charged with heresy and sedition are free to rent a mare and ride to Deptford, and not on a rack in the Tower? And youâll be afforded the same protection.â
âAnd the same enemies.â But it wasnât just the danger of his own position, or the unwritten things twisting in his brain. He plainly missed Kit.
âYouâll make enemies any way you slice it, with your talent. Ah, here we are.â Burbage pointed to the scarred sign hanging over a green-painted door, and then led Will down a dim, stinking alley toward the back, where a wobbling wooden stair brought them to the second story. Will clutched the whitewashed railing convulsively, despite the prodding splinters. Although, if the whole precarious construction tumbled down, a death grip on the banister couldnât save him.
A door at the top of the stair stood open to catch what breeze there was. Burbage paused at the landing and softly hailed Oxford within, while Will stood two steps below.
âEnter, Master Players.â Edward de Vere did not stand to meet them, but he did gesture them to sit. Stools and benches ranged about the blemished table, and the small room was dark and confining despite the open door: it did not seem the sort of chamber an Earl would frequent. Incense-strong tobacco hung on the air in ribbons, the sharp, musty tang pleasing after the stench of the streets.
âLord Oxford, as youâve summoned us,â Burbage said, taking a stool. Will doffed his hat, reseated it, and sank onto a bench and stretched his legs.
Oxford nodded to the player, but turned his bright eyes to Will. âHow comes the play, gentle William?â
The question heâd been dreading, and Will twisted his hands inside the cuffs of his doublet, folding his arms. He almost laughed as he recognized Kitâs habitual pose, defensive and smiling, but kept his demeanor serious for the Earl.
An Earl who studied him also seriously, frowning, until Will opened his hands and shrugged. âNot well, my lord. The storyâs all in my head, butââ
âTimes being as they are.â
âYes.â
âI understand thou hast tried thy hand at some poetry. A manuscript called Venus and Adonis has been commended to me. Compared to our MarleyâsââOxfordâs nostrils flared momentarily, as if he fought some emotionââunfinished work. Iâd see it read.â
Heat rose in Willâs cheeks as he glanced down at his shoes. âYouâd see my poor scribblings gone to press, my lord?â
âI would. And command some sonnets. Canst write sonnets?â
Oh, that stiffened his spine and brought his hands down to tighten on his knees. Burbage shifted beside him, and Will took the warning. âIâve been known to turn a rhyme,â Will answered, when he thought he had his tongue under control.
âI need a son-in-law wooed,â Oxford said. He stood and poured wine into three unmatched cups. Will raised an eyebrow when the Earl set the cups before Burbage and himself. More than mere politeness, that. âHenry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton: Iâd see him married to my daughter Elizabeth, where I can perhaps keep him from trouble. Heâs close to Essex and to Raleigh, no mean trick. Kitâd befriended Sir Walterâs lotâtheir School of Night, so-calledâand learned a few tricks by me of the philosopher Dee. Itâs trouble waiting to happen: too many of the Queenâs favorites in one place and rivalries will brew.â
Willâs eyebrow went even higher at the familiar form of Marleyâs name. âAnd you wish me toââ
âDedicate thy book of poems to Southampton. As if thou didst seek his patronage. Afflict him with sonnets bidding him marry. Raleigh is an enigma: thereâs no witting which way he might turn in the end. Essex is trouble, though.â
âThough the Queen love him?â Burbage said, when Will could not
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley