Part One: 1588 - Vlissingen, a seaport in the Netherlands
.
.
~ In 1588, the seaport of Vlissingen was a town looking over its shoulder. Encircled by the Spanish Netherlands, Vlissingen was occupied and governed by the English, a concession won for Elizabeth I in the Treaty of Nonsuch in return for supporting the Dutch rebels against Spanish rule. The port had strategic military importance, and the town provided a useful listening post on the continent. As the threat of war between England and Spain intensified, agents of Her Majesty's secret service travelled to and from Vlissingen gathering intelligence to aid in the defence of the Realm. ~
.
.
Kit Marlowe had come to think that life in Vlissingen was dull beyond measure. Idling in a dockside tavern, lingering over a late breakfast of ale and herring, he watched the town going about its business. Spain and England stood ready to attack each other, and yet here in this odd outpost of English influence on the edge of the Spanish empire, life carried on much as usual.

When Sir Francis Walsingham had recruited him to work for the Queen's secret service, he'd seized the offer wholeheartedly. Excitement, intrigue, and money had seemed an attractive offer, and the chance to get away from the University from time to time made a welcome break for a Divinity student who didn't particularly believe in the Divine.

The money had certainly been welcome. Knowing that he didn't have to live within the constraints of his scholarship made life bearable. The expected excitement and intrigue, however, were sometimes more elusive.

He'd lived in Vlissingen on and off for the last two years. Nominally, he was a cloth trader, buying textiles and shipping them off to England. His real purpose in the Low Countries was to keep his eyes and ears open for news that could be passed back to England of Catholic plots and Spanish politicking. He would stay in Vlissingen for weeks at a time, and then go back to England, to his College, to placate his tutors and mend the gaps in his study. He knew he was out of favour with most of the University fellows for neglecting his studies, but Walsingham had assured him it would be all right: he would be given his Master of Arts degree in due course.

Listlessly, Marlowe picked at his food, watching the dockside parade pass by. Seaports were full of travellers from all corners of the world. What they knew and what they saw - what they were willing to whisper into the ear of a comely young man like Marlowe - could sometimes be valuable. Much of what he had heard lately was useless. Flattery and lies from the lips of know-nothings who wanted to talk their way into his bed.

He was to return to England in three weeks. If he returned without information he would be out of favour with Walsingham as well as with his University.

He hardly bothered to glance up when a rowdy group of sailors came in. A new ship must have arrived in the harbour. Swaggering and laughing, the sailors were joking with the serving girl in a patchwork of accents from half a dozen lands. Amongst them, there was an English accent.

Idly, Marlowe turned to see whose voice it was. The English accent belonged to a lad of about sixteen. He had grey eyes and dark blond hair, and he moved with a coltish grace that would disappear as he got older. Marlowe looked at him speculatively. He had been feeling lethargic all morning; he could do with something to stir up his senses without having to work too hard. The boy looked fairly clean. Prettier than Marlowe would have preferred - he liked more masculine fare - but attractive enough, and probably not as innocent as he looked.

Marlowe caught his eye and smiled.

"Join me?" he invited, speaking English, and gesturing at the empty bench across from his place at the table.

The lad hesitated only long enough to survey the room and conclude that Marlowe looked more harmless than most of the other patrons. He sat down opposite. Marlowe signalled to the pot-boy.

"You're English?" he asked.

A nod.

"So am I. I'm called Kit Marlowe," he said, smiling easily. "I'm a cloth trader. And your name is...?"

"Nicholas Jade."

The pot-boy arrived at their table, setting down tankards of ale. Marlowe held out a handful of coins without looking at him.

"Where has your ship come from?"

"From-"

"Nicholas!" The boy jumped when he heard his name called out across the room. He looked around, wide eyed. Marlowe looked up too, displeased at the interruption.

A commanding figure stood in the doorway: tall and broad shouldered, with strong, handsome features. The man was dressed in dark clothes of expensive cut, wearing a plumed hat that must have cost a pretty penny. The hilt of his sword gleamed. His eyes glinted more brightly still - green as emeralds.

"Nicholas - you're wanted back on the ship."

"Yes, Captain!" Standing up hastily, the lad barely glanced at Marlowe as he headed for the door. The tall man - the Captain, Nicholas had called him - walked over and sat down at Marlowe's table.

"My cabin boy is young and impressionable," the man said. "It's best if he's protected from licentious company."

