License to Quill (8 page)

Bacon's footfalls echoed up and down the White Tower's spiral stairs while Shakespeare followed behind him carrying two wooden pails. The reeking buckets were overflowing with an odd assortment of animal parts: chicken livers, beef kidneys, sheep lungs, ox hearts, pig intestines, tongues, eyeballs, and several clumps of dead rats. The bard was unsure what Bacon's plans were after their recent row over Aston, but he had neither the time nor the energy to protest the mad wizard. The blue skies outside the Tower's arrow slits were darkening, and Shakespeare was very much looking forward to fleeing the fortress before someone locked him inside it. Since the only way out of this quandary was up the castle's twisting steps, up, up he climbed to the top of the Tower of London.

“Do you always feed them like this?” the bard put to the scientist.

“No, but this is how we train them.”

“Train them for what?”

Bacon paused mid-step. He turned with his lamp raised so that he could clearly see Shakespeare's face. “What I am about to tell you does not leave this castle. It's a secret to everybody.”

The amused playwright smiled and acquiesced with a bow. “Please proceed, Master Bacon.”

Placated, the man of science continued his climb while speaking over his shoulder. “Several years ago, I began testing the limits of animal intellect in the interest of training birds superior to carrier pigeons.
*
My research brought me to Aesop's fable about the crow and the pitcher,
†
and from there to Pliny's writings on the remarkable interactions Romans enjoyed with their ravens.
‡
I determined that if ravens could learn names and faces, solve puzzles, and even serve as lookouts in antiquity, we could train them to serve the realm far more effectively than as mere messengers.”

“How so?” Shakespeare asked. “Can you make them sing for the king on his birthday?”

Bacon hitched his lamp onto a hook, silhouetting the scientist as he looked down at the playwright. “Imagine powers greater than Saint George commands, master bard. Imagine observing the Scottish Highlands and the Cliffs of Dover in one blink; being able to distinguish all your friends from all your foes in an instant; never failing your allies, and never forgetting your enemies. Imagine all this from a creature with eight thousand claws, two thousand eyes, and one thousand hearts. In all your years, master bard, and with all your proud faculties, tell me: Can you imagine that?”

Shakespeare took a long look at the philosopher eclipsing him with his shadow. Although he could not see his face, the bard could feel the intensity coursing through the man's veins. “I have a good imagination,” the playwright acknowledged, “but imagining is not the same thing as believing.”

Behind his silhouette, Sir Francis Bacon was smiling. “That, master bard, is why you
lack
imagination.” The shadowy scientist pushed a door open and disappeared onto the White Tower's rooftop. As Shakespeare followed, an unusual noise filled his ears: a deep, sustained cacophony that almost sounded like gasping, or gurgling. No … groaning.

The bard froze. His gray eyes widened.

Atop the White Tower, William Shakespeare and Francis Bacon stood ninety feet in the air, offering both men a spectacular view of London and its surroundings. To the bard's left, the River Thames snaked left and right, north and south, past St. Katherine's Docks and Says Court, around the Isle of Dogs, along Greenwich and the Palace of Placentia, and then off into the east. Straight ahead of the bard was the castle's southwestern turret, which bisected his view of Southwark into Barnes Street on the left and the Globe's own Bankside on the right. Connecting Southwark to London proper, Shakespeare could see the full expanse of London Bridge stretching more than eight hundred feet across the Thames with twenty arches and four clusters of tenements squeezed together like bellows. About two miles beyond the bridge, the River Thames bent southward, past the royal Palace of Whitehall and the larger Westminster complex. Guy Fawkes was down there, the bard noted, as he focused on the buildings by Westminster Abbey. To his right, Shakespeare surveyed the setting sun behind the countless spires sticking out of the walled city. More than two hundred thousand Londoners fell under his eyes. Farmlands, windmills, and country homes dotted the pastoral landscape in the distance. It was a spellbinding viewpoint for reexamining the world where he lived.

