"Ay, and thou hast won for thyself no small share of admirers," Will says, inclines his head towards the gaggle of ladies still winking America's way. "Prithee, an I may—"
"What's up?"
"If thy grip could be loosened—"
"Oh. Sorry." He releases Will, who looks a little redder in the face than the booze alone accounts for, and thumps him on the back. Will sputters but smiles, and signals the barkeep for another round.
It's a pretty good party, all told. The place smells like fresh sawdust, which is better than sweat or stale beer except for the part where America keeps sneezing, and a steady stream of people flows through the door to buy the Lord Chamberlain's Men a round or shake Burbage's or Will's hand or greet someone else with a hearty backslap. Or—hey, are those guys giving America's ass the once-over? He grins, toasts them with his tankard. Guess the hose doesn't make his ass look fat after all.
He wonders where England is.
Will shakes his head when America asks. "I know not; I have seen nothing of him since last we parted," he tries to say over the chorus of whatever drinking song they're striking up now. "Truly, I would think thee better-informed than I in this matter."
"Nah." America drains the last of this tankard. Good stuff, this. There's almost a honeyed aftertaste to it. "I mean, we have a special relationship and stuff, but."
"A special relationship?"
"Yeah." Explaining that without explaining the next four hundred years is a chore, so America settles for the condensed version. "I tell him stuff, and he tells me stuff, but there's—there's limits. Stuff we hold back."
"Because you both must."
"Well yeah," he concedes. "Like where he is right now."
I'll to my queen, England said. Must've been hours ago. Someone presses a fresh mug into his hand, and America makes a face into the ale. Isn't she like sixty? Okay, that's not exactly fair, America guesses he'd have a lot of catching up to do if he hadn't seen one of his people for four hundred years. Still, England did say he'd be here, and the party's not showing any sign of stopping soon but there's still a limit to how long you can go without electricity. Or central heating. He can't call it gloomy or cold, though, not with the fireplace roaring and the lanterns winking and the smoke thickening the air.
And some more girls are approaching, all smiles. All gap-toothed and browning smiles, if he's being honest, but heck, they're English so how much can you expect. Plus, they still have more teeth than Washington did.
Not that America ever made out with Washington. Maybe he needs more beer. This will make sense with more beer, or it'll make the good kind of no sense, anyway. Will mouths something, but the girl closes to America's elbow asks, "And be all the men so tall in thy village?" over top of him.
"Actually, I'm about middling," America says. "Uh. Heightwise, anyway."
"If thou'rt a middling sort of man, thy land must be populated by giants," the girl says; her friends close in and trap America on all sides, and someone's hand is somewhere America didn't think Englishwomen's hands usually went.
"Only the basketball players," he says, scans the crowd for Will. Can't the man pick up a bro distress call?
"And how dost play at basketball?"
"Well—"
"It requires a different sort of court," England says crisply.
"En—Kirkland!" He's sort of aware of the girls slipping off to join the talk at the tables, but mostly he sees England smiling thinly, his traveling cloak sliding over his shoulders. "Took you long enough."
"I told you I had business elsewhere," he says, "and the celebration hardly seems to have stopped."
America shrugs. "I think more people are trickling out than in now, but there's still plenty of booze. And we booked rooms upstairs, so we don't have to worry about getting home."
"A good thing, too," England mutters.
"Huh?"
He shakes his head. "We, you said."
"Well yeah." America scratches behind his ear. Should've set down his tankard before he did that, whoops. Oh well, nothing a shower won't fix, except showering here is kind of difficult. "I'm not a shareholder or anything, but—it's nice, you know? They liked it."
"They weren't the only ones," England says. America squints, tries to make out his face but it's hard to see in this part of the tavern so America half-drags half-ushers England to a smaller table under the overhang, opposite one of the stoves. Neither of them sits down, exactly; America leans back against the table, and England braces the heel of his hand on it.
"So you meant it?" he asks. "I did good?"
"Well, I told you earlier. And judging from your admirers—"
America shakes his head, which makes the tavern spin for a few seconds. "I know what they think."
"Yes. Well."
