchment and then looked up in disbelief. “He wants me to perform the play.”

Walsingham nodded. “Parliament voted last week to make November fifth a holiday.
*
A day of thanksgiving to commemorate the deliverance of these lands from papists, Jesuits, seminary priests … et cetera,” he recited. “The king wants your play to be the highlight of the evening! A spectacle that all of London can share in—since we can't kill these men again.”

Shakespeare laughed uneasily. “But Thomas … The play is not kind to the king. I wrote it as a weapon of war for a revolution I did not want to be a part of!”

“It's a Trojan horse, is what it is! We still have the cunning folk to contend with. As long as you change the role of Banquo to one more complimentary to the king, the rest of the tragedy can be performed in its entirety. The war against the cunning folk is not yet won. Your play will help the government keep our enemies in their place and give the public something new to hold on to.” Walsingham then reached into his cloak and produced what looked like a large, thick coin. “Consider this a down payment,” he offered, dropping the memento in the playwright's palms.

The newly struck medallion displayed a serpent lurking beneath a bed of flowers and read “DETECTVS QVI LATVIT. S. C.” around its edge.

“Interesting,” said Shakespeare, tempted by the keepsake. “But I don't know. This is not what I agreed to.”

“Then how about we make it the last thing we ever agree on? Do me this favor, perform this play, and you can retire from the Double-O. The war against the cunning folk will be left to those who want to fight them, and you can return to focusing entirely on your work.”

Shakespeare froze. “But what about my license? Will that be revoked as well? You're already asking me to rewrite this play.”

“As I said, we can make this the last thing we ever agree on. A replacement has already been brought in for you. He will take your place the day you perform the play.”

The bard's eyes widened. “Really? Just … like that? You're done with me?”

“After Fawkes and Essex, we're running out of conspirators for you to work with,” Walsingham quipped.

The bard's voice deepened. “And what of Bianca?”

W's posture stiffened. “What about her?”

“Her war ended years ago. Let her be free of you.”

The spymaster narrowed his eyes as his pipe smoldered. “So be it. We'll satisfy the king's request first, and then I promise to do everything in my power to release her.” Walsingham offered his hand. “Do we have an accord?”

The playwright weighed the offer, along with the letter and the bronze medallion. “We do,” he decided, shaking the spymaster's gloved hand with his.

“Very good.” W smiled. “You will be missed, my friend.”

Shakespeare tried to stuff the king's letter in his cloak, but Walsingham took it back. “The medallion is yours, but not the letter.”

Already, the bard could feel his power fading. “Out of curiosity, who will be my replacement?”

“You will find out soon enough,” said Walsingham as he walked Shakespeare out of the cathedral.

“Is it anyone I know?”

“Just remember the fifth of November, master bard.” The spymaster tapped the bard's bronze medallion, and Shakespeare pocketed it.

“I will.”

 

Chapter XLVI

A Surprise Visitor

Nine months later

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“Of course! Just a few more months, and I will be free of this place forever.”

Shakespeare sighed as he and Bianca walked arm in arm across London Bridge. He did not think the Tower was a good place for a lady in her state. The air there was putrid. “Have you decided where you will be going?” the playwright asked.

“After Naples, I was thinking Constantinople or Rome, and then settling down in Venice. I heard such wonderful things about the library there!”

“Oh? From whom?”

The Dark Lady smiled to herself. “I can walk the rest of the way. You should hurry back to the Globe.”

“Tilly-valley! I will do no such thing. Let me see you to the Tower.”

“Will,” she chided playfully, “I can take care of myself, and so should you.”

The playwright paused with Bianca at the midpoint of the bridge, ignoring the circus of revelers rushing past them. Shakespeare ran his hands down her raven hair before settling on her swollen belly. “I know I say this every day,” he started, “but Anne—”

“What Anne wants is not what I want,” Bianca interrupted. “Once more, just once more, I want to be in charge of my own fate.”

The bard frowned. “You could be traveling a long way for disappointment.”

“If my parents are still alive, they deserve to hold their only grandchild. Being reunited with them could be the one thing that makes these past twenty years worth living.” Shakespeare lowered his head, but Bianca raised his chin. “You have to let go of me at some point. For both our sakes, today would be a good day to start.”

Shakespeare looked to the children running past him, which made him think of poor Hamnet. “May I kiss you before I do?”

She smiled. “Of course.”

The London couple embraced and then parted ways. As did the lovesick ravens following them.

It was November 5, 1606, and the Dark Lady had just entered the last month of her pregnancy.

*   *   *

“Gentlemen,” the bard greeted as he walked into the Globe.

