School of Night

by Janet Morris & Chris Morris

“Black is the badge of hell/ The hue of dungeons and the school of night.”

– William Shakespeare, Love’s Labours Lost

“Who knows you’re here?”

“No one.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Give ear, then. And tell no one.”

“Business as usual. Say on.”

“Something you have done has attracted attention from Above, and I want you to tell me what that is.”

Christopher Marlowe took a deep breath and stared through the gloom at Francis Walsingham. “Above? Something I did?” Kit knew better than to doubt Queen Elizabeth’s principal secretary, the connective tissue of all hell’s intriguers, so harken he must . . .

“You are known to have been a party to it. Because of it, some call you ‘darling of the Muses.’ Speak the truth of your escapade with Lord Byron and his cabal.” Impatience colored Walsingham’s words, as did this rendezvous the spymaster had chosen, a chamber in the Tower from which a soul could confess his lies or concoct his sins or spend infernity in a stone cell with only bats and rats for company.

“‘Cabal?’ Hardly that. More like coterie. Lord Byron and the Bard and I saved Percy Bysshe Shelley from drowning yet again. Shelley now resides under Byron’s protection, and his wife Mary visits him at Byron’s Burgage Manor.” Kit rubbed folded arms as he listened to his words bounce around the cell and out its single arrow loop.

“And?” said Francis Walsingham.

“And what?”

“And what part in this circus did J the Merciful play?” Walsingham rose and paced the cell as if its shadows were trained to his service.

“Play?” Kit would shield J from any difficulty he could. “She helped us save Shelley. It was during the kickoff of the Liars War, really. Many died. Will and I entertained the troops. So what?”

“So, at whose bidding did you and the bible writer interfere with the devil’s plans for Shelley? What contact did you personally have with Diabolos? Erra and I are concerned that whatever has occurred be not at cross-purposes with other goings-on.”

Only a player and playwright of Kit Marlowe’s caliber could sift purpose from purport in Walsingham’s queries. In so doing, he must also manage to interrogate his inquisitor. Kit’s mind raced, sorting lies yet unspoken and options yet unchosen:

“As to who bade me, ’twas myself, in your service, as you well know. And with some success, you’ll agree. I’m back in Will’s confidence and have his ear—hence, the Destroyer’s ear. As to the contact that I’ve personally had with Abaddon, we shared a few delicate moments behind the bleachers. In his guise as a woman, he found me suddenly appealing. And when Byron rode up on that steed, His Infernal Majesty flew into an obscene reverie and asked if the horse was ‘intact’. Perforce, I think our devil wants to have the beast, but the horse is real and therefore falls into the domain of ‘special dispensations from Above,’ wouldn’t you say? As to what motivates J, I have no idea, except to say that she passed her hands over Shelley, administering some sort of benediction to him as he lay recovering from his latest encounter with the deeps. Finally, as to ‘goings-on’, it’s you must tell me or decide for yourself what to make of all.”

“Sometimes I think you my best pupil, Kit. I can tell you only this: Shelley need no longer worry about midnight sailing, due to your rescue efforts. And those efforts have repercussed below and Above. In toto, boundaries have been challenged, and neither realm is comfy with that. I need to know things from J, yet when I approach her, she politely eludes me, saying something about a colored sack of words I may have misplaced. So, you shall go to her in my stead, and divine with whom she corresponds and by what means.”

Kit’s brows knit. “If ever she gave a sack unto your care, it contains words for you alone. If lost, find it, and be increased; or say you love truth not a whit. It is of great moment, but only to the one for whom it is meant.”

*

Not for the first time, John Milton huffed and puffed up the stairs to Tearsday evening’s Inklings meeting in the sitting room of Noxford’s Bird and Baby public house. He resented the academic pall of the place, environs of those who in life had presumed to censor his polemics and burn his poetry. Unceremoniously the Cantabrigian pushed open the door of the conclave to be met by in-taken breaths and rushes of papers hastily sheaved and tucked into portfolios.