"I should take offence at that," Marlowe remarked mildly.

They regarded each other for a few moments: curious, evaluating.

"So, will you take offence?" The ghost of a smile passed across the Captain's face. "Nicholas is too bland a dish for you. I think you need more of a challenge."

Before Marlowe could speak, one of the sailors approached, and addressed the Captain in Spanish. A rapid exchange followed in that language, and the sailor left the tavern. Tuning his ear to the conversations on the other side of the room, Marlowe realised that the sailors were all speaking in the Spanish language. He understood little of what they were saying, but he recognised Spanish when he heard it. And yet, the Captain had spoken English like an Englishman, with an accent that suggested a prosperous upbringing and a good education.

"I thought you were English," Marlowe said, his curiosity piqued.

"Did you?" The Captain lifted the pot of ale that had been put on the table for Nicholas, and drank. "Ships and seaports are populated by wanderers. You should never be surprised by the origins of men on ships." He drained the ale and stood up. "I have business in the town. Come with me if you like - I could do with some company."

Marlowe was aware that he should be looking to his duties and seeking information, not pleasure. But he was tired of Vlissingen, tired of being at Walsingham's beck and call, and this handsome arrogant stranger stirred his blood. He followed the Captain out of the tavern.
.
.
.
.
.
Two weeks later, on a clear cold morning, a ship approached Vlissingen sailing under the English flag.

The Captain of the Prometheus stood on the bridge, surveying the harbour through his telescope. Fishing vessels, coastal traders, merchantmen - and at the far end of the harbour, a sleek warship. The Captain smiled. He would recognise that ship anywhere by its silhouette alone. El Halcon. One Spanish ship - that particular Spanish ship - would pose no danger. He gave the order to put in to harbour.

The Prometheus docked that afternoon. She sat low in the water, heavy with a precious cargo destined for England. The crew went ashore seeking food, drink, and a taste of ease and comfort. The Captain went ashore seeking information.
.
.
.
Captain Tyrian Persimmon had taken a room in a quiet street, away from the harbour and the town square lined with taverns. He had paid the landlady extra to ensure that his peace and quiet would not be disturbed. His instructions were clear: she was to let no-one in that he did not bring there himself. The only person he brought there was Marlowe.

That evening, as they retired to his chamber after supper, they heard raised voices at the foot of the stairs. The landlady sounded flustered. "I'm sorry, sir, but Captain Persimmon does not wish to see anyone!"

"He will see me." An Englishman. Confident.

"Sir, I beg of you!" Her voice was shriller, panicking. "The Captain does not wish to be disturbed!"

Boots on the stairs. The door-latch being lifted.

Marlowe, still half-dressed, sat up hastily as the door opened.

Captain Benedict Red leaned against the doorpost, gazing disdainfully at the scene before him.

"Well, now, what have we here? Captain, you seem to have chosen beneath you. An English cloth dealer? That is what you claim to be, is it not, Master Marlowe?"

A vitriolic retort rose to Marlowe's lips, but Tyrian silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.

"You should be more wary, Captain," Benedict continued. "This cloth dealer is an agent of the English Crown. Have no doubt: your business will have been well-reported. You're getting careless, Tyrian, taking a spy into your bed."

Marlowe bristled. He was not keen to have his dual identity discussed - he hadn't told Tyrian what his real purpose was in Vlissingen, and he certainly didn't want it to become common knowledge. How did this newcomer know who he was? Marlowe didn't recognise him, but his familiar manner suggested that he knew Tyrian Persimmon well. His manner also suggested there would be no getting rid of him.

To Hell with this.

Marlowe stood up, shaking Tyrian's hand off his shoulder, and picked up his shirt.

"I will take my leave," he said pettishly. "I may see you in the town in the next few days." Pulling his shirt on, he shouldered his way past Benedict, whose mouth twitched with snide amusement.

Standing against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, Tyrian glared. "If you've frightened off my pretty cloth merchant, I shall be most annoyed."

Benedict snorted scornfully. "I doubt that I'm fearsome enough to frighten him away from you altogether, much as I would like to. Should I be jealous?"

"He's of no importance," Tyrian said dismissively.

"Important enough to take to your bed."

"A whim."

"A whim that you have indulged many times these past weeks, if my information is correct."

Tyrian pushed away from the wall and advanced slowly on Benedict. "What do you want, Pirate?"