"And it's awesome, it's great, just—just being onstage and watching them get into it, seeing how they smile and laugh, it's—" It's hard to put into words. It's this warmth, like the sun's settled in his chest, but he's probably not drunk enough to say that. "I like giving them that."
"I know."
The smoke stains the air between them.
"But what about you?" he asks, elbows England in the side. "Did I give you that?"
"Ah—" England clutches the edge of the table, winces. "Mind your strength when you do that, you oaf."
America laughs, leans forward and rumples England's hair. "Sorry."
"Oh no you're not, you're absolutely insufferable—"
"Can't stand anything about me, huh?" Mussing England's hair is nice, but stroking his scalp underneath is nicer, and England makes a funny noise in the back of his throat when America tugs his hair. "Huh, thought you said you liked the performance."
England doesn't shove him off, but he does bat at America's hand. Somehow their fingers tangle together instead, and America kind of laughs and slides his hand down England's neck, rests it on his shoulder. He has such sharp shoulders, like you could cut your palms on them.
"That wasn't you, that was your—no, no I suppose it was you," England says quietly. "You, up there, in front of them all."
"You were watching."
"Yes."
"You saw."
"Yes."
America's fingers close around the clasp of England's cloak, and the stove's heat blasts them both. His hand settles on England's hip, and England's fingers are splayed under his shoulderblade—there's no way England can hold him up like that, but he doesn't think England's trying to. The aftertaste of beer hangs thick and sour in the back of his mouth, or maybe he's just more aware of it now, maybe everything's coming into sharper focus. He can hear each hitch of England's breath, each beat of his own heart.
Their lips are inches apart. Less than that, probably, but America's not exactly counting, he's more focused on the heat of England against him, the ghost of his breath on America's chin.
Someone bumps the table from behind, and America pitches forward, England toppling back. "Whoa," America says, "watch it," and turns that hand on England's hip into a pat on the back instead. "Ha. Guess you were right, it's still pretty crowded in here."
"You, admitting I'm right about something?" England lifts an eyebrow. "Will wonders never cease."
The conversation around America's roaring at full volume again, and it makes his head feel even thicker. "Don't get too cocky. I'll get us drinks or something?"
"I'm not sure how much more you ought to have."
"Oh come on, I can handle myself," America says, and heads to the kitchen before England can retort.
Okay. Once he's past the longest table (everyone toasts him as he swings around, it's nice), he rubs the sides of his nose. That was—it might be better not to start down that path. (Forever will it dominate your destiny, the back of America's brain helpfully adds.) He'll get the drinks, crack a few jokes at England's expense, it'll be like nothing happened. And nothing did happen.
But it could have.
It wouldn't have been bad if it had.
America grits his teeth. He wishes he didn't have to think about it. He doesn't have to think about it. He can think of other things, like how awesome it was tonight, how great it was to see the actors having fun and the audience having fun and England having fun, and England never has any fun, England needs to have more fun, England was probably having a lot of fun with Elizabeth tonight and maybe that's why—
This isn't working. Also, there are zombies.
"Jesu!" someone shouts next to his ear, and America ducks before the zombie's swing connects. It throws a faster punch than zombies are strictly supposed to, and America barely sidesteps the follow-up. The zombie overbalances on that swing, though, so America grabs the zombie's arm and hurls it headfirst into the nearest wall. The stone shudders, and the zombie's head splits with a sickening crack. God, America hopes that counts as a headshot.
The initial surge of adrenaline's fading, and the fight signals ease up for America to register that someone let zombies into the basement.
"I would trade my right hand for a chainsaw," America says, because shouting jesus Christ there are zombies in this basement why are there zombies in this basement oh man how many centuries is it before they invent shotguns isn't helpful.
"God-a-mercy, what manner of creature—" Burbage begins, somewhere behind America. America looks around wildly, builds a frantic picture of what's going on. The Lord Chamberlain's Men and he and England are the only ones left in the basement, aside from the zombies trickling through the kitchen door and shuffling down the stairs, blocking the exits.
"Zombies," America says, doesn't bother to explain what or why or even how he knows. They don't shout "brains," don't amble around like the ones in Romero films, but America catches an almost fungal whiff from the ones getting close, and their skin's grey and mottled like it's grown mold.
