The Worldsmith [Chapter Three] [Axis Powers Hetalia, England, America, others]
HEY GUYS HEY GUYS
IT'S BACK
DID YOU MISS IT
I SURE DID
Title: The Worldsmith [Chapter Three: Rehearse Most Obscenely and Courageously]
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, America; William Shakespeare, Elizabeth I, Robert Devereaux, and assorted other actors, playmakers, peers, gentry, scoundrels, spies, and thieves.
Rating: This chapter is PG-13. Others will be higher.
Summary: Sent back in time to deal with a mysterious threat to England's nationhood, England and America contend with witchcraft, the undead, the power of language, and their own clashing personalities.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three: In which no one has long enough to catch their breath, and the Lord Chamberlain's Men seek a replacement.
Notes: This is also known as the "time travel and Shakespeare and zombies" fic. You'll see why.
“I should damned well say so,” England says, and America can’t remember the last time his eyebrows bristled so much. “Where the hell did you-”
“Hey, I could ask you the same question! Or, well. I could asketh you, anyway.”
Pope and Heminges and Phillips are sort of scooting away from the table as quietly as they can. Pretty darn quietly, it turns out, which isn’t usually something America associates with actors. Will descends the steps cautiously, like he’s feeling out for rotten floorboards, and America hears him give a few coughs that almost sound like laughs.
England blinks. “Asketh me?”
“Yeah, you know. Just talkingeth the talk.”
“Am-Master Jones?”
“Yup?”
“Henceforth, please cease any and all attempts to speak my language.”
“Hey, the guys get a kick out of it,” America protests, looks to Kemp to back him up on that one.
Kemp guffaws, salutes America with his mug. “Ay, he’s a talent for it, to be sure.”
“What, for malaprops?”
England’s eyebrows haven’t relaxed much, if at all, and if he screws his face up any tighter it really might stick like that, so America cracks a grin and hopes England’ll loosen up a little, too. “Guess so. Apparently I’m a German clown.”
“A German-” England’s eyebrows do relax, only to shoot straight up to his hairline. “Oh good god.”
“And apparently Germany has clowns.” America shrugs. “The world’s a strange and fascinating place, huh?”
“My head hurts,” England groans.
“Too much too fast, huh?” England’s never been good with that kind of thing, though to be fair, he’s-well, assuming this all isn’t some kind of dream, and since America woke up this morning to find Will snoring beside him and a really fragrant chamber pot at the foot of the bed, it’s got to be a really complicated dream, because America doesn’t usually dream in his dreams. Anyway, to be fair to England, he’s lived through all this before (assuming he’s not a figment of America’s imagination), and if anyone gets to complain about too much too fast, it should be America. Hell, he’s wearing a doublet.
“No, really,” England groans again, his head in his hands, his elbows starting to skid off the table, “feels as if-God’s teeth-it’s going to split in sodding two-”
“En-whoa there, Sir Kirkland,” America says, springs up and catches England by the elbows before he sags out of his seat entirely, “let’s, uh, let’s getteth you upstairs.” His color doesn’t look so good, either; America’s used to England being pale, but not this kind of milky whiteness, like there’s yellow seeping in underneath.
“Jesu,” Phillips says; Heminges sucks air in through his teeth.
“What ails him?” Will asks from the foot of the steps, his smile vanishing.
“I know not, man,” America says, “but I don’t like it.”
“I can walk,” England says and tries to struggle forward, but his knees cave in. “Oh, bugger, of all the-they called in my debt, oh hell-”
“You know what he’s talking about?” America asks Will in an undertone.
Will shakes his head.
“Me either. Sorry, guys,” America says, raising his voice, “we’ll be back in a second, hold on, Will, I’ve got to get him up yon stairs-”
England grabs at America’s collar, and even if his hand’s shaking his grip’s strong enough. “He-he ought to hear this,” he whispers.
“Right. Will, can you give me a hand?”
“Oh for the love of-” England protests, but not before Will says “Ay,” and scoops England up from under the knees. America wraps his arms under England’s shoulders, and the two of them haul him up the stairs stretched out between them.
“I hate you both,” England mutters once they’ve gotten him in the room and hoisted him onto the bed, “and-is that a doublet?”
“What, this?” America can’t help but grins, twists to the side to give England a better look. He definitely fills out a doublet better than he did when he was a kid; it fits him just tight enough, and the laced-in sleeves billow a little, but not in a way that makes his arms look like balloons. The Venetians don’t billow quite as well, but they’re better than the onion things, and at least he doesn’t have to wear a codpiece with them. He’s mostly stopped itching under his collar, too. “Not bad, huh? Will asked if I wanted to swap out my glasses for something more fashionable, but I said no.”
“No,” England says; something slides over his eyes for a moment, some kind of shadow, but it passes before America can ask. “No, it isn’t bad. Where-ah, sodding Christ-where did you get them?”
“I borrowed the clothes from Burbage,” Will explains, kneeling by England’s bedside. “My Nation, what sits ill with thee?”
America does a double-take.
“Of course he knows,” England says, with something between a sigh and a groan. Which makes sense, America has to admit.
“And Master Jones is another of thy kind, I assume?” Will asks, nodding to him.
America’s double-take is a lot smaller this time, but no point hiding it, is there? “Yeah. I’m-I guess I’m just America, now.” He’s not going to get the United States part until-Jesus Christ, not for another two hundred years, almost. The room’s plenty cold already, but America swears it drops a few degrees.
Will eyes him appraisingly, strokes his stubble with his thumb. “You are not, perhaps, what I would have pictured of that land.”
“Yeah, uh. Technically, you’re right. It’s complicated,” America says, scratches behind his ear. Will’s taken the Nations bit well enough, but how the heck is he going to take the time travel? Hell, America’s still not sure he believes it. He shouldn’t believe it. Every rational instinct he has tells him not to, and yet. “So. Where were you, anyway?”
“I could ask you the same.” England winces, sinks deeper into the bed. “While you gallivanted about with Master Shakespeare, I had to wrangle with a walking corpse.”
“Wait, what?”
“A walking corpse.”
“Yeah, you said that. England,” America says, his voice cracking, “are you telling me you fought a zombie?”
England looks thoughtful. Well, thoughtful and pained. “That’s as good a name for it as any.”
“Are zombies even supposed to exist?”
“Not this kind. Not now. That’s what worries me.”
“Forgive my intrusion,” Will says, coughing, “but what, pray tell, is a zombie?”
***
“-so, you know, the whole ‘shoot it in the head! Shoot it in the head!’ thing suddenly doesn’t work so well because you guys aren’t exactly packing shotguns and I wouldn’t trust them even if you were, no offense, and breaking out the swords kind of goes against the number one rule of zombie fighting, which is not letting them get close enough to bite you-England, did it bite you?”
“No,” England says, “and you’re hysterical.”
“I’m not hysterical! You’re telling me a zombie killed Spenser-”
“I said I didn’t think the creature killed him.”
America crosses his arms. “Okay, so he got killed by cultists. Who are magicking up zombies or something. And can I just take a moment to say I still don’t believe I’m actually saying this?”
“Noted, and duly,” Will says, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“You seem to be taking all this pretty well.”
Will doesn’t quite shrug. “There are stranger things in heaven and earth…”
“Hang on, have you written that play yet?” America asks.
“Come again?”
“Never mind.” Guess the guy cribs from real life a lot. “Okay, so we know someone poisoned Spenser, we know there’s some crazy magical shenanigans-England, stop smirking, aren’t you supposed to be sick?”
“Oh, I am,” England says, massages his temples. “Continue.”
“And we think Spenser might be mixed up in the whole zombie business somehow. Oh, and your queen’s getting old and there’s like a zillion people who’re gunning for the top spot now.”
“In so many words, yes,” England says. “What we don’t know is why Spenser wanted to meet with thee, Will.”
“Alas, would that I knew,” Will says, “but the message said naught of it, only bid me to come at midnight at his lodgings, and ensure I was not followed.”
“So I guess you guys didn’t usually do the whole meeting-up-at-midnight thing.”
Will shakes his head. “Nay.”
“And you have no idea? None?”
“For god’s sake, America, he said he doesn’t.” England tries to push himself up on his elbows, but flops back down. “I’d have better luck asking the fae to scry-”
“Oh, Jesus, England, not your little fairy friends again-”
“The fae have said naught to me on the matter,” Will says, and America’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence, then falls open again.
“The-wait. What?”
“The fae,” Will repeats, nonplussed. “I speak to them, sometimes, and a good thing, for they told me to find you.”
“You never told me you saw them!” England says, points an accusing finger at Will.
Will doesn’t quite shrug. “Thou never didst ask.”
“Great.” America rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s delusional.”
“You accept the zombies readily enough, why not the fae?”
“Because zombies aren’t magic.”
“These are.”
Okay, maybe in some mythologies, America’ll concede that much even if he won’t tell England so. “Plus, I can see them.”
“You could see the fae if-”
“Gentlemen,” Will says, coughing, and even if he is a little delusional America listens. Hey, artists are supposed to be a little loopy, right? “Pray pardon, but we must not tarry long; the Lord Chamberlain’s Men are meant to rehearse at the house of our patron today, in preparation for our performance before the queen ten days’ hence.”
“Sweet,” America says, “which play?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Will smiles. “I am fond of it, as is Her Majesty.”
“Dude, I love that one.”
Will laughs, a little startled. “It has reached the far shores of America?”
“Well, England gave it to me,” which is technically true. From a cultural exchange perspective. “Speaking of. You up for the trip?”
“I suppose I’d best be,” England says, rolls onto his side. At least that’s successful. “I should talk to Cecil again.”
“And hey, free show, right?”
“It is only a rehearsal,” Will says, “and the space is not so grand, but ay, you are welcome if you wish it.”