"Your company. Now that your pretty cloth merchant has left to nurse his resentment, perhaps you're in need of other diversion." Benedict flopped onto the bed, his boots up on the covers. Tyrian glowered. Benedict smirked, and made no move to shift his feet.

"I should have my gunners open fire on your ship, Pirate," snarled Tyrian.

"And send all that hard-won Spanish gold to the bottom?" Benedict seemed amused. "Firing on a ship in port is not advisable, Captain. It might be seen as an act of war."

Glaring angrily, Tyrian knelt on the bed, his knees astride Benedict's hips. He resisted the urge to slap the Englishman, to wipe that mocking smile off his face. Instead, he tangled his hands in Benedict's hair, and kissed him hard. With a soft, throaty growl, Benedict pulled Tyrian down onto the bed next to him. Their tongues twined.

Surfacing from their kiss, Tyrian asked, "How do you know who Master Marlowe is?"

"I like to keep well informed," Benedict replied coolly. "The ports along this coast are full of spies from every country in the world. It would be foolish of me to disregard the fact, in my profession. I like to know who they are." He cast an appraising glance at Tyrian. "You knew he was a spy."

"Of course. But he's bored with the life here, and easily persuaded to court danger."

"That's what you like about him, then - his taste for danger." Benedict rolled over, pinning Tyrian to the mattress. "You have an appetite for danger equal to none."

"That's why I like you," growled Tyrian. "You're dangerous."

He seized a handful of Benedict's golden curls and pulled him over onto his back. Without letting go of the hair, he began to unfasten Benedict's clothing. Benedict joined in the endeavour, and soon the two were naked, grappling with bruising intensity. Each struggled for dominance, strength pitted against agility, neither willing to concede control to the other. At last, Tyrian thrust a knee between Benedict's thighs, shoving them apart roughly, as the Englishman snarled and writhed underneath him. Their joining was fast and savage, Tyrian's black silken hair swinging around his shoulders as he thrust ferociously into Benedict's tight heat.

Afterward, the two lay still and silent for some time, sated.

Tyrian stirred first, pushing himself up onto one elbow. "Why are you here in Vlissingen?"

"Seeking you."

"The truth, Pirate. Why?"

Benedict turned onto his side. "I'm here to provision my ship. Then we sail to England, where we'll be relieved of our cargo. The English Crown is hungry for gold. War preparations cost money. Spanish gold to pay for a war against Spain: there's a symmetry about it, don't you think?"

"The corruption of the English knows no bounds," Tyrian sneered.

Benedict sat up, suddenly serious. "Tyrian, war is coming to England, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. I know the Spanish are poised to invade. When we've unloaded our spoils, we sail west. Come with us - follow us. The Channel is still open. Follow me to the Caribbean. Let Spain and England have their war."

"Run from battle?" Tyrian snorted. "Where's the valour in that? I will sail with the Armada - for Spain's glory and my own."

"Always glory! When the Prometheus engages the enemy, we do so for a better purpose: gold. War disrupts commerce, Tyrian. We're going where the prospects are better. When England and Spain have finished brawling, we'll return with our holds full."

He stretched lazily, lamplight gilding his body. Tyrian watched him with lust-darkened eyes. Delicately, he brushed the Englishman's tangled hair away from his face. With callused hands, he smoothed his lover's sun-browned shoulders. Benedict wrapped his arms around Tyrian, pulling him close.

This time, they were more gentle with each other.
.
.
.
.
.
The first rays of early sunlight were seeping through the shutters when Tyrian woke. Benedict lay asleep beside him. Tyrian smiled. He liked beautiful men, and Benedict was beautiful. He was vain and conceited; he could be capricious, ruthless, and vindictive - but nobody freed Tyrian's spirit the way Benedict could. Not that Tyrian would admit it to any living soul.

The Englishman stirred, unwilling to let go of the last moments of sleep. Slowly, he opened his eyes to see his lover smiling at him, and he rubbed up against Tyrian like a cat, revelling in the warmth of his body.

"You're greedy, Pirate. Have you not had enough yet?" Tyrian chided indulgently.

"Time's short - we should take our pleasure while we can. I'll only be here long enough to provision my ship. Three days, and then I sail." Disentangling himself from Tyrian, he stretched, yawning. "How long will you stay here in port?"

Tyrian shrugged. "My men have been at sea for months. A few weeks ashore will do them good."