Luckily, Burbage doesn't ask. "Arm, gentlemen!" he shouts, and the ring of metal's louder than the screams and scraping hinges and creaking stairs, if just for a minute. Guess all that combat training pays off.
"Block the entrances," America says. "Make them engage with you one-on-one, don't let them form groups."
Groups—there's four in the room already, two advancing on Will. Crap. America breaks into a run, vaults over the table and slams his shoulder into the middle of a zombie's back and sends it sprawling to the dirt.
"My thanks." Will pushes his remaining attacker back with a solid foot to the chest and draws his sword. America's zombie heaves under him, tries to throw him off, but he brings his knee down hard, pulls out his dagger and reverses his grip, clubs the zombie in the temple with its hilt. Seems like hitting them in the head does something, so America seizes the back of its head, bares its face, winces and plunges his dagger into its eye. The zombie flails, then sags, slackening.
Oh christ, he does not want to clean his dagger after this.
Will recoils. Luckily, that means the zombie lunging for his throat misses. "The head's the weak point," America says, picking himself back up. "You have to shoot them in the—"
America doesn't see what whacks the zombie in the back of the head, but then again, neither does the zombie.
"—head. You have to shoot them in the head."
It topples forward, crashes into the dirt, and England steps out from behind. "We don't have guns. Idiot," he adds, for that extra England touch of authenticity.
"Okay, fine. Stab them in the head?"
"An it please you, I suggest we cover our own," Will says, and the three of them dive under the table just in time to miss a zombie's gnashing teeth. It ducks to follow them under, but America lifts one of the benches and lets it smash down on the back of the zombie's neck, which takes care of that. Phillips and Heminges are barring the door all right, but the stairs are becoming a clusterfuck: zombies are jumping off them and onto the floor below, grouping up afterwards.
"We need a plan of attack," England says.
"Stab them in the head."
"A feat more easily spoke than done, I fear," Will says.
"That's why you aim for the squishy parts."
Will recoils again.
"Something wrong?"
"We're out of time," England says, "the guard at the door's giving way—"
Phillips and Heminges stagger back from the kitchen door, the red stains on their shirts spreading.
"Wait, the zombies have swords now?"
"Knives, most like," says Will.
"That's bogus!"
"Indeed," England says grimly.
"Okay." America steadies himself with a deep breath. "On three we break. I'm going to help Heminges and Phillips hold the door."
"We'll clear the stairs—"
A cry goes up, and one of the apprentices crashes into a smaller bench—a zombie's arms hang useless at its sides, open but bloodless gashes carved deep into the muscle, but its teeth are clamped around the apprentice's arm, twisting. Will's eyes widen.
"Please please please don't let these be the infectious kind of zombies," America prays aloud.
"We'll find out soon enough, won't we. America—"
"I got it."
"Right, then. Will, to me. One—"
"—two—"
America and England each seize an end of the table, even if it's mostly America who flings it aside. "Stand back!" he hollers to Phillips and Heminges, picks the table back up and carries it in front of him like a shield, charges towards the open door. The stone shakes, but at least the wall holds when America crashes into it, and he thinks he hears a few zombies break their noses against the table. (Judging from the shout of "Zounds!" next to him, the zombies aren't the only ones to collide with the table. Whoops.) The wood groans from the strain—"Get the benches!" America shouts, and he, Phillips, and Heminges brace the table with them.
"It shall not hold long," Phillips says, clutches a gash on his forearm. He's looking a little green under the skin, too. Not good.
"Long enough. Okay, you two, this is going to sound gross, but you see the pokers by that stove?"
They nod.
"Get 'em hot, run back here, stand on either side of the door. When it breaks—" America makes a stabbing gesture.
"Thou hast a fiendish imagination," Heminges says, kind of admiringly.
"No worse than Kyd or Marlowe. Come." Phillips tugs Heminges's sleeve, and they dash to the stove.
Okay, that covers the door. What's going on with the stairs?