“You’re a bro.” America claps him on the back. “All right, let’s get this wagon train moving. England, you need us to carry you down the stairs?”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
***
Turns out the rehearsal space is a mansion. “Cecil’s brother’s is nicer,” England grumbles from the bale of hay he rests on, but America thinks the house they’re pulling up to is plenty swank: it’s buffeted by a cluster of shops and stables, the gables jut up and pierce the skyline, and the timbers overlap and form this cool kind of lattice on the walls.
“Looks better than the cart, anyway,” America says just as it jolts and sends his head colliding with the canvas. The cart’s drafty as hell, too, he thinks, rubs his arms briskly. Yeah, the hay insulates some of it, and yeah, the new clothes help, but way too much air whistles through the cracks for America’s liking.
To be fair, though, the canvas muffles the smell.
“Are we there yet?”
“Soon, god willing.” England groans, sits upright and brushes the hay from his hair.
“Good, ‘cause I’m getting bruises in places I didn’t know-”
The cart jerks to a halt, and America dives facefirst into the nearest pile of hay. At least England doesn’t laugh, probably because he’s too busy saying “Oh bugger ow bloody fucking Christ-”
“How does the journey’s end find you? Well, or ill?”
America spits out a mouthful of hay and grins weakly at Will. “Well. Mostly. Might need to make a pit stop at yon privy, though.” Or at yon vomitorium, but America’s pretty sure that’s Roman and not English at all.
“Ay, the roads are rough,” Will says, helps the two of them stumble out of the cart (England sports a lump on his head the size of an egg) and towards the door. “Rough, and as like to bar travelers passage as they are to admit them.”
The rest of the company’s busy unloading from the wagons, though there’s not as much stuff as America’d expect. Henry Condell’s piling a bunch of dresses into the arms of one of the apprentices, Kemp tucks an ass’s head under his arm, and is Burbage carrying around a beard? Looks like it. “‘Tis only rehearsal,” Will explains when America asks, “and we travel light.”
America nods, draws his cloak tighter. Snow dusts the grounds and roofs and even part of the path; it’s not quite a Christmas card effect, and the house is too big to call the picture cozy, but it brings a kind of warmth to America’s fingers and toes. That’s the only kind of warmth he’ll be getting for a while, looks like, considering how the cold of the flagstones indoors shocks him through his boots. “Jesus,” he says, grits his teeth. “You’d think whoever owned this could pay to put in a few more fireplaces.”
“Ay, and will, an I’ve consigned this one to dust.” A hunchbacked man steps out of the stairwell, surveys the hall with a snort. “‘Twill have walls of stone, not the mud of a rude cottage.”
“Sir Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley and Lord Chamberlain after his father,” Will says, makes a leg. “And our most esteemed patron.”
“Master Shakespeare,” Cecil says, nodding, and stops when he sees America. “And your companion?”
“May I present Master Alfred Jones, a German clown of no small repute?” Will doesn’t kick America, exactly, but the way he lifts his eyebrows suggests he might if America doesn’t make a leg like he did. America sighs. Part of him knows the “I don’t bow” conversation’s going to be more trouble than it’s worth, especially since Voltaire and Locke haven’t even been born yet, but still, the idea chafes.
“Jesu, Kirkland,” Cecil says before America can decide either way, “you look a fright.”
“Payment for last night’s sins,” England says. “Come, let us be seated, before I pay for them more.”
America takes his elbow and steers him towards the benches the apprentices are placing at the other end of the hall. England doesn’t even grumble much about it. The benches sit opposite a screen, and from the shadows America guesses the actors are getting dressed back there, but other than that, the stage area’s bare: no furniture, no props, no big set pieces in the back. Okay, those would be hard to fit in the wagon, but when America asks England says (between winces) that they always do plays like that. “The stage alone isn’t equal to the task, remember?”
He does. Seems like half a year ago, but he does. America shivers, not just from the drafts whistling through the hall. The temperature and the smells are already kind of turning into background noise in his head-not gone or anything, but if he noticed every reeking street or every blast of cold air, he’d barely have time for anything else, so it’s not stuff his brain really has to comment on anymore. It’s not acclimation, necessarily, it’s more-his mind can only handle so much at a time, you know? And he’d rather think about the stuff he actually has to think about.
Of course, that’s like two million things right there, but hey. He waves to Will as Will steps behind the screen. Maybe the play’ll take his mind off things.
***
It’s nice, after a day of the Ren Faire from hell, to run into something he knows. And he knows Midsummer. Not his very favorite of Shakespeare’s-of Will’s, jesus, he knows Shakespeare now, that thought still makes his mind blank for a few seconds-but it’s up there. They’re doing the first scene with the rude mechanicals, the one where they’re casting Pyramus and Thisbe, and the actors are a lot shoutier than actors have been for the past hundred years at America’s place, but they’re still fun to watch. They’re a lot more active, too: they bound across the stage, whack each other upside the head, even tumble and perform a few snatches of dances when it’s called for. Burbage is running the rehearsal, technically, but he hasn’t done much other than correct a few bits of blocking and yell “Thy lines, Kemp, keep to thy lines!”
From the way Will’s grinding his teeth next to America every time Kemp goes off-script, it sounds like Burbage isn’t the only one thinking that.
Kemp’s funny enough, America guesses. He knows what he’s doing; not a step of any of his dances is out of place except for the ones that are supposed to be. But when America watches him, he knows it’s him. It’s not that you don’t get that with any of America’s actors anymore, especially with the stars, but it’s still a little strange to see. Also, America knows Bottom’s supposed to cut the other characters off, but America’s not sure the other actors’ grumbles about getting cut off are, well, acting.
“Well yes, I daresay they’re annoyed,” England says when America asks about it, “it isn’t pleasant to be interrupted-”
“Hang on, is he doing a jig?”
England groans.
Will drums his knuckles on the bench.
“The raging rocks and shivering shocks shall break-” Kemp pauses, then thunders, “the locks!” like it’s the best rhyme ever invented. He’s not done, though. “That keep our co-”
“Kemp!” Burbage shouts.
“Marry, only a bit of improvisation,” Kemp says. Will keeps drumming his knuckles: tap, tap, tap.
“Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming,” says the actor playing Flute. Kemp yanks on it, laughing, and almost drowns out the next line.
“You shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will,” Quince begins.
“An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby, too,” Kemp pipes up again, “for Henry Condell’s grown a beard, and can do’t no longer.”
Condell screws his mouth up like he’s swallowed a lemon, and Thomas Pope swats his arm. Condell’s got nothing on the way Will’s mouth tightens, though.
“What of Burbage, ye ask, Burbage the great? Ay, too great to girdle into a gown-picture, if ye will, Heracles wrestling such an Amazon.” Kemp tugs at the air, grunts, mimics wiping sweat from his brow. “Ay, even his great strength is overcome in trying to wrest it loose!”
America almost laughs, but it dies in his throat when he gets another good look at Will’s face. If Will presses his lips together any more tightly, he’ll never be able to get them unstuck. America clears his throat a little, shifts in his seat. England’s not really watching the performance, either; he glances from Kemp to Will to Cecil and never settles too long on one.
“And as for William Shakespeare,” Kemp says, drags each syllable out until he almost drawls it, “God a’ mercy if I ever met a woman with so many words to her! For sure I’d stitch her mouth up that the air might erupt from her other end, which I would indeed welcome-”
“That will do,” Will says.
“I cry thee mercy,” Kemp says, his broad braying tone evening out, “but I am not yet finished.”
“Indeed, thou art.” Will doesn’t stand, but his fingers clench in his lap. America eyes them both warily: Will’s younger, yeah, but there’s not one unmuscled line of Kemp’s body, and Will’s not a stick or anything but America’d still be more worried about him breaking his wrist on a punch than he’d be about the guy on the other end of it.
Kemp smiles, crooked. “Thou wilt end the scene so soon, before all thy words are spoken?”
“These are not my words.” Now Will stands, and America scootches to the side to give him room.
“Ay, thy words, thy words, thy words, always thy words with thee and no thought for aught else!” Kemp stomps, and wow, the shocks from that ripple up through the legs of America’s bench. “Thy play, thy theatre, thy company-”
“I did not think thee a child, to squall and stamp thy foot,” Will says, each word so clipped it almost sounds like he’s speaking in verse. “I see I was mistaken.”
Cold as it is, America can’t help but mouth burn.
“We shall to the next scene!” Burbage says, strikes the bench with a stick. “Condell, take thy place-”
“Next scene, next scene!” America claps his hands together, reaches over to elbow England in the ribs and get him to do the same. “Yeah, movingeth right along, this dothn’t bear dwelling on, let’s see what you guys have to show us.”
“I said I was not finished!” Kemp shouts, glowers at the rest of the cast onstage with him. They’ve crept towards the wall at right, half-on and half-off where the stage is supposed to be. “Why, what fine players are we, to yield without complaint to a playmaker’s fancies!” He jabs his finger at Will, and America can’t remember if “quivering with rage” is one of Will’s phrases or not, but if it is and he hasn’t already come up with it, America thinks he knows where it came from. Even Kemp’s nostrils are twitching, shuddering with each indignant sniff.
“His words, aye,” Kemp continues. “What are such words? Give the crowds a sporting afternoon, and they will come, words or no.”
“They will come, ay,” Will says. He hasn’t sat back down, but he’s still, composed where Kemp’s bristling all over. “But they’ll not see a play if they do.”
Well! If nothing else, this is some pretty riveting drama right here. None of the other actors have left their seats, and Burbage might’ve shouted for that scene change but he’s not trying to usher the next set of actors on. He grips his stick instead, lets it hover just inches above the floor. Cecil strokes the side of his jaw, and England finally nudges America back and murmurs, “Watch.”
“Trust me,” America whispers, “I am.”