"Very benevolent of you, Captain," said Benedict, with a touch of sarcasm. "You're not here out of kindness to your men: you're waiting for the signal to join the Spanish invasion."

"True. It will not be long now."

"And I intend to be long gone before it happens. I have no wish to get caught up in skirmishes with the enemy. A waste of powder and shot."

"You know the war will follow you," Tyrian said, his tone serious. "Spain's colonies will not welcome an English ship in their waters."

"Spain's colonies are not always welcome themselves. The people of those lands have no need of the Spanish and would as soon do without them. I've sailed to many countries that Spain counts as part of its Empire - most of them have never heard of Spain until the Spanish ships come pillaging."

Benedict rolled over and stretched out on his stomach, the morning light playing on his bare skin.

Idly, Tyrian stroked his fingertips down Benedict's long backbone. "Then if you are only here for three days, we'll make the most of our time."

"And as soon as I'm gone, I suppose you'll let that whey-faced whelp Marlowe back into your bed," Benedict grumbled.

"Do you care?" There was a hint of amusement in Tyrian's voice.

"Care? I object! You're mine."

"You talk like a village wife. I belong to no one, man or woman, and I'll bed whom I please."

Benedict rolled over, sliding one of his legs between Tyrian's. "While I'm here, you'll bed me."

"I will if I please."

"Oh, you will please." Twining himself around Tyrian's body like a vine, Benedict pulled his lover into a deep kiss. Slowly, deliberately, he ground their bodies together, and smiled into their kiss as he felt Tyrian's breathing deepen and his arms tighten around him.

Benedict pulled back slowly from their embrace. "So, when I'm gone, will you take him back into your bed?"

Tyrian gave a teasing half-smile. "I might."

"Tyrian, he's a spy! I'm surprised you let him near you. He's only using you to glean information so he can buy favour with his superiors. Do you tell him anything of worth?

Tyrian laughed aloud. "I tell him his skin is as fair as a maiden's and his arse is like the narrow gateway into heaven. About the Spanish forces - nothing. I doubt that he'll repeat any of the words he's heard in my bed to his superiors."

Benedict grinned nastily.

Tyrian got up from the bed and padded across the room to open the shutters. Daylight flooded in, along with the fresh salt-water smell of the sea breeze.

Benedict rested his chin on his arms, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as Tyrian came back and lay down beside him. "The last time I sailed to the New World, we landed at a place called Yucatán. It was rich and green, the air was hot, everything smelled damp. I saw a creature in the jungle there, a black tiger. It was beautiful. Strong and deadly. It made me think of you."

A black tiger.

Tyrian had never seen such an animal, but he could picture it in his mind, slinking through the deep-shadowed forest.

"You think of me as a ravening beast?" He pressed his body closer to Benedict, breath hot against the nape of his neck.

"Ravening? No. Dangerous.Not to be trifled with." Benedict turned in his lover's arms. "As I am not. So, Tyrian: do not trifle with me. I will not have it. Forget this cloth dealer."

"Listen to me, Pirate. He means nothing to me. There is nothing to forget."

As Marlowe began his meal, a small stringy man hobbled over and sat down uninvited beside him. The man's name was Zijbert. He was a messenger, a pickpocket, an informer. Marlowe often found him useful. For a few coins he would run errands, find answers, or locate small items - sometimes by stealing them. Zijbert knew everyone and not much escaped his attention. He had been a sailor when he was a younger man, but a fall from a mast had left him with a crippled leg.

"Morning, Master Kit." Zijbert pretended not to see that Marlowe was annoyed.

Not in the mood for conversation, Marlowe was ready to curse him roundly and send him on his way - but just at that moment, he caught a glimpse through the window of a tall blond-haired figure walking along the dockside some distance away.

"That man - do you know who he is?" Marlowe asked, pointing him out to Zijbert.

"Who, sir?"

Marlowe pushed a coin across the table.

"Oh, him, sir." Zijbert grinned, toothless. "English sea-captain, Benedict Red by name. ‘E's a privateer. No better ‘n a robber, I'd say, but ‘e ‘as a letter from your Queen to say ‘e ‘as a licence for it. I don't suppose that makes any difference to the poor bastards ‘e sends to the bottom o' the sea."

"What else do you know about him?" Another coin. Another toothless grin.