“Grand poet of the sublime, John Milton, you honor us with your presence,” announced C.S. Lewis. “Do please sit. And where is your newest amanuensis, the 6^th Lord Byron?”

Chairs scraped as a score of academics craned their necks.

“Satan has restored my sight, Master Lewis, so I need no scribe. As for Byron, His Lordship plows far different fields these days.”

“How might we please you this evening?” asked J. R. R. Tolkien. “Shall I read you my most recent revisions of The Lord of the Rings?”

“Or I, from The Chronicles of Narnia? suggested Lewis. “Let’s close the doors and—”

“Or I from criticism overdue for both?” suggested Charles Williams.

The oak door shut of its own accord with mysterious finality.

John Milton squinted around and spoke quietly: “As your special guest, I took the liberty of inviting my patron, who is familiar with all your works and, of course, still serves today as the archetype for Satan in Paradise Lost, widely known as my masterpiece and one of the greatest works in all of literature.”

Hearing this, all the Inklings stood and clapped loud as the greatest fallen angel stepped into the light.

Thereupon the ovation ceased. The audience sat. Satan looked slowly over the crowd: “You are gathered to learn how my magnum opus led to your presence here, and how you may yet serve the causes of free speech and freedom of the press with your writings.”

Again, came applause for lies well told.

Satan beamed over his audience of writers and raised his arms to them. His stature grew. Wings sprouted from his back. “Freedom is but a moment away! Seize that moment while ye may!” The devil giggled at his own rhyme. His voice grew loud, then louder still. “Life and death are yours for the taking!”

The wings of the Father of Lies now bated before the assemblage. Milton bade the Inklings rise anew in response. To a soul they did so, raising arms and chanting, “Freedom! Freedom!”

“If the cost is yet more death to your ideals, then happy will you die.” Satan’s eyes and mouth seemed to grow larger than the room could hold. “We are now engaged in the Liars War, one of the greatest struggles of our times; a struggle against those Above who care nothing for the damned. We must free both thought and action, set new goals and share them, and make an end to those who revere nothing but themselves. We must fight for the great productions of the human mind. In this Liars War, you may be rewarded for your adherence to our cause and words that advance it.” As he spoke, Satan’s presence grew vivid, livid and immense, filling the room.

What utter tripe! Milton edged away to the far end of the table in hopes no one would note his mounting disdain for these proceedings. How could this archfiend ever have enjoyed a place on high, let alone deserved the fruits of Milton’s labors? Moments such as these (and there had been many) were tortures of regrets, since Satan habitually refused to follow the scripts Milton painstakingly prepared for the Abomination to deliver. Truly the Beast had no conception of rhetoric. And flaunted his ignorance before this audience of literati, no less.

He must curtail his own humiliation, this absurdity, this infernal farce.

Without delay, Milton pulled a package of pamphlets from his jacket to distribute to the scribblers on his right and left. Eagerly, they shared them about the table like a delicacy.

Waiting no longer, Milton delivered his closing statement: “Our Lord Satan can give you all you were denied in life: you will have riches and power and glory in His name! His Infernal Majesty will set you free! Now to your quills!”

Milton brandished the copies he yet held and, as he waved them about, he and Satan disappeared from view.

*

Finding J the bible writer would be more a matter of meditation than exploration. J wasn’t strictly of a place, but of a dispensation.

Nevertheless, with one backward look Kit deserted his precious Rose and the bear- and bull-baiting sheds of Bankside where, at the last high tide, bears had escaped and run amuck until cornered and killed.

Up the swollen River Thames, Marlowe spied black smoke on the horizon. He could hear artillery and feel increasing tremors underfoot as the Liars War continued its southward push through New Hell’s suburbs. He smelled death from plague and combat and flood and the occasional corpses propped too long in doorways.

Determined that no magicks would keep him from finding J the Merciful—if indeed she were where Shakespeare swore she was known to be—Kit hailed a ferry to his destination, stepped aboard and rediscovered his sea legs.