“I propose,” Will says, and this is the loudest America’s heard him speak, “that we players, and you our audience,” he adds, nods to America and England and Cecil, “and all who join us in this venture are bound together in partnership, and that our journey will not succeed if we are not all set in purpose to make it so. All of us.” He eyes each actor in turn, and America swears he shivers when Will finds him. “The meanest groundling and greatest tragedian share a stake in this: theirs to shoulder should we fail, and theirs to reap should we triumph. And we can triumph-if only we are generous, if only we welcome our friends alongside us, if only we do not claim more than is our due, for the rewards are all the greater if we wait.
I ask for no more than is my due. My words are but a frame; they will not live if you do not let them. Let them, then, I pray you. Give me but that, and your generosity shall be repaid forever.”
America can’t remember the last time it felt so good to stand and applaud. England’s on his feet right after, and god, he’s practically glowing, his cheeks reddening with-is that pride? Honest-to-god pride?
It’s just that England doesn’t seem to be proud of stuff nearly as often as he used to. Which, granted, isn’t always a bad thing, but there’s something about the way he smiles when he thinks no one’s looking, the way his mouth softens-
“Together, then,” Burbage says, and America and England echo: “Together!”
“Together!” says Henry Condell, and Phillips and Pope and Heminges and all the apprentices aren’t far behind: “Together!”
Is it cheesy? Yep. Is it sports-movie cheesy? You betcha. Are there inspirational violins swelling in the background? Well, if they have those in this time period. Is America’s chest still getting a little tight? Hell yeah.
“And thee?” Will asks, turns to Kemp, who’s watching the cheers with a frown so deep it’s practically a furrow in his face. “Wilt join us, or nay?”
“I am a fool by trade, not by disposition,” Kemp says. “Thou wouldst have me cease to jig, and mouth only the lines you set down. Any fool could do it-one by disposition, not by trade.”
“Sheesh,” America mutters. “Diva.”
England’s struck by a fit of coughing.
“I would not call thee so,” Will says, quiet but firm.
Kemp snorts. “I’faith, thou hast already. I like not this new theatre, and I like not that an upstart crow seeks to teach my craft to me.”
“A what?” America asks in an undertone.
“It isn’t complimentary,” England says.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“It is not thy craft I dispute,” Will says, and America hears the edges of his voice start to fray, “but thy craft at the expense of mine, and of thy companions’? Ay, that I dispute.”
“Do they dispute it?” Kent rounds on the actors clustered by the wall, the shareholders gathered in the audience. England’s coughing fit must be contagious, because they’re all hiding their mouths in their hands or sleeves, looking sideways, paying an awful lot of attention to the floor.
“In good earnest, Kemp,” Phillips says, “it can get in the way.”
“Oh, ay, and shall no longer, by God.” Kemp barrels past Will, knocks into his shoulder and strides through the benches they’ve set up, pushing them out of the way, too. “From this day hence, I’ll trouble you no further.”
Kemp’s a different kind of actor than the rest, though; he halts just long enough in the stomping-off, like he’s waiting for the others to rush forward and fall all over him. “Dude,” America says, “are you going or not?”
England chuckles.
“What’s so funny?”
“You used to do the same when you were small,” England says. “Stomp off in a huff, and wait for me to catch up with you.”
“Yeah, but he’s like forty. And I was like a hundred.” America pauses. “It’s different. You know what I mean.”
“Her Majesty, Kemp,” Cecil calls.
Kemp’s through the thicket of chairs by now; he pauses before the door. “Ay, what of her?”
“You would not slight Her Majesty by refusing to perform before her at Richmond, surely?” Cecil doesn’t turn around, just tents his fingers up, props his chin on them. It’s very mastermind-ish of him.
“Enough perform before Her Majesty that I would not be missed,” Kemp says, snorting, and wrenches the door open. “She has fools enough in her seraglio.”
As the door bangs shut and blasts cold air in its wake, America’ll say this much for Kemp: guy knows how to make an exit.
“Uh, are you allowed to sass the queen?” he asks England.
“No, and were someone to write that down, Kemp would find himself in a great deal of trouble.” England sighs. “Or he would have ten years ago, at any rate. The system’s-oh, it’s complicated.”
Before America can ask just how complicated, Burbage says, “Well, we find ourselves short a Bottom.”
“Robert Armin, perhaps, could learn the part,” Pope suggests.
Burbage shakes his head, his moustache drooping. He reminds America of a walrus. A really doleful walrus, all sagging flesh and bristling whiskers. “Robert Armin is in Deptford for a fortnight; we perform before Her Majesty in ten days.”
“And I need not mention the black mark it will be if you do not,” Cecil says, tugs at his beard with a frown. “To say nothing of the black mark on me. I wonder-”
But he doesn’t finish it.
“We are not without our clowns,” Will says.
“One of the apprentices? Ay, but they’re too fresh for Bottom-”
“Not the apprentices,” Will says, and suddenly everyone’s staring at America, which he’s normally more than okay with, but the actors are more looking him over like he’s lunch.
England’s eyebrows vanish into his hairline.
“Ay,” Phillips breathes, “thou didst say he was a clown.”
“Me?” America says. It’s squeakier than he meant it to be.
England’s progressed from coughing fit to outright choking next to him. “No,” he says, sputtering, his ears redder than America’s seen them in a long time. “No. Absolutely-” He recovers enough to cough again, and put the period accent back on. “Surely you jest.”
“I do not jest,” says Will. “He is, after all, a German clown of no small skill.”
“Yeah, I am, remember?” America says, stretches his arms over his head and hops to his feet. Now that the initial the hell?’s faded, his stomach’s fluttering in a good way. “So-you mean it? You want me?”
“Ay,” Will says, at the same time England says, “No.”
“Dude, what’s with you?”
“You’re-” England scoffs, grabs America’s billowing sleeve and yanks him down. “Are you mad?” he whispers.
“No, but I’m getting mad,” America says. “They asked me to play Bottom! William Shakespeare asked me to play Bottom!”
“He isn’t the company manager!”
“Ay, but I am,” Burbage says, “and the plan is most pleasant. Master Jones, you can learn a side of some hundred lines quickly, aye?”
“You bet.” He grins. “I’m a most fast study.” Plus, Midsummer’s been performed at his house for what, at least two centuries? It’s not that he remembers every line and every word from everything his people have ever written or read or seen, but the stuff that keeps circulating, that sticks with him. He’s got Bottom’s lines floating around somewhere in his head, he just needs to pin them down.
“It isn’t only the lines, it’s the God-be-damned style,” England says, slaps his palms on the bench and pushes himself to standing. “It’s the juggling, the dancing, the improvisation, the singing-hell, it’s the way you walk across the stage. Forgive me, friends,” he says to the company, “but he knows not these tricks of stagecraft, not of the sort a London audience is accustomed to seeing, how do you expect him to do his job?”
“He could speak the lines I have writ,” Will says, perfectly straightfaced. “A novel thought, to be sure.”
America tries to figure out how you say owned in Elizabethan.
England sputters. He’s been doing enough gesturing and ranting to make any actor proud, but now he slows it down, rakes his fingers along his scalp and groans. “You don’t understand-”
“I do,” Will says, and draws himself taller; it’s not crossing his arms or putting his hands on his hips, but he’s not brooking any argument. “And I would be honored were Master Jones to play with us before Her Majesty. Perhaps we shall show her something new.”
“Ay,” Cecil says, and America gives the guy a grateful grin.
“This is mad,” England says, shaking his head. “This cannot come to good. You do realize you have to teach him a lifetime of craft in ten days?”
“It’s not like I’m starting from nothing,” America shoots back. “I know what actors do.”
“Yes, but not this type of acting, you really don’t-”
“So I’ll do something new. See what works.” He grins, pounds Will on the back. Will starts at first, then smiles, rubs his shoulder a little. “He trusts me, and it’s his play. Why can’t you?”
“It isn’t trust, it’s-” But England’s even worse at finishing sentences than Cecil; he coughs, clears his throat, but nothing comes out. “Oh, never mind.”
America tries not to, but it’s- itches in the back of his mind. It’s what? It’s England, it’s not like the guy’s used to censoring himself. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Worst that happens, the queen chucks a rotten tomato at me or something.”
“I’d hope that Her Majesty’s courtiers would have better manners than to throw food before their queen,” England mutters.
“Not if she starts it, I’ll bet.” They’re almost in the middle of the playing area, America realizes, and the other players have formed a semicircle around them, watching and whispering. Whoops. He bends closer to England’s ear. “Look, I’ll hang out here for a little, learn some of the ropes, you go and talk stuff over with Quasimodo?”
The corners of England’s mouth twitch, even though it looks like he’s trying to pin them down. “Oh, I suppose. Don’t call him that within earshot, though.”
“I have been called worse,” Cecil says, and jeez, how’d he sneak up behind America like that? He’s like Russia. If Russia were short. Which America can’t picture at all, come to think of it.
“So, uh. No offense?” America grins. It doesn’t quite stick. Fortunately, England takes Cecil by the arm and leads him off, muttering something about Spenser’s correspondence. He shoots America one last look, somewhere between exasperated and-smiling? Is he smiling? Really?
Phillips whacks him on the back, snaps him out of it. “And now, Master Jones,” he says, with maybe more dramatic relish than is called for, “thou’rt ours.”
***
“Watch,” Burbage says, strikes the stones with his staff and strides across the stage, chest thrown out. America follows behind, but Burbage whacks him in the ankles. “Learn by example first, and mind my feet.”
The apprentices giggle. Oh, well let’s see how good they are at it, anyway.
The points of Burbage’s shoes almost flap along the floor, and each step rings out in the hall. He doesn’t stomp, just bears his weight down until the floor trembles from it. He cuts a straight line across the stage, not wandering from his path at all.
“Like so,” Burbage says, “but moreso,” and as soon as America sets foot onstage, he barks, “Nay, do not stomp! Thou’rt a clown, not an elephant!”
