License to Quill (7 page)

Bacon slammed the books shut on Shakespeare’s fingers. “It is neither my mission nor my interest to fear the powers of the occult. I prefer to decipher them.”

Shakespeare snickered. “You believe such knowledge is within your power?”

“Knowledge is itself power.” Bacon handed Shakespeare a small piece of parchment. “Commit this to memory.”

“Well, it’s certainly memorable,” appraised the playwright. “However, the ending was a bit obvious.”

“What you are looking at is a bi-literal alphabet: a new cipher developed for use by all Double-O operatives.
*
It’s easy to remember thanks to its binary format, so you need not worry about deciphering symbols. This new method allows any user to hide whatever message they like in plain sight using whatever delivery system they choose: letters, poems, music, drawings, and even plays, if you wish it.”

“But
of course
it can do that!” The bard spoke with a thick slather of sarcasm.

“Here…” Bacon groaned. He handed the playwright W’s mysterious letter.

Ba
co
n

W
i
llm
S
ha
ks
pere is b
ack.
P
l
ease
e
q
ui
p him

A
c
cor
di
ng
l
y.

I
n
h
a
s
t
e

M
r W.

The bard looked at Bacon with a face full of confusion. The scientist responded by tapping his finger on the cipher page. Once Shakespeare recognized the pattern embedded within both documents, they fit like a lock and key in his mind.

Ba
co
n

W
i
llm
S
ha
ks
pe
r
e is b
ack.
P
l
ease
e
q
ui
p him

Accordingly.

I
n
h
a
s
t
e

M
r W.

AABBA

ABAAA BAABB AABAA AABBB ABAAA ABABB AAAAA BAAAB BAABA

ABBAB

ABBAA

GIVE HIM ASTON

The bard raised an eyebrow and smiled at the inventor. “That was certainly nice of W.” He handed both parchments back to Bacon. “So, what exactly is an Aston?”

“He’s more than you’ll ever deserve in your life!” sneered the scientist. He then seized a leather book and stormed out of the building.

The bard could not help but feel a little rejected as he followed the great Sir Francis Bacon out of the Double-O.

 

Chapter VI

[Enter Aston]

Despite the frequent friction between himself and Francis Bacon, Shakespeare walked out of the Ordnance Office more satisfied than if he had just won the state lottery. His new rapier, watch, and playing cards cloaked him in a welcome sense of security, and although they seemed a bit excessive for his new assignment, the playwright was in no rush to give them back. Never before had the bard seen or even dreamed of owning such fine weapons, and that was before he set eyes on the even more stunning creation waiting for him in the Tower stables.

“How's Bentley?” Shakespeare asked as he and Bacon crossed the Inner Ward.

“He's had his day, I'm afraid. We had to put him out.”

“To stud?”

“No, out of his
misery
, master bard. What you see here is all that remains of the animal you failed to adequately care for.”

Shakespeare froze in shock and stared at the leather book in Bacon's hand. “Bentley…” the playwright whimpered as he reached out to his former friend. “How could you, Francis? He was a good horse!”

Bacon ignored the saddened Shakespeare and stood with his codex behind his back. His attention focused on the Tower stables, and for good reason. Once the bard discovered why, he could not look away.

Two squires approached the men with the most magnificent animal the playwright had ever seen. “This is your new horse,” Bacon announced. “A Turcoman stallion; cousin to the Arabian. Sixteen hands high. His name is Aston, so make sure you call him that. He's trained not to cooperate under any other name.”

“Unbelievable…” Shakespeare gasped. He had never seen a horse with such a shimmering coat before. The gray steed shined like Damascus steel, and his lean muscles more closely resembled knots of silver silk. He had a long, slender body, a gunpowder-gray tail, a straight profile with a wide forehead, and two large, soulful eyes as pensive as a monk's. The bard removed a glove and tried to stroke the steed's long neck, but Aston turned his head and snorted angrily. Shakespeare drew his hand back, much to Bacon's satisfaction. “Is he always so friendly?” the spooked playwright inquired.

Bacon continued his briefing: “He's lighter than the Neapolitan Courser, which should work to your advantage. It makes him a more difficult target to shoot or spear. Speed and agility will be your best defenses on Aston. Any armor would sap him of his swiftness, so you won't be given any.”

“He's a bit thin, isn't he?” With its long back and high belly, the silver stallion somewhat resembled a massive greyhound.

“To the untrained eye, Aston will appear weak or underfed. It's all a facade. Beneath the mask, this horse is a charger with unrivaled endurance. You could cross an entire desert on him towing gear without him tiring. He's strong, fast, fears neither flames nor thunder, and Master Markham swears that Aston is the most intelligent horse he has ever trained.”

“A horse of letters? That's adorable,” the playwright teased. “Tell me, how smart is he?”