"Well, now, ‘im bein' a privateer, ‘e should be deliverin' a share o' the goods ‘e steals to the English Crown. That's ‘ow privateerin' works. But I've ‘eard tell that not everything Benedict Red takes in ‘is raids on heathen lands finds its way back to ‘Er Majesty. A man who sailed with Benedict Red told me that ‘imself. I'd say Captain Red is robbin' ‘is Queen just as surely as ‘e robs the Spaniards."

Zijbert's rheumy eyes glittered, watching Marlowe carefully to measure the effect of his words. Marlowe held up a third coin, and dropped it onto the tabletop with the first two.

"That's ‘is ship, now, the Prometheus, yonder." Zijbert jabbed a skinny finger in the direction of the ship. "Now, see, at the other end o' the harbour - that Spanish warship, like. The captain o' that ship - some say ‘e's the son o' the Devil himself. Kill a man as soon as look at ‘im. Take what ‘e wants from any woman or boy ‘e fancies. Those two ships ‘ave been seen at anchor in the same harbour time and time again, round all the ports of Christendom an' heathen lands besides. An alliance forged in Hell, y' might say. I don't suppose your Queen would like ‘er English captains fraternisin' with the enemy, now, would she?"

Marlowe regarded Zijbert through narrowed eyes. How much of this was the truth, and how much was cobbled together from lies and exaggeration? He could believe that Benedict Red had a long association with Tyrian: that would account for the man's familiar manner. As for the assertions that Red was holding plunder back from the Queen - Her Majesty's ministers would take a very dim view if there was any truth in that. If he could find evidence to back up Zijbert's story, it would allow him to exact a decisive revenge on Benedict Red and get Walsingham off his back in one fell swoop.

He tossed a fourth coin onto the table. "Take your money and be off with you."

"Won't you buy me a pot of ale? I've got a terrible thirst, Master Kit."

"Buy your own ale and be damned." Marlowe pushed his stool back from the table. "I have work to do."

Zijbert grinned at the man's departing form, and helped himself to the remaining scraps from Marlowe's plate.
.
.
.
Using the bustle of activity on the docks as cover, Marlowe made his way to where the Prometheus was moored. She was a small ship, but heavily armed and rigged for speed. Marlowe was no sailor, but he had lived long enough in a seaport town to know that the Prometheus would be a formidable opponent at sea. A steady stream of men carried bags of provisions onto the ship, like a line of ants carrying seeds and crumbs into their nest. Marlowe watched as foodstuff, gunpowder, sailcloth, ropes and shot were carted on board.

Enough for a long journey; more than you'd need if you were only heading home to England.

For an hour or more, he leaned in the shade of a shelter at the side of the quay, counting men and tallying up their loads, confirming his opinion that Captain Benedict Red was bound for more distant shores than England.

Next, a small group of sailors left the Prometheus, heading toward the town. Marlowe wondered what information they might be persuaded to part with. He watched them almost out of sight, then followed in the direction they had taken.
.
.
.
.
.
That evening, Benedict arrived at Tyrian's lodgings preoccupied and irritable. He knew from his own sharp eyes and from information passed to him by his crew that Marlowe had spent the day making enquiries about the Prometheus and her intended destination. In these matters he had nothing to hide, but as it was Marlowe asking the questions, resentment ate at him.

"You have something on your mind, Pirate. What is it?"

Benedict scowled. "Your fancy-boy Marlowe spent the day nosing around the docks, trying to wheedle information out of my crew. He's looking for something he can use against me. Like as not, he's trawling the taverns of Vlissingen now, plying my men with drink to loosen their tongues."

"What can he find? He must know better than to believe the stories that come out of a wine cask."

"Tyrian, I won't have him prying into my business. He's been sent here to spy on the Catholics and Spaniards, not loyal English mariners." Benedict sat on the bed, leaning his back against the wall, relieved to be able to give voice to his pent-up anger. "I can see he's bent on discrediting me when he returns to England. With war about to break out, England is willing to believe the worst of anyone. Mark my words, he'll try to paint me as a traitor."

"I doubt that. You could discredit him just as easily. If fucking the enemy is treason, he could find himself beside you on the gallows."

"It's the jealousy of a thwarted lover, Tyrian: he's out for revenge."

Tyrian's lips quirked into the merest suggestion of a smile. "You did throw him out of my bed, Pirate."

"And I'll not have him pushing his way back into it! Not while I'm here!"