America sighs, starts over, tries to get his feet to do the flappy thing. This is going to be a long day.
***
“Dost thou tumble?” Pope asks him.
“Depends on what kind of tumbling we’re talking about. If thou knowst what I mean,” America adds, hopes people have been exposed to the wonders of that phrase. If not, well, he’s got some educating to do.
Pope chuckles, but says, “Acrobatics, Master Jones.”
“Oh, like somersaults and-” Crap, how do Elizabethans say stuff? “-the rest?”
“Ay.” Pope vaults onto his toes, performs a quick handspring across the floor. America whistles, and Pope straightens with a little bow. “Come, Master Jones.”
“You got it,” America says, jogs over to the wall and gets a little running start before he launches into his cartwheel. His palms smack the floor solidly one after the other, good, now all that’s left is to land his feet-
-which go flying in opposite directions and send him sprawling to the ground.
“We use mats in Germany,” he croaks when his breath returns.
***
“Surely you juggle,” Phillips says.
America says of course he does.
The ball leaves a dent in his toe. Ouch. Haven’t these people heard of hackey-sacks?
***
“Thou dost not juggle, thou dost not tumble, and thou dost not walk the stage as though thou knowst it,” Burbage says, slumps into his chair and mops his brow. “Truly, German clowns are a strange lot.”
“He has not yet exhausted his tricks,” Will says, and if he’s nervous he doesn’t show it. “Come, Master Jones-there is a song in the scene where Titania falls in love with Bottom. Will you sing it for us?”
“Not sure what the melody is,” America says.
“Pick one that suits, and set the words to it.” Will smiles, proffers a side. “I trust my words shall fit the tune.”
Okay, yeah, he thinks, scanning the side Will’s handed him, he doesn’t know this at all, and no songs are popping into his head, either. He can read music, or fake it well enough, but there’s no staff here, no notes, just the words and the rhythm America finds in them when he mutters the lines under his breath.
Actually.
He can’t ask the actors to lay down a beat for him, but he can drop to his knees and start to tap out the rhythm on one of the benches, glance at the side for reference. It’s barren as far as a backup track goes, but hell, he can improvise later.
“Why does he play upon the bench?” Heminges asks, but Pope shushes him, and Will’s eyes widen.
America doesn’t think any of his people have ever rapped anything like The ousel cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill, but hell, there’s a first time to everything, and it’s got a good beat to it, solid and strong. “The throstle with his note so true,” he continues, hits note so hard the bench rattles underneath him. “The wren with little quill.”
He accelerates the beat on the bench, double-times it. “Can you do that?” he asks Phillips. “Bang out that rhythm?”
“Ay,” Phillips says; he blinks, but kneels, and pretty soon he has a solid grip on the beat, even adds a few improvisational flourishes to the end of the measure, duh-duh-DAH, duh-duh-duh-DAH-duh-duh.
America picks up Burbage’s stick and pretends it’s a standing mic. “The finch, the sparrow and the lark,” he shouts into it as fast as he can without losing the rhythm. The beat surges through him, and he taps his toes, lets that motion transform his whole body, slouch his shoulders and roll his hips. Time to pick it up faster, faster until he’s almost spitting the words. “The plain-song cuckoo gray, whose note full many-a-man-doth-mark-and-dares-not-answer-nay!”
He thrusts the pole in the air, grinning, and looks at the rest of the company.
Will’s the first to applaud, and then the rest join in, stumbling over the beat.
What do you know, America thinks, sometimes modern adaptations work.
***
“I,” America announces, staggering into the room, “am sore. Very very sore.”
“Exhausting, isn’t it?” England says, glances up from his desk. He’s got at least eight envelopes scattered over it-maybe more? America squints, but the daylight’s fading fast, and the soft orange glow of the window and duller yellow light of the candles still don’t add up to all that much. He moves closer; ink’s smeared over England’s hands, and wax shavings glisten on his nails.
“Jeez,” America says. “Did you lose a fight with a letter or something?”
“No. Or yes, perhaps.” England slumps forward in his chair, and now America gets a better look at the dark hollows under his eyes. “Cecil managed to get copies of Spenser’s correspondence-no, don’t ask me how, I’d rather not know-and I’ve sifted through them, but.” He grimaces, cracks his neck. “Pitiful, really, that such a man should have had to resort to beggary. And worse still that none aided him.”
“None of them?” America asks. They can’t share the desk, exactly, but America hovers over the end, snatches up a few of the letters. The handwriting’s spidery and slanted, and America knows the things that look like f’s are supposed to be s’s, but most of the other letters are squashed so close together he can’t make them out at all.
“So far,” England says. “I’ve a few letters yet to read. And none from his patron Essex, which is strange.”
“Did they fight or something?”
“Not to my knowledge, but I don’t know a damned thing, apparently.” Almost growling, England seizes a handful of letters and sweeps them off the desk. “The Irish rebels burned his home to the ground, made off with anything of value, and when he set foot on English soil again, his country let him starve to death, unknowing.”
“Hey,” America says, rests his hand on England’s shoulder. “He didn’t starve, remember? He was murdered.”
“That’s not much of a kindness,” England says, but doesn’t try to push America’s hand away like usual. Tentatively, America gives his shoulder a squeeze, and England doesn’t snap about that, either.
“God, this is a mess,” England murmurs, his eyes half-closing. “And I don’t know if it’s a better or worse one than what I remember.”
“I’d say the zombies make it worse,” America says, then-“Hey. England.”
“Hm?”
“What if they weren’t just being dicks?”
England frowns.
“The guys Spenser wrote to. What if he was persona non grata for some reason-or what if someone else was making sure help didn’t get to him?”
“Quite the conspiracy theory,” England says, but he’s listening.
“England, we’re already dealing with zombie cultists, I think it’s safe to say there’s a conspiracy going on.”
“I can’t believe that phrase is sensible.”
“Strange times, my friend. Anyway. Point is, Spenser knew who was after him, right? We think? But someone offed him before he could tell Will or anyone else?”
“Yes.”
“So presumably the guy’s been doing something beforehand. Threatening him somehow. Spenser knows he’s in danger.”
England nods, his expression darkening. “And such threats would hardly be effective were Spenser able to reach outside help.”
“And right before he’s going to meet up with Will to spill the beans, he dies. Whoever killed Spenser knew Will was coming. They were watching him.” The back of America’s neck chills. “They were probably reading his letters.”
England stares at the envelope balled up in his fist, his lips parted, barely breathing at all.
“So how much do you trust Cecil?”
“That,” England says, tears the envelope open and holds the letter to the light, “is a damned good question.”
America bends over, squints at the handwriting. He wishes this place had-not even computers, but typewriters. Those would help. Well, he guesses they had typesetters, but who’s going to go to one of those to get a letter printed up?
“This-” England frowns. “This is addressed to John Dee.”
“Who?”
“Her Majesty’s astronomer and court magician. Bit of a mad old twat, but I was rather fond of him.”
“Does he have money?”
“Yes,” England says, “but Spenser-here, look.” He points to Spenser’s signature, halfway up the page. “It’s shorter than the rest. I can’t imagine why he left so much space. And he doesn’t describe the burning of his estate at all, he speaks only of a ‘test of fire’-oh. Oh there we are, oldest trick in the book, how the hell did I miss-”
“England?” America asks, but England’s already holding the paper to the flame. “England! Don’t burn it!”
“I’m not burning it-America, there’s another message at the bottom. Invisible ink.”
And sure enough, more spidery words unfold as the paper glows red.
“I dare not entrust all I must say to a letter,” England reads, “for I fear what other eyes may see this missive, but know this: the Book hath made its displeasure with me known, and must soon be passed. Know also that I am watched, and that my watcher even now numbers my days; he hath given me a week more to do what I must not, dare not-oh! If only I could this tale unfold, but I am bound to secrecy. Bound by chains of my own make, and thou hast not the power to dissolve them.
I pray this letter finds thee safely, and swiftly. Look to the Queen-and look to Ireland.”
Well, shit seems to be about the most appropriate thing to say at the moment, but America doesn’t. “What does it mean?” he asks, instead.
England’s mouth is set in a hard thin line. “I don’t know,” he says, “but I suspect we’ll find out more at Richmond.”
---
--
Dialect notes again!
Obviously, I’m not writing this thing in full-out Elizabethan, because I’m not that footnote-crazy, and quite frankly I don’t trust myself to. I’ve tried to keep in a few elements of Elizabethan speech for flavor, though, and I’ll explain those here.
First, the pronouns! Elizabethan pronouns are pretty similar to ours, except they had an informal “you” pronoun, thou. (It’s like the tu/Usted distinction in Spanish.) You use “thou” for inferiors and people you’re close to in informal contexts, and it’s a bit rude to thou people you aren’t familiar with-so when the guards switch over to using thou with America, they’re trying to put him in his place. Thou is declined like so:
Subject: thou. (Thou liest, shag-eared villain!)
Direct/indirect object: thee. (I give thee thanks, or Let me clutch thee.)
Possessive: thy (thy face), or thine before a vowel. (thine eye).
They also had ye for the second-person plural, though there’s increasing usage of “you” for both singular AND plural second-person.
Verb endings are mostly the same, except for second- and third-person singular. Let’s look at the verb to have:
I have
Thou hast/You have
He hath
We had
You/Ye had
They had
I’m mostly omitting the -eth/th ending on the third person singular in this fic, because it reads weird to modern eyes, but it might crop up with a few words.
Will Kemp really did walk out on the Lord Chamberlain's Men in early 1599, probably due to creative differences with Shakespeare. From here on out, I'll be compressing the timeline of events a lot -- the LCM performed before the queen on February 20th, not in late January, but I figure the fact that I've introduced zombies into Elizabethan England makes it okay for me to warp the timeline a little.