“Smart enough not to ask so many questions. Please pay attention, master bard.” Bacon waved over a squire carrying a large leather saddle. “We have some equipment that should help you if you find yourself in trouble.” Bacon opened a leather pouch on the saddle and removed a rough-looking iron ball. “This is a larger version of that timepiece we gave you earlier, only this one is designed to fragment without explosives. What you are looking at is a tightly packed collection of caltrops: small spikes designed to point upright no matter how they fall. Just push on this button to loosen them, and then throw the ball behind you as you gallop. The sphere will break apart and cover the ground with caltrops, destroying the feet or hooves of whatever pursues you.”

“Bless my sole,” the bard appraised with a smile the scientist did not return. “But wouldn't it be easier if I just lobbed the ball at the rider?”

“Just make sure you throw the weapon
behind
Aston, master bard. Also, the same goes for this.…” Bacon reached into a different saddlebag and pulled out a glass sphere filled with amber liquid. “Can you guess what this is?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “A suppository for the horse?”

Bacon narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “This is urine from a mare in heat.”

“That was my next guess.”

“'Twas not.”

“'Twas!”

“Be silent, playwright. This is a weapon to trip your enemies. Shatter the glass orb behind you and any stallions on your tail will quit their chase. The same goes for their riders once they are thrown off their horses.”

“That's not reassuring,” observed Shakespeare, who was a keen student of military history. “Master Bacon, that trick is as old as the Song of Songs.
*
How do you know I won't be subjected to the same fate due to an unfriendly wind?”

“As I explained, master bard: you simply throw the sphere
behind
you.”

“Understood, but don't you think some precautions should be taken?”

Bacon's face changed. “What precautions?”

Shakespeare motioned toward the intact stallion's underbelly. “Are you going to geld this beast, or must I do it myself?”

Horrified, Sir Francis Bacon walked straight up to the playwright. “Master Shakespeare…” he spat close enough for the bard to taste every syllable, “absolutely
no harm
will befall Aston in your care, do you understand? His line runs straight to the two horses gifted to Richard the Lionheart by Saladin. They saved Richard at Arsuf and stayed with him throughout the holy wars. It took four centuries of patience and husbandry to reincarnate them into the magnificent creature you see here. So, mark my words, master bard, and mark them well for one time in your life: You will return Aston to these stables
alive
and unharmed, and if you even
think
of taking a knife to him, I swear to every god and every faith that I will castrate you myself!”

Bacon then shoved his leather book into Shakespeare's chest with so much violence that it knocked the playwright back a step. “That codex contains all the necessary instructions—”

“Wait.… Instructions?”

“Yes, instructions to save his life! If Aston sustains any injuries on your mission, it will be your job to repair him.”

“You're mad!” Shakespeare gasped. “I'm a playwright, not a … zoo doctor!”

“AS. I. SAID! If Aston is injured, consult that codex! It cost nothing short of your previous horse's life to fill its pages.”

Dumbfounded, Shakespeare looked down at the leather tome in his arms and flipped it open … to a lifelike drawing of his beloved horse's severed head. The codex was a handwritten, hand-illustrated atlas on equine anatomy: every bone, every muscle, every organ, and every vein that had made up the pained playwright's former companion. “Bentley…”

“There's more, master bard. We trained Aston to neither trust nor work with unfamiliar faces. It's the reason he spurned you earlier; it's a safeguard against theft. You have to establish a bond with Aston before he lets you ride him, so starting tonight, you will sleep with him in his stall for the next several months.”

“What?
Months?
”

“As long as I deem necessary,” Bacon pressed.

“You can't do that! I … I have a home!”

“We all do, master bard. It's called the Ordnance Office, so get used to spending more time than you'd like here.”

“But this is not what I came here for!”

“You read the letter, master bard. If you plan to take Aston, these are my terms.”

“But, I—”

“Master Bacon?”

The scientist, the playwright, and even Aston turned their heads to a squire who unexpectedly entered the discussion. “Shakespeare can't sleep with Aston tonight. I'm sleeping with him.”

The bard grinned with triumph while the snubbed scientist turned his back on the squire. “Tomorrow, then,” Bacon sneered. “As for now, come with me. There's one last thing we need to do before the dusk.”

“What is it this time?” Shakespeare scoffed. “Do I have to clean the Augean stables?”

“You are welcome to clean Aston's stall when you get there. Until then, you and I have business atop the White Tower.” Bacon turned his back on the bard and marched toward the castle while the puzzled playwright scratched his head. He looked once more to Aston, but then gazed skyward to the conspiracy of ravens circling the Tower of London.

 

Chapter VII

Joining the Conspiracy

It had previously occurred to Shakespeare that London's raven population had increased dramatically within recent years. The more superstitious part of the playwright took this as an ominous sign—another bout of plague, perhaps—but the truth was quite the opposite. These ravens did not arrive to curse Britain, but to save it.