The stairs are clearing, but that's because the zombies are leaping off them and overrunning Burbage and the apprentices to rush Will and England. They both have their swords out, but the circle around them closes, tightens—
"Pope! Burbage! Everyone! Come on!" America yells, drops his sword in favor of a big broken plank and takes off at a run towards the cluster of undead, plows headfirst into three of them. It doesn't break their circle, but the zombies stagger into their buddies, and America follows up with a wide swing of his plank into more than a few unnaturally gray faces. He hacks and elbows and kicks and chops his way through; there can't be more than twelve of these guys but it feels like more, the way they absorb each hit like they don't even feel it. Which they probably don't, America realizes. Even the ones without knives can deliver some stinging punches, though, and he reels back from a nasty uppercut, his plank wobbling in front of him.
He gets a glimpse of the circle's center—blood trickles from the corner of England's mouth, and Will's leaning heavily on his right leg, but no serious wounds yet, looks like. Good. America swings his plank from side to side, daring any zombies to come closer, and staggers into the center of the circle, panting and grinning. "Hi guys," he says.
"Clearly," England says, "I need to start preparing spells in advance."
Will spears a zombie through the throat, grunts as he tries to pull his blade out. "We tire, and they do not."
"So we've gotta end this fast," America says. "Follow me, we need to break the circle."
Burbage and Pope are hacking at the edges, trying to create an opening, but their swords are too thin to hold it for long. Looks like it's up to him. America squares his shoulders and charges forward, plank flailing, slams himself into zombie after zombie until his vision swims from the impact. Hands—warm hands, human (or Nation) ones—grab him by the shoulders and yank him forward, and he stumbles out of the broken circle, his glasses hopelessly askew.
"America, can you hear me?" England's voice, even if there are about two Englands talking to him.
"Yeah. I gotcha."
His vision resolves in time to see one of the zombies lunge at Will—America's about to shout out a warning, but Will steps aside at the last possible second. The zombie can't halt fast enough, runs straight into the stove, and Will picks up a nearby tankard and clubs him on the back of the head with it, sending him facefirst into the hot iron.
"That," America says, "was badass."
Fire at the corner of his eye—Burbage picked up a torch and is brandishing it at the zombies, and the zombies are shrinking back from it. Not fast enough, though, because Burbage jams the torch forward and sets at least one head alight. That zombie shrieks and falls back into one of its friends, and the fire spreads out from there.
"Please tell me we have water nearby," England says.
"Nay, but we've beer enough," says an apprentice, pushing a big keg forward. "'Twill do for stopping the blaze."
America glances back. Phillips is really pale, but at least he's slumped against the wall and grinning, his poker dangling from his hand. Between him and Heminges are at least four zombies.
"They gave up th'attack when they saw what we had in store for 'em," Heminges calls, his voice hoarse. "Retreated into the night, most like."
Burbage watches the zombies burn, his mouth hard. "Are we all 'counted for?"
"Ay," Will says, "though some of us have worse hurts than others."
"Go get them patched," Burbage tells the apprentices not on beer duty, who scamper off. "By Jesu, what a sight."
"And thus we end our revels for the night," Will finishes.
"Oh, we're not done yet," England says, wipes the blood from his chin with the back of his wrist. "Our calling on Dee is long overdue, wouldn't you say?"
"Dee!" England hammers on the door. "Dee, I know thee to be about, as the clouds have not yet eclipsed the stars—tear thyself from thy telescope and attend thy fucking door!"
Next to America, Will coughs. "And should they bite thee—"
"Then thou'rt seriously boned," America finishes. "Unless they're not the infectious kind of zombies. See, there are the zombies who turn you into one of them when they bite you, and they're usually a little faster, which is why I thought our zombies might be those kind, but there are also—"
"They aren't zombies, they're wights," England snaps, still knocking.
"Uh, England? Those were zombies."
"They are singularly dead and singularly reanimated. They're wights."
"They wanted to eat our brains. They're zombies."
"You don't know—"
The door swings open, and England stumbles forward. On instinct, America grabs his collar to keep him from falling and lets go when he feels the back of England's neck heat.
The guy on the other side of the door definitely looks like a wizard, from the bushy eyebrows to the long gray beard to the dusty black robes. His cap's round instead of pointy, though, which is kind of a letdown. "My Nation," he says, eyes widening. "What brings thee at this dread hour?"
"Black business," England says, "and things not to be spoke of so openly." He steps through the door before Dee has the chance to invite them all in, and America and Will follow.