"I've told you, Pirate, he's of no importance. He's just a fine young cockerel who enjoys a tumble in the sheets and yearns for a taste of danger in his life."

"I'll show him danger if he goes near you again," Benedict muttered darkly.

"He means nothing to me. Govern your temper, Pirate. It's not me you have a quarrel with."

Grumbling sulkily, Benedict crossed the room and poured a cup of wine from the jug on the windowsill.

"Benedict."

The Englishman turned sharply, startled. Tyrian rarely called him by his name, even in the most intimate moments.

"You're losing your perspective, Benedict. Take care that you don't act rashly."

He frowned. It was true. He was letting Marlowe become more of an irritant than he should be. For years, Tyrian had flaunted his conquests, teasing him into frenzies of jealousy. Tyrian liked to keep him off balance. It was a bid for control, an attempt to gain the upper hand. Benedict knew it was a game. This time should be no different. Shouldn't it?

"Even so," he growled, "I think Master Marlowe needs a lesson. He needs to learn that if you play with a blade you will cut yourself before long."
.
.
.
.
.

He's persistent, I'll grant him that, Benedict thought grimly; but perhaps he can be persuaded to dampen his curiosity.

In the early evening, Benedict took two of his sailors with him and set out to look for Marlowe. For an hour they wended their way through the cobbled streets, combing the taverns and brothels without finding the man they sought. As twilight began to gather, they arrived at a crowded drinking house called the Green Mermaid. This tavern stood in the poorer part of the town, where the houses were smaller and the streets narrower, and gutters running with muck flowed down the middle of each lane.

As soon as they saw the heavily armed Captain and his henchmen arrive, many of the customers in the Green Mermaid decided it was time to leave. Benedict scanned the thinning crowd, and spotted the man he had come looking for. He nodded at his men to stay outside.

Marlowe knew at first glance that Benedict's arrival boded no good. He glanced about the tavern. There was only one way out, and he would have to get past Benedict and his two ruffians to get there. He decided to brazen it out.

With the slow, deadly sureness of a predator, Benedict crossed the taproom. Marlowe held his ground, and sat looking up defiantly. He felt far from comfortable as the other man advanced on him, and was glad of the table standing between them.

Benedict eyed Marlowe as a bird of prey might eye a mouse. "You've spent a lot of time down on the docks prowling around my ship. What did you think you were doing?"

Marlowe ignored the question. "You're taking on more supplies than you need to cross the Channel. I'd say you were planning to take the coward's way out and run for distant parts, abandoning your Queen and country to the invaders."

"I sail under letters of marque from Her Majesty," Benedict said coldly. "Of course I'm sailing for distant parts - pursuing the Spaniards."

Marlowe smirked maliciously. "Pursuing Spaniards seems to be what you like to do best."

Benedict's boot connected with the edge of the table and heaved it aside, end over end. With a loud crash, it settled on the floor upside down. The few drinkers who had remained in the tavern hastily headed for the door. Benedict took a step closer to his prey and stood towering over him.

"Listen to me, you whore's brat. Don't presume to pry into my affairs. If you want to stay in one piece, keep away from my ship and my men. Don't bother trying to trap them into telling you tales you can twist into accusations."

Marlowe lounged back in his seat, feigning confidence he did not feel. "You've schooled your men well, Captain: they tell me you're the Queen's faithful servant. Others in this port tell a different tale: defrauding Her Majesty of her rightful income, associating with enemies of the Realm-"

"Do your masters know how you do your work here - bribing drunken wastrels for dockside gossip?"

"-Her Majesty's ministers are sensitive about men's loyalties. Loyal servants of the Queen don't spend their time pursuing Spaniards in the bedrooms of Vlissingen."

"You've spent enough time doing that yourself, you slut."

Throwing back his head, Marlowe laughed derisively. "And when you've sailed away to cower in foreign waters with your tail between your legs, your Spanish Captain will be looking for other harbours to drop his anchor in. You may have pushed me out of his bed for a few days, but once you're gone-"

In a heartbeat, Benedict seized Marlowe and slammed him against the wall, one hand holding his throat in a vice-like grip. Gasping for breath, Marlowe struggled to throw the other man off, but when he felt the prick of a blade at his neck, he stilled.

Tightening his grip on his opponent's throat, Benedict pressed the point of the dagger more firmly against Marlowe's skin, relishing the fear flickering in the man's eyes. "You pestilent maggot, I should gut you - but the landlord would be displeased to have such a mess on his floor."