At length Marlowe debarked on the south bank of the river, a locale with which he was long familiar. Its private gardens, with their pergolas, gates and cloisters, pulled clouds down over themselves that made Paradise weep. Some considered this neighborhood the home of anarchy; some, a den of atheists; others, an experiment worth your afterlife to enter uninvited. Kit knew exactly where he was going and why coming here was worth the risk.

For Christopher Marlowe was a member of a secret society, variously called the School of Night, or the Suit of Night, or the Scowl of Night. Kit’s enemies swore he had “read the Atheist lecture to Sir Walter Raleigh and others” there. The School of Night’s fellows routinely dismissed all claims of impropriety, simply insisting that “black is the school where night learns to be black.”

These days the School hosted studies of ritual magick, science and other intellectual pursuits, secure in the embrace of its patrons and their power. As well as Marlowe himself, members included poets and scientists such as Walter Raleigh and the affluent “Wizard” Henry Percy, 9^th Earl of Northumberland, historically a long-term occupant of the Tower of London’s well-appointed Martin wing.

After Raleigh’s beheading and Northumberland’s release from the Tower, the School of Night reconvened in hell. Over time, both men resumed their patronage of the School’s ventures in literature, magick, astronomy, alchemy, and other mischiefs here at its opulent estate.

Kit’s name got him past the guarded entryway. His memory got him to the correct suite, down the hallway from where he’d slept on many a troubled night. Knocking on the half-open door of Raleigh’s study, Kit mused that Sir Walter alone might answer all his queries if he so chose.

Raleigh looked surprised to see him. “Ye gods, can it be? Young Marlowe, back in our fold? How good to see our former firebrand.” Raleigh rose, displaying the finery of his silvery doublet and hose, his garters, the Elizabethan ruff collar hiding the marks of beheading on his neck, and his square-toed slippers. Holding upright a man-length tobacco pipe, he observed, “O, I see by your courtly jacket that this is a business call, not a social one. Are you here to assist me as I devise a maritime strategy for our side in the Liars War?”

“And which side would that be?” asked Marlowe, smoothing his gold-buttoned sleeves and running a hand through his tawny mane. “Don’t tell me. I can guess. But no, I am here on another matter. I’m told our School hosts J the bible writer upon occasion. I need to see her.”

“That . . .woman?” Raleigh sucked on his pipe, then gestured with it toward Kit’s lips. “She’s not here today, or often. Don’t tell me you’re repenting. Will you have some tobacco?” He brandished the pipe, writing in the air with its smoke. “I seldom see her, really. She’s not my sort of thing. Many think she’s a virago. But in my estimation, a harridan. We’ve no women lodging here these days, nor have we boys hanging about this early, but we can summon some if you like?”

“Thanks, no.”

A sigh and brief apology later, disappointment followed Marlowe out Raleigh’s door and down the hallway.

And then: “Psst. Kit?”

Kit froze, halfway to safety outdoors.

“Step in, Master Marlowe,” lisped Henry Percy, 9^th Earl of Northumberland, ‘The Wizard Earl,’ and one of hell’s wealthiest peers both before and after his sixteen years confined with his books in the Tower.

Kit slid that way and into the demesne of this noble, who’d been first to map the moon and chart the travel of sunspots.

Henry was visibly stimulated. “As your dear Shakespeare oft says, ‘The game’s afoot.’ So what are we hunting? Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” stage-whispered Henry, a bit deaf, tongue between his teeth. “The School has been too too dull, due to your absence. You mustn’t maroon me here. Wheresoever you’re going, let us get started.” The Wizard Earl’s cataracted eyes widened. “You lead, and I’ll follow.” The earl tugged Kit by the codpiece and hurried him into the peer’s capacious rooms. “Or do we need a stop at my library? I didn’t bring most of my books from the Martin Tower when I left it. Who can say when we’ll want those books again, with this frightful Liars War in full swing and never knowing what estate might be ravaged next?” With a nimble wriggle and a push of his ample butt, the Wizard Earl shut the door to his rooms. “There. That’s better. Now, what are we doing? I yet have all my charts, if you need them. I’m over ready for a bit of fun.”