It's not as dark in here as America expected; candleholders protrude from the walls, and candelabras cover most of the space not already occupied by books. Seems like kind of a dangerous combination to America, but hey, it's not his room. The books, though—Will makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and reaches out to trail his fingers over one of the stacks, murmuring in astonishment. "The Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth. I have heard tell of it," he says, "but I thought it lost to the desert sands."
"Nay," Dee says, "'twas recovered by the Turks, and they gifted it me years ago." He smiles, the corners of his mouth shaking. "Thou hast some interest in history?"
"Ay, as any playmaker must."
"If I may draw thy attention to something more recent," England says, brandishes the letter and taps Dee on the chest with it. "This letter's for thee. Would it had arrived sooner."
Dee snatches it up with a spindly-fingered hand and reads, his eyebrows knotting. "Would that it had," he murmurs. The paper trembles in his fingers. "Alas, I do fear—"
"You fear?" America says. "Hey, you didn't get attacked by zombies. At least, I don't think so."
From Dee's blank look, he doesn't. Lucky him. England, America, and Will take turns explaining as much as they can: getting sent back in time, Spenser's maybe-imprisonment and definite death, the zombies, Essex's fight with the queen.
"So," America finishes. "What's going on?"
"I fear the answer lies beyond these books," Dee says, runs his thumb down the spine of one. He sinks onto the stool by his bed, his robes sagging, his shoulders slouched under their weight. "But what I know, I'll speak."
England nods. "What was the book Spenser mentioned? I suspect that's at the heart of—well, all this."
"Ay, most like." Dee lifts a massive book from the stack near his feet, and America's afraid his arms are going to snap in half. "He speaks of the Ealdspell."
"The what?" England and America say at the same time; Will blinks, looks politely puzzled. He does that a lot.
"The Ealdspell," Dee says, paging through the book in his lap, "is a grimoire of great power."
"Wait, grimoire?" America asks. "Like the magic book kind of grimoire?"
"You know what the word means," England says. It's not quite a question, and for a second there's almost a hint of a smile in his voice. "And for Christ's sake, America, we were just beset by wights, if that isn't proof positive enough that magic exists I don't know what will be."
"Not wights. Zombies," he tries to interject, but even Will's giving him a skeptical look. "Zombies can be science."
"Magic is a science," Dee says. "Is it not a means by which we may understand the natural world, and shape it to our ends?"
"Well, yeah, but—"
"The Ealdspell, Dee," England interrupts. "I've heard nothing of it, and I feel as though I ought have."
"Nay, its nature is such that it would not make itself known to thee." Dee coughs, his chest shuddering. "The Ealdspell is the vessel of the Ealdsprǽc, the Old-Speech, the All-Language; what Kelley dreamed of Enoch's tongue is but approximation—rough rude shapes, as the shadows on the wall of Plato's cave."
"Awesome," America says, scratches behind his ear. "What does that mean?"
"More to the point, what does it do?" England asks.
"Why, it writes the world," Dee says, his eyes almost fever-bright. "Speak a thing, and it is so; unspeak it, and it never was; name a thing in the Ealdsprǽc and it is yours forever; even Nations such as thee must heed its words—"
"—can it make the dead rise? Like the Necronomicon?"
"I know not the book of which you speak," Dee says, "but ay, it could."
"You're never supposed to read from the Necronomicon," America says, shuddering. "That way lies madness."
"Ay, and madness dogs those who would claim Ealdspell and Ealdsprǽc for themselves, save those the book has chosen." Dee closes the book in his lap, and his fingers ghost over the cover, trace the shapes of characters that make America's eyes hurt to look at. "The Ealdspell carries a toll of flesh for those who seek to wield it without its assent: blood spilled for every word spoken." He shuts his eyes tight. "And when I beheld it years ago, I dared give it all I could, but to go further—"
So it is the Necronomicon, America decides, and shivers. A thin wind trickles through the crack in Dee's window, stirs the hair on the back of America's neck. Maybe he got the genre all wrong. Maybe he's stuck in the middle of a horror flick. A book that lets you rewrite reality, lets you screw around with Nations—it's not the most comfortable thing to think about, you know? Someone out there has a weapon that powerful, and they don't know who.