And then there were the ravens.…

One by one, two by two, wave by wave, a vast conspiracy of black ravens descended upon the Tower of London. The bard had never seen so many of the huge birds in his life. They appeared as long as his legs and had wingspans as wide as his arms. The ravens formed a swirling black cloud that completely blanketed the castle's battlements. As they swooped down to perch on the roof top, every one of their onyx eyes and sharp beaks honed in on the bard at its center.

“You have been busy.…” Shakespeare remarked to the scientist.

“More than you can imagine.” Bacon walked up to the playwright amidst a crescendo of croaks from the birds. “Hold out your hands.” The bard set down his buckets and outstretched his fingers as if playing a clavichord. Bacon turned the playwright's palms upward and stacked them high with meat. As Shakespeare's hands became laden with entrails, he could not help but glance nervously at the ravens around him. There was a violence in their voices that the bard found disquieting, but once Bacon stepped away from the playwright, their tones changed completely. Most of the ravens fell silent, some turned their heads, and a few even called out to the birds around them. It was almost as if they were discussing the playwright with a communal curiosity.

“What is this?” Shakespeare asked. “Why have you brought me here?”

“Need I repeat myself, master bard?” asked Bacon as he set down his buckets.

“You never mentioned this part. Whatever part it may be.” The bard winced at the carrion in his hands. “What are you trying to do? Feed
me
to them?”

“As I explained, master bard, this is their training.” Bacon removed a wooden flute from his belt. “Don't move.”

Shakespeare turned his head to the scientist in near-panic. “What are you doing!”

The wizard raised the wooden flute to his mouth. “It's a secret to everybody.”

The flute whistled.

The ravens froze.

There was silence and stillness. And then, flapping.

The bard shut his eyes.

The ravens washed over Shakespeare, engulfing the playwright in a frenzied swarm of black feathers. The bard could no longer see London. He could no longer see daylight. He could no longer hear anything other than the whirlwind of screaming ravens surroundering him. The bard peeked through one eye to see the birds tearing the entrails in his hands to ribbons. Some of them perched on his wrists as they ate, weighing them down. Others flew onto his shoulders. One even tugged on his beard as if to make sure it was real. One after another, the ravens studied Shakespeare's face as the bard stared in shock at the blood-covered beaks.

“No matter where you go,” said Bacon, stepping into the storm, “you will never be alone. You will always be followed, and you will always be guarded. These ravens will watch over you with all-seeing eyes. All their relations and offspring will be told who you are. Ravens from every corner of Britain will know you by your face; even those who have never seen it themselves. As long as you are friendly to them, these ravens will protect you with their lives. They are your secret weapon. They are your patron saint. They are your guardian angel.”

“Remarkable,” Shakespeare observed as several ravens broke away, carrying news of the bard's into the horizon. “Just remarkable.”

“No, they're not,” the mad wizard corrected. “They are nothing.
This
is nothing. This afternoon never happened. Do you understand me?” Bacon filled the playwright's hands with more meat, and the conspiracy engulfed them once more.

Shakespeare nodded. “It's a secret to everybody.”

 

Chapter VIII

The Mating Call

It was dark outside when Shakespeare finally reached his apartment; too dark for him to notice the raven following him home or the other, more ravenous bird waiting for him by his window.

The bard's London lodgings in 1604 was a three-story town house on the northeast corner of Silver Street and Muggle. It was a large, spacious building in the affluent neighborhood between Cheapside and Cripplegate within the northwestern edge of London Wall. As with most homes on Silver Street, this one was oak-framed with gray timbers on beige loam—not exactly colorful, but quaint nonetheless. The bard's lords were the Mountjoys, a prosperous Huguenot family whose downstairs business supplied the Globe Theatre with fine wigs and headdresses. Their storefront and workshop filled the ground floor of this building, their apprentices and servants the top floor, and the Mountjoys enjoyed the middle—save for when Madame Mountjoy sneaked to Swan Alley for her affairs with “Mr. Wood.” Shakespeare's apartment was a single room on the same floor as the family, which was where the playwright found his landlord anxiously pacing the halls this evening.