Henry Percy was among the School’s most influential literary patrons, so Kit adopted a conspiratorial air: “You’ve heard of J the Merciful? Raleigh says she’s not been here; Shakespeare says she has. In any case, I need to find her, and I’m at a loss for where to look next. Have you seen her? Do you have any news of her?”

“A female? There’s none of those hereabouts—one of the deficiencies that we didn’t have during my sixteen years in the Tower. And what, may I ask, is your sudden interest in the fairer sex?”

Kit expelled a careful breath. “My interest? As I wrote in Hero and Leander ‘Like untuned golden strings all women are, which long time lie untouched . . .’ And I yet mean those words today. To no avail I came to ask Raleigh more about her, since Will said she might be cloistered here.”

“Sorry, old son. No woman shelters here. But I’ll happily seek her out with you. Any female who has your attention is worth at least a glance from me. And as for the Bard, I’ve not seen him since the last time he and Burbage needed a penny or two for renovating the Globe after it went up in flames.”

“Alas, then, Henry, you cannot help me find her, even though you’re a member of the Privy Council, since I’ve asked there already.” Only a little lie, but a dangerous one, even to mention the Council in this context. Mustn’t cross paths with Walsingham until I’m ready.

“So perhaps on another day we can get up to another mischief, Kit? My door is always open to you. And should you need a place to stay, consider stopping here longer. Let me know when and how, and I’ll give you what help I can.”

“Yes, of course. Now I must fly, Henry. Thanks for your kindness.” Kit nearly ran through the doorway from The Wizard Earl’s apartments.

So much for Will’s advice. Kit had departed the enclave without indulging in a puff of smoke or entanglement for his trouble. As his boat neared Bankside, he recalled Walsingham’s demand: “. . . go to her in my stead, and divine with whom she corresponds and by what means.”

But how? Kit still had no answers for Francis. Or anyone else.

Flopping onto a couch in the dressing-room of his moribund Rose, he muttered to a single candle: “Where are you, J?”

No answer came forth from the candle or the rafters of the Rose. How could he ask J such intrusive questions as would satisfy Walsingham? And how could he not ask, with all his hopes at risk?

When distraught, Marlowe always wrote or found a brawl or a lover for the nonce. After too long counting the boards in the Rose’s floor, he threw open his cedar chest and rummaged there. He needed to touch the sack J once had given him, to feel the power of the words therein.

Indeed, there it was. But under his fingers, he felt something else. Another sack. This one felt empty but, as he touched it, it expanded. Bringing it into the room’s dim light confirmed his first impression;

This was not Kit’s original gift from the bible writer, but a gold-colored sack, filled to overflowing. His hands shook as he examined it more closely.

He’d seen J’s sacks before, but this was none of those: not the white sack J had bestowed upon Milton, or the green sack she’d given to Byron, or Sappho’s blue sack, or Homer’s red one.

Christopher Marlowe sat back on his haunches, holding the bulging gold sack in his trembling fingers. And he smiled, for he suspected what such a sack might do . . .

He smelled sunshine, a gust of joy, and heard, “Dearest Kit, where have you been? And what have you gotten us into?”

As now, J often appeared when he was in extremis. The golden sack slipped from his fingers and hit the boards before he could reclaim it. He swept it up. “Been? I’ve been looking for you.” Flustered, he told her a half-truth, far better than none.

She tossed back auburn curls from the coral clasps he’d given her and said, “Certainly I am not too hard to find, Kit Marlowe, for such as you. Think you I do not know what Walsingham and Erra seek? Or why? Let me put you at ease while we answer what questions may come.”

*

Rumors about the bible writer had abounded after Kit and Will traveled with Byron to help save Shelley.