.
IT'S BACK
DID YOU MISS IT
I SURE DID
Title: The Worldsmith [Chapter Three: Rehearse Most Obscenely and Courageously]
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, America; William Shakespeare, Elizabeth I, Robert Devereaux, and assorted other actors, playmakers, peers, gentry, scoundrels, spies, and thieves.
Rating: This chapter is PG-13. Others will be higher.
Summary: Sent back in time to deal with a mysterious threat to England's nationhood, England and America contend with witchcraft, the undead, the power of language, and their own clashing personalities.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three: In which no one has long enough to catch their breath, and the Lord Chamberlain's Men seek a replacement.
Notes: This is also known as the "time travel and Shakespeare and zombies" fic. You'll see why.
“I should damned well say so,” England says, and America can’t remember the last time his eyebrows bristled so much. “Where the hell did you-”
“Hey, I could ask you the same question! Or, well. I could asketh you, anyway.”
Pope and Heminges and Phillips are sort of scooting away from the table as quietly as they can. Pretty darn quietly, it turns out, which isn’t usually something America associates with actors. Will descends the steps cautiously, like he’s feeling out for rotten floorboards, and America hears him give a few coughs that almost sound like laughs.
England blinks. “Asketh me?”
“Yeah, you know. Just talkingeth the talk.”
“Am-Master Jones?”
“Yup?”
“Henceforth, please cease any and all attempts to speak my language.”
“Hey, the guys get a kick out of it,” America protests, looks to Kemp to back him up on that one.
Kemp guffaws, salutes America with his mug. “Ay, he’s a talent for it, to be sure.”
“What, for malaprops?”
England’s eyebrows haven’t relaxed much, if at all, and if he screws his face up any tighter it really might stick like that, so America cracks a grin and hopes England’ll loosen up a little, too. “Guess so. Apparently I’m a German clown.”
“A German-” England’s eyebrows do relax, only to shoot straight up to his hairline. “Oh good god.”
“And apparently Germany has clowns.” America shrugs. “The world’s a strange and fascinating place, huh?”
“My head hurts,” England groans.
“Too much too fast, huh?” England’s never been good with that kind of thing, though to be fair, he’s-well, assuming this all isn’t some kind of dream, and since America woke up this morning to find Will snoring beside him and a really fragrant chamber pot at the foot of the bed, it’s got to be a really complicated dream, because America doesn’t usually dream in his dreams. Anyway, to be fair to England, he’s lived through all this before (assuming he’s not a figment of America’s imagination), and if anyone gets to complain about too much too fast, it should be America. Hell, he’s wearing a doublet.
“No, really,” England groans again, his head in his hands, his elbows starting to skid off the table, “feels as if-God’s teeth-it’s going to split in sodding two-”
“En-whoa there, Sir Kirkland,” America says, springs up and catches England by the elbows before he sags out of his seat entirely, “let’s, uh, let’s getteth you upstairs.” His color doesn’t look so good, either; America’s used to England being pale, but not this kind of milky whiteness, like there’s yellow seeping in underneath.
“Jesu,” Phillips says; Heminges sucks air in through his teeth.
“What ails him?” Will asks from the foot of the steps, his smile vanishing.
“I know not, man,” America says, “but I don’t like it.”
“I can walk,” England says and tries to struggle forward, but his knees cave in. “Oh, bugger, of all the-they called in my debt, oh hell-”
“You know what he’s talking about?” America asks Will in an undertone.
Will shakes his head.
“Me either. Sorry, guys,” America says, raising his voice, “we’ll be back in a second, hold on, Will, I’ve got to get him up yon stairs-”
England grabs at America’s collar, and even if his hand’s shaking his grip’s strong enough. “He-he ought to hear this,” he whispers.
“Right. Will, can you give me a hand?”
“Oh for the love of-” England protests, but not before Will says “Ay,” and scoops England up from under the knees. America wraps his arms under England’s shoulders, and the two of them haul him up the stairs stretched out between them.
“I hate you both,” England mutters once they’ve gotten him in the room and hoisted him onto the bed, “and-is that a doublet?”
“What, this?” America can’t help but grins, twists to the side to give England a better look. He definitely fills out a doublet better than he did when he was a kid; it fits him just tight enough, and the laced-in sleeves billow a little, but not in a way that makes his arms look like balloons. The Venetians don’t billow quite as well, but they’re better than the onion things, and at least he doesn’t have to wear a codpiece with them. He’s mostly stopped itching under his collar, too. “Not bad, huh? Will asked if I wanted to swap out my glasses for something more fashionable, but I said no.”
“No,” England says; something slides over his eyes for a moment, some kind of shadow, but it passes before America can ask. “No, it isn’t bad. Where-ah, sodding Christ-where did you get them?”
“I borrowed the clothes from Burbage,” Will explains, kneeling by England’s bedside. “My Nation, what sits ill with thee?”
America does a double-take.
“Of course he knows,” England says, with something between a sigh and a groan. Which makes sense, America has to admit.
“And Master Jones is another of thy kind, I assume?” Will asks, nodding to him.
America’s double-take is a lot smaller this time, but no point hiding it, is there? “Yeah. I’m-I guess I’m just America, now.” He’s not going to get the United States part until-Jesus Christ, not for another two hundred years, almost. The room’s plenty cold already, but America swears it drops a few degrees.
Will eyes him appraisingly, strokes his stubble with his thumb. “You are not, perhaps, what I would have pictured of that land.”
“Yeah, uh. Technically, you’re right. It’s complicated,” America says, scratches behind his ear. Will’s taken the Nations bit well enough, but how the heck is he going to take the time travel? Hell, America’s still not sure he believes it. He shouldn’t believe it. Every rational instinct he has tells him not to, and yet. “So. Where were you, anyway?”
“I could ask you the same.” England winces, sinks deeper into the bed. “While you gallivanted about with Master Shakespeare, I had to wrangle with a walking corpse.”
“Wait, what?”
“A walking corpse.”
“Yeah, you said that. England,” America says, his voice cracking, “are you telling me you fought a zombie?”
England looks thoughtful. Well, thoughtful and pained. “That’s as good a name for it as any.”
“Are zombies even supposed to exist?”
“Not this kind. Not now. That’s what worries me.”
“Forgive my intrusion,” Will says, coughing, “but what, pray tell, is a zombie?”
***
“-so, you know, the whole ‘shoot it in the head! Shoot it in the head!’ thing suddenly doesn’t work so well because you guys aren’t exactly packing shotguns and I wouldn’t trust them even if you were, no offense, and breaking out the swords kind of goes against the number one rule of zombie fighting, which is not letting them get close enough to bite you-England, did it bite you?”
“No,” England says, “and you’re hysterical.”
“I’m not hysterical! You’re telling me a zombie killed Spenser-”
“I said I didn’t think the creature killed him.”
America crosses his arms. “Okay, so he got killed by cultists. Who are magicking up zombies or something. And can I just take a moment to say I still don’t believe I’m actually saying this?”
“Noted, and duly,” Will says, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“You seem to be taking all this pretty well.”
Will doesn’t quite shrug. “There are stranger things in heaven and earth…”
“Hang on, have you written that play yet?” America asks.
“Come again?”
“Never mind.” Guess the guy cribs from real life a lot. “Okay, so we know someone poisoned Spenser, we know there’s some crazy magical shenanigans-England, stop smirking, aren’t you supposed to be sick?”
“Oh, I am,” England says, massages his temples. “Continue.”
“And we think Spenser might be mixed up in the whole zombie business somehow. Oh, and your queen’s getting old and there’s like a zillion people who’re gunning for the top spot now.”
“In so many words, yes,” England says. “What we don’t know is why Spenser wanted to meet with thee, Will.”
“Alas, would that I knew,” Will says, “but the message said naught of it, only bid me to come at midnight at his lodgings, and ensure I was not followed.”
“So I guess you guys didn’t usually do the whole meeting-up-at-midnight thing.”
Will shakes his head. “Nay.”
“And you have no idea? None?”
“For god’s sake, America, he said he doesn’t.” England tries to push himself up on his elbows, but flops back down. “I’d have better luck asking the fae to scry-”
“Oh, Jesus, England, not your little fairy friends again-”
“The fae have said naught to me on the matter,” Will says, and America’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence, then falls open again.
“The-wait. What?”
“The fae,” Will repeats, nonplussed. “I speak to them, sometimes, and a good thing, for they told me to find you.”
“You never told me you saw them!” England says, points an accusing finger at Will.
Will doesn’t quite shrug. “Thou never didst ask.”
“Great.” America rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s delusional.”
“You accept the zombies readily enough, why not the fae?”
“Because zombies aren’t magic.”
“These are.”
Okay, maybe in some mythologies, America’ll concede that much even if he won’t tell England so. “Plus, I can see them.”
“You could see the fae if-”
“Gentlemen,” Will says, coughing, and even if he is a little delusional America listens. Hey, artists are supposed to be a little loopy, right? “Pray pardon, but we must not tarry long; the Lord Chamberlain’s Men are meant to rehearse at the house of our patron today, in preparation for our performance before the queen ten days’ hence.”
“Sweet,” America says, “which play?”
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Will smiles. “I am fond of it, as is Her Majesty.”
“Dude, I love that one.”
Will laughs, a little startled. “It has reached the far shores of America?”
“Well, England gave it to me,” which is technically true. From a cultural exchange perspective. “Speaking of. You up for the trip?”
“I suppose I’d best be,” England says, rolls onto his side. At least that’s successful. “I should talk to Cecil again.”
“And hey, free show, right?”
“It is only a rehearsal,” Will says, “and the space is not so grand, but ay, you are welcome if you wish it.”
“You’re a bro.” America claps him on the back. “All right, let’s get this wagon train moving. England, you need us to carry you down the stairs?”