“Master Mountjoy?” asked the bard as he crept up the stairs.

Christopher Mountjoy jumped. “Master Shakespeare! Thank heavens you're here!”

“I'm sorry I startled you. Is something wrong?”

“William, there's a man here for you!”

The playwright went rigid. His thoughts immediately returned to Guy Fawkes. “Is it a great man with red hair?”

“No. This one's a small fellow with white hair. Very nice hair! It would make a fine wig.” The dimly lit Mountjoy seemed to stare off for a moment, but then remembered: “He says he's from the government.”

The bard groaned.

“William, what have you gotten us into! If this has anything to do with my daughter—”

“It has nothing to do with your daughter,” assured Shakespeare, who had recently agreed to nudge one of the upstairs apprentices into marrying Mary Mountjoy, for a fee.
*
“The gentleman is here for a private matter regarding one of my plays. It is of no concern, Master Mountjoy. You can go to sleep. All is well.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I swear on Madame Mountjoy's good name,” the bard promised, his tongue firmly in cheek.

The naive landlord exhaled. “Whew! What a relief! Have a good night, William.”

“I will.…” Shakespeare sighed with less confidence. Once the dunce Mountjoy exited the scene, the bard drew his new rapier and rushed into his bedroom.
“Who's in here!”
he whispered with his tempered blade raised.

A white raven was perched on the bard's windowsill. It turned from its view of St. Olave's across the street and stared straight at the playwright. All of Shakespeare's candles were lit, which baffled him since the room had appeared dark from outside. Someone must have lit them only seconds ago, and said someone was seated beside the raven at the bard's writing desk.

Shakespeare took a step forward. “Those candles cost money,” he said in a firm tone. “Put them out!”

“I want to see your handsome face,” the figure replied in a feminine voice. She stood up and removed her hat, sending long, shining locks of silver hair cascading onto her shoulders.

The bard lowered his rapier. “Penny?”

“You said you would be seeing more of me, Will. Here I am!” She playfully curtsied in her men's clothing, bowing low with her shirt open.

The bard was petrified.

“What? Aren't you going to welcome me with a kiss?” The woman sashayed toward Shakespeare in the candlelit apartment while seductively stroking her white beard.

“Why are you wearing that?” The bard grimaced while sheathing his sword.

“William Shakespeare!” Penny laughed. “Surely an actor like you appreciates a convincing disguise.” The woman twirled a finger through her fake beard and removed it with grace. “Deception is a lady's best defense at this hour, especially in a city overrun with wolves like yourself.” Penny closed in and slipped her fingers beneath Shakespeare's shirt. As she pressed her body against his, the bard could feel the bulge of her codpiece brush against his inner thigh.

Shakespeare pushed her away. “Don't tease me, Penelope.”

“I am not teasing you!” Unable to control herself, she then teased the bard's beard until he smacked both her hands away. The pained woman grinned.

“What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I knew Bacon would keep you late. I just wanted to make sure it wasn't too late.” She traced her finger around the smooth head of Shakespeare's steel pommel. “I'm the reason you're not sleeping at the stables tonight. I sent that squire to rescue you from the Tower.”

The bard tilted his head. “Really?”

“Of course! You may be a
beast
, Will, but only I get to treat you like one. And whip you like one.” The lady coiled herself around the playwright as she spoke.

Shakespeare looked down at the silver-haired siren beckoning him with bedroom eyes. As he bent down to kiss her, she slid her hands down his waist until the bard heard something click.

Penny turned away from Shakespeare and robbed him of his belt—along with all the weapons and inventions Sir Francis Bacon had given him. “A belt this nice you should wear of one hip.” She modeled. “And what are these? Playing cards?”

Outraged, the bard stormed up to Penny and spun her around. However, once he seized her, he found her dangling his deadly timepiece by its fatal pin in his face. “Ah, ah, ah!” she chided. “Would you rather spend the next seven minutes in heaven this way?”

“Lady Percy!” Shakespeare gasped as she dropped the bomb into his hands. “Are you trying to kill us? What the devil is the matter with you!”