Despite Walsingham’s demands, Shakespeare’s passion, and Satan’s plans, the brief appearance of J in the loft of the Rose proved once again to Kit that J the Merciful was all the help he needed.

He confronted Will backstage at the Globe where reconstruction of the roof had begun, saying, “‘…if a lie may do thee grace, I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have,’” from the Bard’s own Henry IV. “But you have played me fouler than a lie can fix, Will. J the Merciful was nowhere you had me look, and your devil becomes increasingly noisy that I satisfy him.”

Shakespeare rubbed his new earring. “Then satisfy him. Diabolos never asks for more than a soul can give. And you know that, Kit. ‘O God! That one might read the book of fate.’” Will’s eyes glistened, whether with umbrage or regret, Kit couldn’t tell.

“Will, I have nothing to give him. I’ve told him so, and you, before. As you writ memorably in All’s Well That Ends Well, ‘Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.’ Why can’t you trust J, who brings so many words alive? Why hurt someone so?”

From high above their heads, a timber came loose and tumbled down to clatter at their feet.

The two men jumped back, away from the board that could have killed one or both.

“Recall you this moment, Kit, when Diabolos saved us. Now, you must show good faith. What more can I do for you?”

“Do for me? Tell your devil lover that the bible writer is not his enemy. Nor mine. Nor yours.”

High above, a scaffold’s rope swung loose, banging back and forth as if it would fall in its turn.

Will Shakespeare grabbed Kit hard by the arm. “Be my friend, Marley, for all time and all reasons. Even you can envision such a thing, when hearts know their places and we two know ours.”

“My heart knows its place, Will. But show me, O mighty Bard, how deeply the devil cares for you; deep enough that Abaddon will hear truth from me should I dare speak it before him? Deep enough that I can give straight words to Francis Walsingham to deliver on high, while your master devil affronts all the heavens and nature below? Deep enough that you or I or any soul may pray to those who can end the ills of all the damned? Think of it! All onus ended! All battlefields quiet! All sick healed! And to prove that what I ask applies, get your canny devil to allow J the Merciful to prospect as she wills among the vilest of the damned.”

J had told Kit exactly what to say to Shakespeare—and through Will even now to the Prince of Lies, listening inside Kit’s dearest friend—that she asked nothing for herself, no clemency, no way to improve her lot. Nor Kit’s.

Marlowe’s heart was pounding. Not since his earthly death had he dared so much, never faced so great a fall from underworldly grace, never risked all on such arguments as these.

The Bard let go Kit’s right arm, which at first went numb, then ached from wrist to shoulder. Kit rubbed it.

And as he did, another timber shook loose on the roof of the Globe and crashed to the ground by their feet.

This time, only Shakespeare jumped back. “Kit! Be you careful,” warned Will.

“‘Careful,’ answers no need of mine this day, Will. I need things that neither heaven nor hell can provide. And now, vouchsafe me a trip to the deepest hell and back, since your Destroyer claims that your own power grants you all measure of bestowal.”

“Kit, what foolishness is this? That woman can give you only all manner of misery.”

Lest he say anything more, Kit was already walking toward the river with both hands balled in his pockets. In his right pocket, a gold-colored sack nestled. The time to use it, as he’d promised J, had not yet come.

*

Walsingham and Northumberland were both members of the Privy Council, but Raleigh, who was not, had the Council’s ear when Erra and his Sibitti materialized in Henry’s chambers uninvited at the School of Night.

“Mighty Erra,” said the Earl of Northumberland, blinking hard, “what brings you to our humble School?”

Erra’s raiment shimmered in the air like a rainbow as he waved his personified weapons to the sides of Henry Percy’s rooms. The Seven safed their armaments and threw back their cowls to stand rampant and mute before their master. “You don’t know?” asked the plague god, incredulous. “How can that be? You do know that I have been sent here from On High to make the hells more hellish, not to coddle the precious affectations of you who claim to serve those Above. In that capacity, my mission is clear.” With a flick of his wrist, the bearded Babylonian waved his Sibitti back and through the walls of Henry Percy’s rooms as if those walls had no substance.