"I see," England breathes. The color's drained from his lips; even the candlelight around him looks weak and pale. "How didst thou come to know of this? I have walked this earth thousands of years, and for such a thing to be—" He trails off, and America reaches over and pats his knee. Not too awkwardly, he hopes.
"Christopher Marlowe showed it me," Dee says, "and Spenser after him."
"The book's masters, I presume," England says, shaking his head to snap himself out of it a little. "It seems rather fond of poets—ah. A-ha."
One by one, everyone turns to look at Will.
"The book must soon be passed, he said," Dee muses. "And Spenser summoned thee the night of his death."
"And whoever he was working for killed him before he could give the book to the guy it was supposed to go to." America punches Will's arm lightly with his free hand. "You."
"I am but a playmaker," Will starts to say, but England scoffs.
"'But' a playmaker, my sodding arse. And Kit was 'but' a playmaker, I'll remind you."
"He was—" Will stops, looks down; America stoops, too, and sees Will's lips drawn tight and shaking. "He was more than that."
"Regardless," Dee says, "the Ealdspell is thine by rights, if not by deed."
"I am not certain—"
"I am." Dee rises slowly, joints creaking. "Who has it now, I wonder."
"And who wields it, if Spenser's dead," England adds.
"And what Spenser and his boss wanted all those dead people for," America says. "'Cause I don't think some well-meaning citizen's giving Londoners a second chance at living out of the goodness of his heart, you know?"
Sherlock Holmes isn't America's, but he has to say, a deerstalker hat and big old pipe would feel just about right now. He wishes the zombies had left behind dirt whose chemical composition was unique to one place in England, but no such luck. They're back in the bar, sorting through the rubble and splinters; outside the sun's probably almost up, but America's got too much to do to think about sleep.
"Essex was Spenser's patron, and he has long quarreled with Her Majesty," Will says. "And Spenser was in Ireland, and now Essex goes thence with an army at his back; to what ends he will turn it, we know not. He is most like to have the Ealdspell, from aught we do know."
"It makes sense." England squats on a relatively clean part of the floor.
"Ay, as neat as any plot I could have written." Will frowns. "Too neat, perhaps."
"What, you think he's being set up?" America asks.
"I wonder why he would attack so soon after his quarrel with Her Majesty, and so near her. The suspicion of the deed would fall on him, most like."
"And shall," England says. "But if he knows you're the rightful owner of the book, Will—and he might well have suspected, had he read Spenser's letter, and if he realized the first trap failed—"
"But you said Cecil was the one who had all of Spenser's letters," America says. "Not Essex."
"He said his spies made copies, and sent the originals on. Essex might have the originals."
America's about to nod, then stops. "Wait. No. No, that doesn't work. If the letters Cecil gave you were copies, why'd he have the one with the hidden message to Dee? It was in invisible ink. Lemon juice or something, whatever. No way he or his secretary could've copied that part over."
"Cecil could have kept the originals and sent on the copies," England says, but he frowns, chews his fingernail.
"So two people intercepted Spenser's mail?"
"Ay, one for each faction at court," Will says. "Cecil, and Essex."
America whistles. "That's an awful lot of snooping."
"Any man may turn to spy in these times, an he sees some reward in it," Will says quietly. "And knowledge reaps great reward, whether it be true or false, for falsehoods may turn to truth."
"So—" America squints, rubs his forehead. "Wait, by that logic Cecil could've been the one who sent the zombies after us, to make Essex look bad."
"Another Babington plot." England snorts. "You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, but more still than that will alight in the eyes of a corpse."
"I'faith," Will says, "thou dost sound like Kit."
"I'faith, I do feel like Kit." England sighs. "I wonder if he had the right of it."
.
A/N: As always, see Chapter Two for dialect notes.
John Dee was a pretty cool dude. (Wikipedia has more, but FFN, alas, does not let me embed links.)
The Ealdspell and Ealdsprǽc are, to my knowledge, entirely fictional. (Ealdspell means "old story" in Old English; Ealdsprǽc is "old tongue".)
You are more than welcome to play "spot the Evil Dead references." In fact, I encourage it.