Besieged: Stories from the Iron Druid Chronicles(13)
He wore a black tunic sewn with vertical lines of silver thread and punctuated with occasional pinpoints of embroidery. His collar was large but not one of those ridiculous poufy ruffs you saw in those later portraits of him. Those portraits—engravings, really—were done after his death, in preparation for the publishing of his plays. In the flesh he looked very similar to the Sanders portrait found in Canada, painted just the year before I met him. His beard and mustache were soft wispy things trimmed short, a sop to fashion but clearly not something he cared about. His hair, brown and fine, formed a slightly frazzled cloud around his skull, and he almost always had a smirk playing about his lips. He was neither handsome nor ugly, but the intelligence that shone behind those brown eyes was impossible to miss.
“Oui,” I said, affecting a French accent. It was more south-of-France than genuine Picardy, but I was hoping Englishmen would be unable to tell the difference, the same way that most modern Americans cannot distinguish the regional differences between English accents.
“I’m told you’ve been looking for me,” he said. “I’m Master William Shakespeare of the King’s Men.”
“Ah! Excellent, monsieur, I have indeed been asking about you! I wish to pay my respects; I just saw Othello recently and was astounded by your skill. How like you this establishment?” I said, for it was fair-to-middling shabby, and I had chosen it for its visibility more than its reputation. “May I buy you a bottle of wine here, or do you prefer a more, uh, how do you say, exquisite cellar?”
“I know of an excellent establishment if you would not mind a walk,” he replied, and so it was that I settled my bill, allowing my coin-heavy purse to be viewed, and navigated the standing shit of Jacobean London to the White Hart Inn, the courtyard of which had played host to Shakespeare’s company under Queen Elizabeth, when his troupe was called the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.
The November skies permitted little in the way of warmth, so there was never any suggestion that I remove my gloves. I played the fawning patron of the arts and enjoyed my evening at the White Hart Inn, where Master Shakespeare was well known. He ordered a bottle of good wine and put it on my tab, and it wasn’t long before he was talking about his current projects. Since King James himself was his patron, he could hardly set aside projects meant for him and do something specifically for me, but he could certainly discuss his work and perhaps, for a generous donation to the King’s Men, work in something that would please my eyes and ears.
“I’m quite near to finishing King Lear,” he said, “and I have in mind something that might appeal at court, a Scottish skulduggery from a century or so past. A thane called Macbeth aspires to murder his way to the throne. But this exposure of a thane’s base ambition is lacking something.”
“What? A knavery? A scandalous liaison?”
“Something of the supernatural,” he said, lowering his voice as one does when discussing the vaguely spooky. “The king possesses a keen interest for such things, and it behooves me to please the royal audience. But I confess myself unacquainted with sufficient occult knowledge to inform my writing. There’s my astrologer, of course, but he knows little of darker matters, and he’s a gossip besides.”
“Do you need firsthand knowledge to write about it? Can you not glean what inspiration you need from others?”
Shakespeare shook his head, finished his cup of wine, and poured a refill from the bottle on the table. “Ah, M’sieur Lefebvre, what I’ve read is too fantastical to be believed, and I do not wish to tread on ground so well packed by others. I need something compelling, a spectacle to grab you firmly in the nethers and refuse to let go. Even the fabulous must have been kissed by reality at some point to have the appearance of truth, and without that appearance it will not work in the theatre.”
“Have you any idea where to find such a spectacle?”
The bard leaned forward conspiratorially. “I do have an inkling. It is a new moon tonight, and I have heard tales that on such nights, north of town in Finsbury Fields, black arts are practiced.”
I snorted. “Black arts? Who would report such things? If one were truly involved, one would hardly spread word of it and invite a burning at the stake. And if one witnessed such rites up close, it follows that one would hardly survive it.”
“No, no, you misunderstand: These accounts speak of strange unholy fires spied in the darkness and the distant cackling of hags.”
“Bah. Improbable fiction,” I declared, waving it away as folly.
“Most like. But suppose, M’sieur Lefebvre, that it is not? What meat for my art might I find out there?” The innkeeper delivered a board of cheese, bread, and sausage to the table, and Shakespeare speared a gray link that had been boiled a bit too enthusiastically. He held it up between us and eyed it with dismay. “One would hope it would be better fare than this.”
“Will you go a-hunting, then?”
Shakespeare pounded the table once with the flat of his left palm and pointed at me, amused at a sudden thought. “We shall go together.”
I nearly choked and coughed to clear my throat before spluttering, “What? Are you addlepated?”
“You have a sword. I’ll bring a torch. If we find nothing it will still be a pleasant walk in the country.”
“But if we find something we could well lose our souls.”