Erra continued: “We can bring devastation in all its forms, wars and storms and cold and fire and suffering. In the face of this option, I have waited for answers to my questions, answers which you have not provided. I am the bringer of mayhem and pestilence, and my Sibitti can turn your little hells upside down. Fear me, or I will strip your holdings to naught.” With a sweeping gesture, he indicated what he would obliterate. “My Seven shall not hear what is said by us in this room. So now, I put it to you: tell me why your Liars War lays waste multitudes without regret, and yet you few indolent souls thrive here, and in no way bow down before the wrath of all the ages.”

“Mighty Erra, how can we satisfy you?” asked Raleigh. “Your servants are most impressive, these Sibitti that are your instruments. If, as you imply, we also serve a higher power, you must not make an end to souls who merely beg divine forgiveness. In doing so, you rip aside the mystery that is your power, not mindful that humanity always fights to the last . . .”

The plague god boomed: “You appear to fear nothing, yet you send me a woman to speak for you, a lamb to supplicate a lion. You are but souls with impossible dreams of freedom. We Above have sent you the Trickster; this devil and his lieutenants fill the evening vault. Our fallen angels, one third of heaven’s complement, dwell here with you. Which of you is Francis Walsingham, who plots against me and the magnificent Above?”

Walsingham exhaled a rattling breath. “I am Walsingham, Lord Erra. And I have no excuses for my behavior; indeed, need none. You would catch us in the cogs of gears opposed but never seen. Mayhap you miss the fact that humanity, on Earth and in hell, has one great talent: we do whatever we must to survive. And while you play to win, we play not to lose. Man and woman strive beyond the ability of any to predict. We souls are as brutal with one another as are any demons or fallen angels. We enslave one another, surmount torture, and destroy ourselves with more gusto than can any from Above or below. Not even death deters us, for we care not. We try to manage, nothing more.”

The Wizard Earl, Henry Percy, cleared his throat. “Mighty Erra, what do you suggest we do?”

“I have told you what to do, Northumberland. Destroy the good in them, the brave in them, and requisite evil will soon follow.”

“They plot,” complained the earl. “They scheme. And they love one another more than they fear death, since love, not death, is forever . . .”

Raleigh scoffed. “I feel no pity for them. I have seen the weak and the meek and the primitive. They desire to rise above themselves. Their passions, not us, rule them. Plagues don’t stop them, for they care nothing for the welfare of their own kind. However, they do fear themselves, and with good reason.”

“Walter, let me,” said Walsingham, raising a forfending hand. “Mighty Erra, I—”

“Alibis,” interrupted the god of mayhem. “You weren’t listening to me just now. I’ll repeat: You sent this woman to plead my clemency for the murdering infestation of souls you call humanity—a woman who lied to the Destroyer and now ministers among the damnedest. And you dismiss her, cannot so much as divine with whom she corresponds and by what means she heals sorrows and eases pain. And she wants only to continue to do so. Does it not shame you, when a creature who risked a lie to Satan can heal the most ignoble and unfortunate? Do you truly see her not, hear her not, heed her not?”

Francis Walsingham said, “You are a mighty lord of heaven. We are simple soldiers of righteousness among the damned. I have ways to deal with traitors. Tell me who among the souls of hell most offends thee, and we three will find a way to fit punishments.”

“You will? You think you can? I think not. I think you have already failed in that regard. It is you who offend me. I have in my employ souls who destroy each other for gold or pleasure. Some work their wills among you, such as my bible writer and those who pray to me. This ‘School’ of yours has begun. As easily can it perish. Atheism? When you question the existence of a higher power, do you not know you also peel the skin from Satan? Can you fathom the agony of one caught between those poles? I don’t think so. However, I can arrange for you to savor it, right now if you wish. Listen: If you persist in challenging the existence of the One, the Other comes to meet. And that is a place not even I wish to visit. Do you take my meaning?”