“Master Shakespeare…” hissed William Sly in a Scottish kilt. “Where the bloody hell have you been?”

“In a nicer place than the front row if you go out like that.”

William Sly looked down at his hitched-up kilt and covered his loins.

“Master Shakespeare!”

“Yes, Lawrence?”

Lawrence Fletcher rushed within whisper range. “There is a man here to see you. He says he's from the government!”

The bard raised an eyebrow. “The government?” Walsingham never came to meet him at the Globe. Ever. “Where is he?”

“Upstairs in the storage room.”

Shakespeare looked up at the small hut jutting over the heavens. A silhouetted figure was staring down from its windows while a stately raven waited outside.

The bard went upstairs.

“What is it, W?” he asked as he entered the hut.

A tall, cloaked figure spun around holding a white volto to his face. The Venetian mask had a black mustache, goatee, and eyebrows painted on to more closely resemble the grinning visage of Guy Fawkes. “Boo!” said its wearer.

The playwright jumped back. “Who are you?”

“You tell
me,
master bard!”

The playwright squinted his eyes and honed his ears. Once he realized whom he was speaking to, “No…” he gasped.

Christopher Marlowe lowered his Guy Fawkes mask and smiled. “Yes, it is!”

Shakespeare took a step forward. “Kit?”

Marlowe threw the mask away. “William!”

The two ran into each other's arms as brothers and laughed. “You're looking good!” the poet praised. “And you're losing your hair!”

The playwright brushed this off. “Kit, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Venice.”

“Foh! Don't mention Venice!”

“Why? Did something—” The bard froze. “No. There was a—”

“A massacre in Venice. I know. I plan to write a play about it!”

“Summer's day!” Shakespeare cheered. “You must tell me everything!”

“Why? So you can steal my ideas?” Marlowe slapped Shakespeare playfully. “I ought to have your shirt for
The Merchant of Venice
!”

The bard hid his face in his hand, embarrassed. “You heard of that?”

“Heard of it? I've seen it twice this year!”

Shakespeare's jaw dropped. “You have been here that long?”

“Yes! I am sorry I did not seek you earlier, but…” Marlowe held his head high. “I am a bit of a new man these days!”

The playwright grinned. “Well, it's good to have you back, my friend. Please stay for the evening! We have a new show tonight.”

“Yes, the play that all London is talking about!” Marlowe teased. “The drama with no name!”

The bard could read the mischievousness on his friend's face. “You already know its name, don't you?”

The poet nodded. “
Macbeth
.”

Shakespeare laughed. “That is it! Please, you have to see it. In fact, if you want, I'm sure we could give you a small part in it!”

“I would love to, my friend, but alas … I'll be working in the Tower all evening.”

“The Tower? What are you doing there?”

“Isn't it obvious?” Marlowe took a step back and threw out his arms. “I've been brought back from the dead! Our friend Thomas has made me the new Lazarus! Why else do you think I'm here? I'm the one who reviewed your play for the government!”

The bard shook his head in disbelief. “You're working again? You're … the one? My replacement?”

“If I remember correctly, you were
my
replacement!”

The two laughed cheerfully. “Yes, well, I have some stories to share as well.”

“And I look forward to them with all my still-beating heart. But as of now, I must fly. We will meet again soon enough!” The tall poet embraced the shorter playwright and then dashed out of the room. “Good luck tonight!”

“Thank you! You will be missed!”

Once those words hit Marlowe's ears, the poet stopped. After a thought, he turned around and walked back into the hut. “Will, just one question before we part. You mentioned a maritime mishap in
Macbeth
about a ship called the
Tiger
.”

“Yes,” the bard confirmed. “The witches mention it in scene three.”

The poet nodded. “I saw that was a recent addition to the book of the play. Is there any reason you added it?”

Shakespeare, somewhat surprised by this, explained: “It's just a little something for the audience to enjoy. A lot of people heard about the
Tiger
this summer; the horror. I thought it would make the sisters more menacing.”

Marlowe swallowed. “Do you really think that such women can control the elements? That they can destroy ships at sea?”

Shakespeare could see that something was troubling his friend. “Kit, what is it?”

“I'm just curious.”

The bard shook his head. “No. You're not telling me something.”

Marlowe's eyes fell. The dragoman's ship
Sultana
had recently disappeared at sea. “To be continued,” he decided.

The poet disappeared from the Globe Theatre.

 

Chapter XLVII

Macbeth

LEN.

Sent he to Macduffe?

LORD

He did: and with an absolute Sir, not I

The clowdy Messenger turnes me his backe,

And hums; as who should say, you'l rue the time

That clogges me with this Answer.