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
***
Turns out the rehearsal space is a mansion. “Cecil’s brother’s is nicer,” England grumbles from the bale of hay he rests on, but America thinks the house they’re pulling up to is plenty swank: it’s buffeted by a cluster of shops and stables, the gables jut up and pierce the skyline, and the timbers overlap and form this cool kind of lattice on the walls.
“Looks better than the cart, anyway,” America says just as it jolts and sends his head colliding with the canvas. The cart’s drafty as hell, too, he thinks, rubs his arms briskly. Yeah, the hay insulates some of it, and yeah, the new clothes help, but way too much air whistles through the cracks for America’s liking.
To be fair, though, the canvas muffles the smell.
“Are we there yet?”
“Soon, god willing.” England groans, sits upright and brushes the hay from his hair.
“Good, ‘cause I’m getting bruises in places I didn’t know-”
The cart jerks to a halt, and America dives facefirst into the nearest pile of hay. At least England doesn’t laugh, probably because he’s too busy saying “Oh bugger ow bloody fucking Christ-”
“How does the journey’s end find you? Well, or ill?”
America spits out a mouthful of hay and grins weakly at Will. “Well. Mostly. Might need to make a pit stop at yon privy, though.” Or at yon vomitorium, but America’s pretty sure that’s Roman and not English at all.
“Ay, the roads are rough,” Will says, helps the two of them stumble out of the cart (England sports a lump on his head the size of an egg) and towards the door. “Rough, and as like to bar travelers passage as they are to admit them.”
The rest of the company’s busy unloading from the wagons, though there’s not as much stuff as America’d expect. Henry Condell’s piling a bunch of dresses into the arms of one of the apprentices, Kemp tucks an ass’s head under his arm, and is Burbage carrying around a beard? Looks like it. “‘Tis only rehearsal,” Will explains when America asks, “and we travel light.”
America nods, draws his cloak tighter. Snow dusts the grounds and roofs and even part of the path; it’s not quite a Christmas card effect, and the house is too big to call the picture cozy, but it brings a kind of warmth to America’s fingers and toes. That’s the only kind of warmth he’ll be getting for a while, looks like, considering how the cold of the flagstones indoors shocks him through his boots. “Jesus,” he says, grits his teeth. “You’d think whoever owned this could pay to put in a few more fireplaces.”
“Ay, and will, an I’ve consigned this one to dust.” A hunchbacked man steps out of the stairwell, surveys the hall with a snort. “‘Twill have walls of stone, not the mud of a rude cottage.”
“Sir Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley and Lord Chamberlain after his father,” Will says, makes a leg. “And our most esteemed patron.”
“Master Shakespeare,” Cecil says, nodding, and stops when he sees America. “And your companion?”
“May I present Master Alfred Jones, a German clown of no small repute?” Will doesn’t kick America, exactly, but the way he lifts his eyebrows suggests he might if America doesn’t make a leg like he did. America sighs. Part of him knows the “I don’t bow” conversation’s going to be more trouble than it’s worth, especially since Voltaire and Locke haven’t even been born yet, but still, the idea chafes.
“Jesu, Kirkland,” Cecil says before America can decide either way, “you look a fright.”
“Payment for last night’s sins,” England says. “Come, let us be seated, before I pay for them more.”
America takes his elbow and steers him towards the benches the apprentices are placing at the other end of the hall. England doesn’t even grumble much about it. The benches sit opposite a screen, and from the shadows America guesses the actors are getting dressed back there, but other than that, the stage area’s bare: no furniture, no props, no big set pieces in the back. Okay, those would be hard to fit in the wagon, but when America asks England says (between winces) that they always do plays like that. “The stage alone isn’t equal to the task, remember?”
He does. Seems like half a year ago, but he does. America shivers, not just from the drafts whistling through the hall. The temperature and the smells are already kind of turning into background noise in his head-not gone or anything, but if he noticed every reeking street or every blast of cold air, he’d barely have time for anything else, so it’s not stuff his brain really has to comment on anymore. It’s not acclimation, necessarily, it’s more-his mind can only handle so much at a time, you know? And he’d rather think about the stuff he actually has to think about.
Of course, that’s like two million things right there, but hey. He waves to Will as Will steps behind the screen. Maybe the play’ll take his mind off things.
***
It’s nice, after a day of the Ren Faire from hell, to run into something he knows. And he knows Midsummer. Not his very favorite of Shakespeare’s-of Will’s, jesus, he knows Shakespeare now, that thought still makes his mind blank for a few seconds-but it’s up there. They’re doing the first scene with the rude mechanicals, the one where they’re casting Pyramus and Thisbe, and the actors are a lot shoutier than actors have been for the past hundred years at America’s place, but they’re still fun to watch. They’re a lot more active, too: they bound across the stage, whack each other upside the head, even tumble and perform a few snatches of dances when it’s called for. Burbage is running the rehearsal, technically, but he hasn’t done much other than correct a few bits of blocking and yell “Thy lines, Kemp, keep to thy lines!”
From the way Will’s grinding his teeth next to America every time Kemp goes off-script, it sounds like Burbage isn’t the only one thinking that.
Kemp’s funny enough, America guesses. He knows what he’s doing; not a step of any of his dances is out of place except for the ones that are supposed to be. But when America watches him, he knows it’s him. It’s not that you don’t get that with any of America’s actors anymore, especially with the stars, but it’s still a little strange to see. Also, America knows Bottom’s supposed to cut the other characters off, but America’s not sure the other actors’ grumbles about getting cut off are, well, acting.
“Well yes, I daresay they’re annoyed,” England says when America asks about it, “it isn’t pleasant to be interrupted-”
“Hang on, is he doing a jig?”
England groans.
Will drums his knuckles on the bench.
“The raging rocks and shivering shocks shall break-” Kemp pauses, then thunders, “the locks!” like it’s the best rhyme ever invented. He’s not done, though. “That keep our co-”
“Kemp!” Burbage shouts.
“Marry, only a bit of improvisation,” Kemp says. Will keeps drumming his knuckles: tap, tap, tap.
“Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming,” says the actor playing Flute. Kemp yanks on it, laughing, and almost drowns out the next line.
“You shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will,” Quince begins.
“An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby, too,” Kemp pipes up again, “for Henry Condell’s grown a beard, and can do’t no longer.”
Condell screws his mouth up like he’s swallowed a lemon, and Thomas Pope swats his arm. Condell’s got nothing on the way Will’s mouth tightens, though.
“What of Burbage, ye ask, Burbage the great? Ay, too great to girdle into a gown-picture, if ye will, Heracles wrestling such an Amazon.” Kemp tugs at the air, grunts, mimics wiping sweat from his brow. “Ay, even his great strength is overcome in trying to wrest it loose!”
America almost laughs, but it dies in his throat when he gets another good look at Will’s face. If Will presses his lips together any more tightly, he’ll never be able to get them unstuck. America clears his throat a little, shifts in his seat. England’s not really watching the performance, either; he glances from Kemp to Will to Cecil and never settles too long on one.
“And as for William Shakespeare,” Kemp says, drags each syllable out until he almost drawls it, “God a’ mercy if I ever met a woman with so many words to her! For sure I’d stitch her mouth up that the air might erupt from her other end, which I would indeed welcome-”
“That will do,” Will says.
“I cry thee mercy,” Kemp says, his broad braying tone evening out, “but I am not yet finished.”
“Indeed, thou art.” Will doesn’t stand, but his fingers clench in his lap. America eyes them both warily: Will’s younger, yeah, but there’s not one unmuscled line of Kemp’s body, and Will’s not a stick or anything but America’d still be more worried about him breaking his wrist on a punch than he’d be about the guy on the other end of it.
Kemp smiles, crooked. “Thou wilt end the scene so soon, before all thy words are spoken?”
“These are not my words.” Now Will stands, and America scootches to the side to give him room.
“Ay, thy words, thy words, thy words, always thy words with thee and no thought for aught else!” Kemp stomps, and wow, the shocks from that ripple up through the legs of America’s bench. “Thy play, thy theatre, thy company-”
“I did not think thee a child, to squall and stamp thy foot,” Will says, each word so clipped it almost sounds like he’s speaking in verse. “I see I was mistaken.”
Cold as it is, America can’t help but mouth burn.
“We shall to the next scene!” Burbage says, strikes the bench with a stick. “Condell, take thy place-”
“Next scene, next scene!” America claps his hands together, reaches over to elbow England in the ribs and get him to do the same. “Yeah, movingeth right along, this dothn’t bear dwelling on, let’s see what you guys have to show us.”
“I said I was not finished!” Kemp shouts, glowers at the rest of the cast onstage with him. They’ve crept towards the wall at right, half-on and half-off where the stage is supposed to be. “Why, what fine players are we, to yield without complaint to a playmaker’s fancies!” He jabs his finger at Will, and America can’t remember if “quivering with rage” is one of Will’s phrases or not, but if it is and he hasn’t already come up with it, America thinks he knows where it came from. Even Kemp’s nostrils are twitching, shuddering with each indignant sniff.
“His words, aye,” Kemp continues. “What are such words? Give the crowds a sporting afternoon, and they will come, words or no.”
“They will come, ay,” Will says. He hasn’t sat back down, but he’s still, composed where Kemp’s bristling all over. “But they’ll not see a play if they do.”
Well! If nothing else, this is some pretty riveting drama right here. None of the other actors have left their seats, and Burbage might’ve shouted for that scene change but he’s not trying to usher the next set of actors on. He grips his stick instead, lets it hover just inches above the floor. Cecil strokes the side of his jaw, and England finally nudges America back and murmurs, “Watch.”
“Trust me,” America whispers, “I am.”