"Nothing but a thug at heart," Marlowe ground out between clenched teeth.

"Shut your mouth, you pox-ridden parasite! You will keep away from my ship and my men, and you will keep away from Captain Persimmon. Interfere in my business, and I will kill you. Insinuate yourself into Captain Persimmon's bed again, and I will kill you. Do I make myself plain?"

Short of breath but still defiant, Marlowe retorted, "I have no need to insinuate myself. He'll beg me to return to him."

"If he did, I would kill you both!" With a flick of his wrist, Benedict slashed a two-inch long gash across Marlowe's jaw, and shoved the man away from him.

Blood welled up, beading against the pale skin. Marlowe's hand went to the wound; he hissed at the stinging pain.

"Get out of my sight," Benedict growled.

Marlowe lurched toward the doorway and staggered out into the lane beside the tavern, where he leaned against the wall labouring to get his breath back. He groped blindly for his dagger: he would have the advantage of surprise when Benedict came out of the tavern-

Before he could finish the thought, Marlowe was struck from behind. Winded, he fell to his knees, and was set upon by the two sailors who had been waiting outside. As kicks and blows rained down on him, he gave up any attempt to fight back.

.

.

Marlowe had no idea how long he lay in the lane beside the Green Mermaid. For a while he drifted in and out of consciousness. People passing down the street in front of the tavern ignored him. A body lying in the lane was not unusual in this part of the town.

At last, he found he could sit up. His body was stiff and bruised. Blood from a cut above his left eye had formed a crusty trail across his face and neck. The cut on his jaw stung, but felt insignificant beside his other injuries. Carefully testing his limbs and ribs, he decided nothing was broken. He seemed to have all his teeth in place. His head ached, but he could still see. He staggered to his feet, and made his unsteady way across the street to a horse trough, where he tried to wash the worst of the blood off his face and out of his hair. Exhausted by the effort, he sat on the edge of the trough holding his head in his hands.

He couldn't stay out in the street. His own rooms were some distance away - but Tyrian's lodgings were nearby and he thought he could get there if he went slowly and carefully. It took longer than he thought it would, and by the time he got to the front door of the house he was exhausted again. He could barely raise the strength to knock on the door before he collapsed on the step, panting for breath, his head spinning.

The next thing he remembered clearly was Tyrian leaning over him, and the landlady hovering in the background.

He looked up muzzily. Tyrian's expression was unreadable.

"What happened to you? Who did this?"

"Your English sea captain," he mumbled bitterly. His mouth hurt; his tongue felt thick and swollen.

As Marlowe told it, Benedict had attacked him unprovoked in the tavern, and then set his thugs on him outside. Tyrian allowed himself to be sceptical: he knew very well that both men were hot tempered and neither would have any qualms about causing damage to the other. Whoever had initiated the incident, Marlowe had clearly come off worst.

"You should be careful of him, too," Marlowe warned. "He won't hesitate to harm you as well."

Tyrian frowned scornfully.

"He said if he found me with you again he would kill us both," Marlowe insisted. "He went looking for me; he'll come looking for you too."

Tyrian did not reply. Instead he turned to the landlady and said in a low voice, "Bring me something to clean him up, and I'll get rid of him."

Dismayed, Marlowe realised Tyrian was not entirely pleased to see him.

The landlady brought a bowl of water and a cloth; Tyrian sat Marlowe on the stairs to clean his wounds. The injuries all seemed superficial. He would be sore for a few days, but that was all.

"Can you walk? Are you able to get home?"

Marlowe tried to stand; the world shifted around him and his legs threatened to give way.

Tyrian cursed under his breath. "Come on, then; perhaps a few hours' sleep will do you good." He hauled Marlowe upright and helped him up the stairs into his bedroom.

.

.

.

.

After he left the Green Mermaid, Benedict returned to his ship to find it fully laden, ready to sail at dawn. Once the chandler's agents had been paid, he was alone for the first time that day. He shut himself in his cabin and poured a drink, and sat reflecting on the events of the past few days.

He did not expect any repercussions from the incident at the tavern. The Green Mermaid had a reputation as a rough place, and if one of its customers had become involved in a fight with some sailors, it was nothing unusual. The authorities had bigger concerns than tavern brawls to occupy their attention.