Before any of them could answer, the plague god’s rainbow raiment again swirled about him. The seven Sibitti burst through the walls, unsheathed their swords, made of them a platform, caught up their lord in their arms and carried him away.

“Gadzooks! That was close.” Walsingham yelped, then collected himself. “Gentlemen, I think the expression is ‘School’s out.’ But take heart. I have spies everywhere, and they yet do my bidding. Through them, the School, and our Privy Council, I can moderate what displeases us and limit what threats those Above and below can make good.”

*

Marlowe found Shakespeare as Will and Lord Byron were preparing a stall in the Globe’s cellarage. Byron had loaned his horse to Shakespeare for the next staging of Richard III. In the confined space, the aroma of the stallion waxed heady. Bundles of fresh hay added to the perfume.

“Kit, how good of you to stop by. Isn’t he magnificent?” Shakespeare ran his hand from the black horse’s poll, down the arch of its neck to the withers, and scratched there. The horse rolled back its lips in pleasure and pointed heavenward with its muzzle. “A king’s mount for certain. And Byron’s been kind enough to help with his grooming.”

“He’s marvelous, Will; and you look elegant upon him,” said Kit. “He’ll light up your Richard. But I’m here for another reason. When last we spoke, we parted without resolution, and I wish to revisit that.”

Recalling the falling timbers from their last meeting, apprehension clouded Will’s eyes. “That’s fine, Marley, but might we adjourn—?”

“Kit! Will! Byron! Thank the Fates!” Breathless, Walsingham stooped to avoid bumping his head on a support beam as he entered the cellarage. “I’ve good news, Marley. I found my missing sack. It is gray and it is full of the most amazing things. Words, yes, but more. Of course, you three know all about them . . .”

Shakespeare clapped his hands to his ears. “Marry, not sacks from the bible writer again . . .”

“Will, haven’t you one? Surely—” said Walsingham.

Shakespeare groaned theatrically. “Surely not. Haven’t you heard? I’m not exactly deficient in words, and when I need a new one, I invent two! I certainly needn’t borrow any.”

“And are words alone enough?” asked J the Merciful. None were surprised by her sudden appearance at the stallion’s head, feeding it hay, her cloak clasped over one shoulder.

“Ah, now are we complete. Welcome, milady,” said Shakespeare, and bowed as if at court. “You ask if words are enough. In what possible sense are they not enough?”

“You honor me with your question. But will your words teach music to my breath? Do sorrows fly before your metaphors or eagles loft upon your meters or carry you as nobly as this horse, a beast of Nature’s finest design? O, King of Words, where is thy domain, in which words rule more than two opposing thumbs set one to a quill, another to a sheet?”

Never before had Kit seen the expression now on Will’s face. The Bard simply stared. This was the moment Kit and J had known must come. He reached into his pocket, withdrew the golden sack, and pressed it into Will’s right hand.

When Walsingham made as if to whisper to Byron, the lord stayed him.

So did they stand there for what seemed an eternity: the spymaster; the lord; the playwright; the poet; and the prophetess, listening to all their hearts beat as one.

Ready for rancor from Will, Kit Marlowe found himself rewarded with its opposite. As Kit watched, Shakespeare tugged at the strings of the golden sack, opening it at the throat.

Will poured the contents, intangible to all but him, from palm to palm, then refilled the sack and clutched it to his breast. Turning to Kit with tears in his eyes, Will said, “If there is a particle of love left between us, let it fill this sack forever.”

Then, facing J, Will adopted a deeper tone: “My error cast you as hegemon to my love for Kit. Plainly, this is not so, and I would sue for peace between us. Is that to be?”

J said, “It is.”

And Shakespeare murmured low to her, “I must know what magick waits in this sack.”

Only then did the others crowd around Shakespeare, to hear what she might say:

“There is no magick for thee but thee, Will Shakespeare. As close to where you are as I can, I have come—no more. Only you can close what distance remains.”