“I propose,” Will says, and this is the loudest America’s heard him speak, “that we players, and you our audience,” he adds, nods to America and England and Cecil, “and all who join us in this venture are bound together in partnership, and that our journey will not succeed if we are not all set in purpose to make it so. All of us.” He eyes each actor in turn, and America swears he shivers when Will finds him. “The meanest groundling and greatest tragedian share a stake in this: theirs to shoulder should we fail, and theirs to reap should we triumph. And we can triumph-if only we are generous, if only we welcome our friends alongside us, if only we do not claim more than is our due, for the rewards are all the greater if we wait.
I ask for no more than is my due. My words are but a frame; they will not live if you do not let them. Let them, then, I pray you. Give me but that, and your generosity shall be repaid forever.”
America can’t remember the last time it felt so good to stand and applaud. England’s on his feet right after, and god, he’s practically glowing, his cheeks reddening with-is that pride? Honest-to-god pride?
It’s just that England doesn’t seem to be proud of stuff nearly as often as he used to. Which, granted, isn’t always a bad thing, but there’s something about the way he smiles when he thinks no one’s looking, the way his mouth softens-
“Together, then,” Burbage says, and America and England echo: “Together!”
“Together!” says Henry Condell, and Phillips and Pope and Heminges and all the apprentices aren’t far behind: “Together!”
Is it cheesy? Yep. Is it sports-movie cheesy? You betcha. Are there inspirational violins swelling in the background? Well, if they have those in this time period. Is America’s chest still getting a little tight? Hell yeah.
“And thee?” Will asks, turns to Kemp, who’s watching the cheers with a frown so deep it’s practically a furrow in his face. “Wilt join us, or nay?”
“I am a fool by trade, not by disposition,” Kemp says. “Thou wouldst have me cease to jig, and mouth only the lines you set down. Any fool could do it-one by disposition, not by trade.”
“Sheesh,” America mutters. “Diva.”
England’s struck by a fit of coughing.
“I would not call thee so,” Will says, quiet but firm.
Kemp snorts. “I’faith, thou hast already. I like not this new theatre, and I like not that an upstart crow seeks to teach my craft to me.”
“A what?” America asks in an undertone.
“It isn’t complimentary,” England says.
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“It is not thy craft I dispute,” Will says, and America hears the edges of his voice start to fray, “but thy craft at the expense of mine, and of thy companions’? Ay, that I dispute.”
“Do they dispute it?” Kent rounds on the actors clustered by the wall, the shareholders gathered in the audience. England’s coughing fit must be contagious, because they’re all hiding their mouths in their hands or sleeves, looking sideways, paying an awful lot of attention to the floor.
“In good earnest, Kemp,” Phillips says, “it can get in the way.”
“Oh, ay, and shall no longer, by God.” Kemp barrels past Will, knocks into his shoulder and strides through the benches they’ve set up, pushing them out of the way, too. “From this day hence, I’ll trouble you no further.”
Kemp’s a different kind of actor than the rest, though; he halts just long enough in the stomping-off, like he’s waiting for the others to rush forward and fall all over him. “Dude,” America says, “are you going or not?”
England chuckles.
“What’s so funny?”
“You used to do the same when you were small,” England says. “Stomp off in a huff, and wait for me to catch up with you.”
“Yeah, but he’s like forty. And I was like a hundred.” America pauses. “It’s different. You know what I mean.”
“Her Majesty, Kemp,” Cecil calls.
Kemp’s through the thicket of chairs by now; he pauses before the door. “Ay, what of her?”
“You would not slight Her Majesty by refusing to perform before her at Richmond, surely?” Cecil doesn’t turn around, just tents his fingers up, props his chin on them. It’s very mastermind-ish of him.
“Enough perform before Her Majesty that I would not be missed,” Kemp says, snorting, and wrenches the door open. “She has fools enough in her seraglio.”
As the door bangs shut and blasts cold air in its wake, America’ll say this much for Kemp: guy knows how to make an exit.
“Uh, are you allowed to sass the queen?” he asks England.
“No, and were someone to write that down, Kemp would find himself in a great deal of trouble.” England sighs. “Or he would have ten years ago, at any rate. The system’s-oh, it’s complicated.”
Before America can ask just how complicated, Burbage says, “Well, we find ourselves short a Bottom.”
“Robert Armin, perhaps, could learn the part,” Pope suggests.
Burbage shakes his head, his moustache drooping. He reminds America of a walrus. A really doleful walrus, all sagging flesh and bristling whiskers. “Robert Armin is in Deptford for a fortnight; we perform before Her Majesty in ten days.”
“And I need not mention the black mark it will be if you do not,” Cecil says, tugs at his beard with a frown. “To say nothing of the black mark on me. I wonder-”
But he doesn’t finish it.
“We are not without our clowns,” Will says.
“One of the apprentices? Ay, but they’re too fresh for Bottom-”
“Not the apprentices,” Will says, and suddenly everyone’s staring at America, which he’s normally more than okay with, but the actors are more looking him over like he’s lunch.
England’s eyebrows vanish into his hairline.
“Ay,” Phillips breathes, “thou didst say he was a clown.”
“Me?” America says. It’s squeakier than he meant it to be.
England’s progressed from coughing fit to outright choking next to him. “No,” he says, sputtering, his ears redder than America’s seen them in a long time. “No. Absolutely-” He recovers enough to cough again, and put the period accent back on. “Surely you jest.”
“I do not jest,” says Will. “He is, after all, a German clown of no small skill.”
“Yeah, I am, remember?” America says, stretches his arms over his head and hops to his feet. Now that the initial the hell?’s faded, his stomach’s fluttering in a good way. “So-you mean it? You want me?”
“Ay,” Will says, at the same time England says, “No.”
“Dude, what’s with you?”
“You’re-” England scoffs, grabs America’s billowing sleeve and yanks him down. “Are you mad?” he whispers.
“No, but I’m getting mad,” America says. “They asked me to play Bottom! William Shakespeare asked me to play Bottom!”
“He isn’t the company manager!”
“Ay, but I am,” Burbage says, “and the plan is most pleasant. Master Jones, you can learn a side of some hundred lines quickly, aye?”
“You bet.” He grins. “I’m a most fast study.” Plus, Midsummer’s been performed at his house for what, at least two centuries? It’s not that he remembers every line and every word from everything his people have ever written or read or seen, but the stuff that keeps circulating, that sticks with him. He’s got Bottom’s lines floating around somewhere in his head, he just needs to pin them down.
“It isn’t only the lines, it’s the God-be-damned style,” England says, slaps his palms on the bench and pushes himself to standing. “It’s the juggling, the dancing, the improvisation, the singing-hell, it’s the way you walk across the stage. Forgive me, friends,” he says to the company, “but he knows not these tricks of stagecraft, not of the sort a London audience is accustomed to seeing, how do you expect him to do his job?”
“He could speak the lines I have writ,” Will says, perfectly straightfaced. “A novel thought, to be sure.”
America tries to figure out how you say owned in Elizabethan.
England sputters. He’s been doing enough gesturing and ranting to make any actor proud, but now he slows it down, rakes his fingers along his scalp and groans. “You don’t understand-”
“I do,” Will says, and draws himself taller; it’s not crossing his arms or putting his hands on his hips, but he’s not brooking any argument. “And I would be honored were Master Jones to play with us before Her Majesty. Perhaps we shall show her something new.”
“Ay,” Cecil says, and America gives the guy a grateful grin.
“This is mad,” England says, shaking his head. “This cannot come to good. You do realize you have to teach him a lifetime of craft in ten days?”
“It’s not like I’m starting from nothing,” America shoots back. “I know what actors do.”
“Yes, but not this type of acting, you really don’t-”
“So I’ll do something new. See what works.” He grins, pounds Will on the back. Will starts at first, then smiles, rubs his shoulder a little. “He trusts me, and it’s his play. Why can’t you?”
“It isn’t trust, it’s-” But England’s even worse at finishing sentences than Cecil; he coughs, clears his throat, but nothing comes out. “Oh, never mind.”
America tries not to, but it’s- itches in the back of his mind. It’s what? It’s England, it’s not like the guy’s used to censoring himself. “I’ll be fine,” he says. “Worst that happens, the queen chucks a rotten tomato at me or something.”
“I’d hope that Her Majesty’s courtiers would have better manners than to throw food before their queen,” England mutters.
“Not if she starts it, I’ll bet.” They’re almost in the middle of the playing area, America realizes, and the other players have formed a semicircle around them, watching and whispering. Whoops. He bends closer to England’s ear. “Look, I’ll hang out here for a little, learn some of the ropes, you go and talk stuff over with Quasimodo?”
The corners of England’s mouth twitch, even though it looks like he’s trying to pin them down. “Oh, I suppose. Don’t call him that within earshot, though.”
“I have been called worse,” Cecil says, and jeez, how’d he sneak up behind America like that? He’s like Russia. If Russia were short. Which America can’t picture at all, come to think of it.
“So, uh. No offense?” America grins. It doesn’t quite stick. Fortunately, England takes Cecil by the arm and leads him off, muttering something about Spenser’s correspondence. He shoots America one last look, somewhere between exasperated and-smiling? Is he smiling? Really?
Phillips whacks him on the back, snaps him out of it. “And now, Master Jones,” he says, with maybe more dramatic relish than is called for, “thou’rt ours.”
***
“Watch,” Burbage says, strikes the stones with his staff and strides across the stage, chest thrown out. America follows behind, but Burbage whacks him in the ankles. “Learn by example first, and mind my feet.”
The apprentices giggle. Oh, well let’s see how good they are at it, anyway.
The points of Burbage’s shoes almost flap along the floor, and each step rings out in the hall. He doesn’t stomp, just bears his weight down until the floor trembles from it. He cuts a straight line across the stage, not wandering from his path at all.
“Like so,” Burbage says, “but moreso,” and as soon as America sets foot onstage, he barks, “Nay, do not stomp! Thou’rt a clown, not an elephant!”
