come and go at regulated intervals. As the sun set and the moon rose, Will gathered up his courage and took a single deep breath.
He spindled his poems lengthwise preparatory to tucking them back inside his doublet. That accomplished, he was making his way to the landlady to purchase ale for himself and wine for Poley when he saw a face he did recognize, and froze.
Richard Baines. A tall, fair man with a saddlerâs forearms, a clericâs smile, and a poison pen. Blessing his dull brown doublet and the darkness of his hair, Will stepped back into the shadows beside the bar, watching as Poley rose to meet his newest guestâwhich Will had not seen him do beforeâuntil the two heads leaned together, fair and fair. They embraced, and Will saw the glitter of a band on Bainesâ thumb, a gold circle surrounding an inset of some darker metal, like the one Oxford wore. The flash of it drew Willâs eye to an odd-shaped scar on the base of the thumb, a string of pale knots like pearls.
Baines, Will knew through Kit and Thomas Kyd, and Baines would recognize him. But the men werenât looking, so Will turned as if watching the landlady go shutter the windows, ducked to swing his hair across his profile, and started for the door.
Why is Robert Poley, who stood by when a knife went in Kitâs eye, talking to Richard Baines, who puts a knife to his reputation now that the man is dead? For it was Baines who had written a note to the Privy Council that might have seen Kit hanged for heresy.
Salty sourness filled Willâs mouth, and he hesitated a moment and stole one final glance, thinking it safe enough with Bainesâ back to the room. But he found himself staring directly into Poleyâs eyes, as if the man had been tracking his motion across the room.
Will froze like a doe at the crack of a twig as Poleyâs hand went out to rest on Bainesâ thick forearm. Baines turned, and both men began to stand, and Will took one more hasty step toward the door before Bainesâ mocking baritone arrested his motion like a bullwhip flicked at his nose.
âWell, well.â The big man swung a leg over his bench as he turned and stood. âWilliam Shake-scene. Come sniffing after better company now that your fancy-boyâs dead?â
Will stepped diagonally toward the door. âI was after supper,â he said, wishing himself better armed than with a handspan beltknife. âAnd Iâve had it. Good even to you, Master Baines, and Iâll thank you not to idly insult me.â Some impulse made him step forward and add, âOr slander my friends, sirrah.â
Benches scraped on planks as the Sergeantâs custom recognized a brewing fight.
âFriends,â Baines answered with a sneer. âThatâs not what they call it that I ever heard. What will you do for a living now, you poor excuse of a playmaker? Without that drunken sodomite Marley to doctor your work and buggerââ
Will opened his mouth to interrupt, but a determined, feminine voice overrode the first rumble of his retort. âMaster Poley.â The landlady stepped between Will and Baines, ample hands on her ample hips, and tilted her head to glare around Bainesâ broad shoulder at Poley. âYou will control your friend. Iâll not have any man driving off custom.â
âMistress Mathews,â Poley said, and he laid a hand on Bainesâ arm. âAs you wish it.â But his eyes met Willâs quite plainly, and the glare that followed Will to the door said, And donât come back.
Well, Will thought later, barring the door of his own room behind him before tossing his much-battered sheaf of sonnets on the table, that could have ended much worse.
Act I, scene vi
Bernardine: âThou hast committedââ
Barabas : ââFornication.
But that was in another country,
And besides, the wench is dead.â
âCHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, The Jew of Malta
A