America sighs, starts over, tries to get his feet to do the flappy thing. This is going to be a long day.
***
“Dost thou tumble?” Pope asks him.
“Depends on what kind of tumbling we’re talking about. If thou knowst what I mean,” America adds, hopes people have been exposed to the wonders of that phrase. If not, well, he’s got some educating to do.
Pope chuckles, but says, “Acrobatics, Master Jones.”
“Oh, like somersaults and-” Crap, how do Elizabethans say stuff? “-the rest?”
“Ay.” Pope vaults onto his toes, performs a quick handspring across the floor. America whistles, and Pope straightens with a little bow. “Come, Master Jones.”
“You got it,” America says, jogs over to the wall and gets a little running start before he launches into his cartwheel. His palms smack the floor solidly one after the other, good, now all that’s left is to land his feet-
-which go flying in opposite directions and send him sprawling to the ground.
“We use mats in Germany,” he croaks when his breath returns.
***
“Surely you juggle,” Phillips says.
America says of course he does.
The ball leaves a dent in his toe. Ouch. Haven’t these people heard of hackey-sacks?
***
“Thou dost not juggle, thou dost not tumble, and thou dost not walk the stage as though thou knowst it,” Burbage says, slumps into his chair and mops his brow. “Truly, German clowns are a strange lot.”
“He has not yet exhausted his tricks,” Will says, and if he’s nervous he doesn’t show it. “Come, Master Jones-there is a song in the scene where Titania falls in love with Bottom. Will you sing it for us?”
“Not sure what the melody is,” America says.
“Pick one that suits, and set the words to it.” Will smiles, proffers a side. “I trust my words shall fit the tune.”
Okay, yeah, he thinks, scanning the side Will’s handed him, he doesn’t know this at all, and no songs are popping into his head, either. He can read music, or fake it well enough, but there’s no staff here, no notes, just the words and the rhythm America finds in them when he mutters the lines under his breath.
Actually.
He can’t ask the actors to lay down a beat for him, but he can drop to his knees and start to tap out the rhythm on one of the benches, glance at the side for reference. It’s barren as far as a backup track goes, but hell, he can improvise later.
“Why does he play upon the bench?” Heminges asks, but Pope shushes him, and Will’s eyes widen.
America doesn’t think any of his people have ever rapped anything like The ousel cock so black of hue, with orange-tawny bill, but hell, there’s a first time to everything, and it’s got a good beat to it, solid and strong. “The throstle with his note so true,” he continues, hits note so hard the bench rattles underneath him. “The wren with little quill.”
He accelerates the beat on the bench, double-times it. “Can you do that?” he asks Phillips. “Bang out that rhythm?”
“Ay,” Phillips says; he blinks, but kneels, and pretty soon he has a solid grip on the beat, even adds a few improvisational flourishes to the end of the measure, duh-duh-DAH, duh-duh-duh-DAH-duh-duh.
America picks up Burbage’s stick and pretends it’s a standing mic. “The finch, the sparrow and the lark,” he shouts into it as fast as he can without losing the rhythm. The beat surges through him, and he taps his toes, lets that motion transform his whole body, slouch his shoulders and roll his hips. Time to pick it up faster, faster until he’s almost spitting the words. “The plain-song cuckoo gray, whose note full many-a-man-doth-mark-and-dares-not-answer-nay!”
He thrusts the pole in the air, grinning, and looks at the rest of the company.
Will’s the first to applaud, and then the rest join in, stumbling over the beat.
What do you know, America thinks, sometimes modern adaptations work.
***
“I,” America announces, staggering into the room, “am sore. Very very sore.”
“Exhausting, isn’t it?” England says, glances up from his desk. He’s got at least eight envelopes scattered over it-maybe more? America squints, but the daylight’s fading fast, and the soft orange glow of the window and duller yellow light of the candles still don’t add up to all that much. He moves closer; ink’s smeared over England’s hands, and wax shavings glisten on his nails.
“Jeez,” America says. “Did you lose a fight with a letter or something?”
“No. Or yes, perhaps.” England slumps forward in his chair, and now America gets a better look at the dark hollows under his eyes. “Cecil managed to get copies of Spenser’s correspondence-no, don’t ask me how, I’d rather not know-and I’ve sifted through them, but.” He grimaces, cracks his neck. “Pitiful, really, that such a man should have had to resort to beggary. And worse still that none aided him.”
“None of them?” America asks. They can’t share the desk, exactly, but America hovers over the end, snatches up a few of the letters. The handwriting’s spidery and slanted, and America knows the things that look like f’s are supposed to be s’s, but most of the other letters are squashed so close together he can’t make them out at all.
“So far,” England says. “I’ve a few letters yet to read. And none from his patron Essex, which is strange.”
“Did they fight or something?”
“Not to my knowledge, but I don’t know a damned thing, apparently.” Almost growling, England seizes a handful of letters and sweeps them off the desk. “The Irish rebels burned his home to the ground, made off with anything of value, and when he set foot on English soil again, his country let him starve to death, unknowing.”
“Hey,” America says, rests his hand on England’s shoulder. “He didn’t starve, remember? He was murdered.”
“That’s not much of a kindness,” England says, but doesn’t try to push America’s hand away like usual. Tentatively, America gives his shoulder a squeeze, and England doesn’t snap about that, either.
“God, this is a mess,” England murmurs, his eyes half-closing. “And I don’t know if it’s a better or worse one than what I remember.”
“I’d say the zombies make it worse,” America says, then-“Hey. England.”
“Hm?”
“What if they weren’t just being dicks?”
England frowns.
“The guys Spenser wrote to. What if he was persona non grata for some reason-or what if someone else was making sure help didn’t get to him?”
“Quite the conspiracy theory,” England says, but he’s listening.
“England, we’re already dealing with zombie cultists, I think it’s safe to say there’s a conspiracy going on.”
“I can’t believe that phrase is sensible.”
“Strange times, my friend. Anyway. Point is, Spenser knew who was after him, right? We think? But someone offed him before he could tell Will or anyone else?”
“Yes.”
“So presumably the guy’s been doing something beforehand. Threatening him somehow. Spenser knows he’s in danger.”
England nods, his expression darkening. “And such threats would hardly be effective were Spenser able to reach outside help.”
“And right before he’s going to meet up with Will to spill the beans, he dies. Whoever killed Spenser knew Will was coming. They were watching him.” The back of America’s neck chills. “They were probably reading his letters.”
England stares at the envelope balled up in his fist, his lips parted, barely breathing at all.
“So how much do you trust Cecil?”
“That,” England says, tears the envelope open and holds the letter to the light, “is a damned good question.”
America bends over, squints at the handwriting. He wishes this place had-not even computers, but typewriters. Those would help. Well, he guesses they had typesetters, but who’s going to go to one of those to get a letter printed up?
“This-” England frowns. “This is addressed to John Dee.”
“Who?”
“Her Majesty’s astronomer and court magician. Bit of a mad old twat, but I was rather fond of him.”
“Does he have money?”
“Yes,” England says, “but Spenser-here, look.” He points to Spenser’s signature, halfway up the page. “It’s shorter than the rest. I can’t imagine why he left so much space. And he doesn’t describe the burning of his estate at all, he speaks only of a ‘test of fire’-oh. Oh there we are, oldest trick in the book, how the hell did I miss-”
“England?” America asks, but England’s already holding the paper to the flame. “England! Don’t burn it!”
“I’m not burning it-America, there’s another message at the bottom. Invisible ink.”
And sure enough, more spidery words unfold as the paper glows red.
“I dare not entrust all I must say to a letter,” England reads, “for I fear what other eyes may see this missive, but know this: the Book hath made its displeasure with me known, and must soon be passed. Know also that I am watched, and that my watcher even now numbers my days; he hath given me a week more to do what I must not, dare not-oh! If only I could this tale unfold, but I am bound to secrecy. Bound by chains of my own make, and thou hast not the power to dissolve them.
I pray this letter finds thee safely, and swiftly. Look to the Queen-and look to Ireland.”
Well, shit seems to be about the most appropriate thing to say at the moment, but America doesn’t. “What does it mean?” he asks, instead.
England’s mouth is set in a hard thin line. “I don’t know,” he says, “but I suspect we’ll find out more at Richmond.”
---
--
Dialect notes again!
Obviously, I’m not writing this thing in full-out Elizabethan, because I’m not that footnote-crazy, and quite frankly I don’t trust myself to. I’ve tried to keep in a few elements of Elizabethan speech for flavor, though, and I’ll explain those here.
First, the pronouns! Elizabethan pronouns are pretty similar to ours, except they had an informal “you” pronoun, thou. (It’s like the tu/Usted distinction in Spanish.) You use “thou” for inferiors and people you’re close to in informal contexts, and it’s a bit rude to thou people you aren’t familiar with-so when the guards switch over to using thou with America, they’re trying to put him in his place. Thou is declined like so:
Subject: thou. (Thou liest, shag-eared villain!)
Direct/indirect object: thee. (I give thee thanks, or Let me clutch thee.)
Possessive: thy (thy face), or thine before a vowel. (thine eye).
They also had ye for the second-person plural, though there’s increasing usage of “you” for both singular AND plural second-person.
Verb endings are mostly the same, except for second- and third-person singular. Let’s look at the verb to have:
I have
Thou hast/You have
He hath
We had
You/Ye had
They had
I’m mostly omitting the -eth/th ending on the third person singular in this fic, because it reads weird to modern eyes, but it might crop up with a few words.
Will Kemp really did walk out on the Lord Chamberlain's Men in early 1599, probably due to creative differences with Shakespeare. From here on out, I'll be compressing the timeline of events a lot -- the LCM performed before the queen on February 20th, not in late January, but I figure the fact that I've introduced zombies into Elizabethan England makes it okay for me to warp the timeline a little.
.