Benedict was bone tired. He needed sleep - but there was another need scratching at his awareness. Tyrian.

The vainglorious fool intended to sail into battle with the Spanish fleet, dismissing out of hand Benedict's suggestion that they seek safer waters in the New World. It might be years until their paths crossed again. If he survived the war.

One more night. If that is all that's left to us, then that is what I will have.

Benedict buckled on his sword and dagger, pulled on his coat, and made his way swiftly off the ship, through the dark streets to the house where Tyrian was lodging.

The shutters were closed and the door barred when he arrived. Benedict banged his fist on the door loudly until the landlady, muttering and cursing in Flemish, opened up. As soon as she saw him she started to screech in a mixture of Flemish and English that the Captain was not to be disturbed. He shoved his way past and started up the stairs, while her scolding became louder.

At the top of the stairs, Tyrian came out of his bedchamber, carefully closing the door behind him.

The landlady stopped screeching, and fled to her own room, slamming the door shut.

Tyrian's face wore a hard expression. Marlowe was still asleep on his bed. He could not let Benedict into his room, or there would be bloodshed. In his left hand, he held his sword - still sheathed in its scabbard, but ready if he should need it. He hoped he would not.

"What do you want this time, Pirate?"

Benedict advanced up the stairs, about half way. "I sail in the morning. I came to see you again before I leave."

Tyrian shook his head. "Go back to your ship, Pirate."

Benedict frowned, confused. His eyes rested on the sword in Tyrian's hand. Why would Tyrian come to greet him with a sword in his hand? Why had he closed the door behind him? What was he hiding?

Jealousy flared up.

"Have you got that piss-fed hatchling Marlowe in there?" he demanded. "God's blood, Tyrian, if that snivelling weasel is in your bed, I'll slit his miserable throat for him."

Benedict's hand closed around the hilt of his dagger, but before he could draw it, Tyrian's sword was out. "Be warned, Pirate. Come no closer."

"So he is in there! May God damn you, Tyrian - you knew I would come to you tonight, and yet you dared to take that slithering viper back into your bed! Could you not wait one more night? Do you think I will forgive you for this?"

"He came here for help, after you and your men had beaten him senseless."

"So are you his nursemaid now? Or perhaps fucking a man who is bruised and bloody is something new to enliven your jaded palate? I should have cut his throat when I had the chance!"

"Enough, Pirate!"

"Get rid of him, Tyrian, or I'll get rid of him for you!"

"I said, enough!"

Implacable green eyes held Benedict's furious gaze. He saw that he would not win this time, and the insult of it burned into him. Tasting venom in his own words, he snarled, "You've taken that damned spy into your bed once too often, Tyrian. Pray that you never see me again." He turned and strode out, slamming the door behind him.

Out in the street, the sound of Benedict's boots on the cobblestones faded away. Tyrian would not have chosen for them to part this way; still, they had quarrelled before and overcome their differences. He had no doubt they would meet again, although the war between Spain and England might keep them apart for a long time.

He sheathed his sword and went back into his bedchamber.

Marlowe had woken up, and was sitting on the bed, tense.

"He's gone," said Tyrian. "He won't trouble us again."

"Not tonight - but he'll be back looking for vengeance. I heard him threaten you."

"He threatened you as well; but he's gone, and he'll sail on the morning tide."

"He'll want your blood for choosing another. A dagger in the back in a dark alleyway - or direct confrontation in battle -"

Tyrian snorted. "Battle? He won't join the English fleet, if that's what you mean. He's interested in gold, not glory. He scorns to fight for his country - he prefers to rob my country instead. The day I see him facing me on the field of battle will be the day the moon turns blue. I have nothing to fear from him."

He turned away and poured himself a cup of wine, then stood at the window, brooding.

The Prometheus would sail in the morning. Tyrian had no doubt that as soon as he could off-load his cargo in England, Benedict would set his course for the west, just as he had said he would. Unpredictable in some things, Benedict was steadfast in his devotion to the chase and the thrill of vanquishing another ship at sea. He was the master of the swift surprise attack, and had taken a fortune in Spanish treasure back to England to prove it.

For a moment, Tyrian considered what they might achieve together if he followed. No, impossible. His own ambitions did not allow for it. Benedict would be back. They would quarrel about this night when next they met, and then they would slake their anger with lust.

Tyrian stared out into the dark, sipping his wine. Benedict would be half-way back to his ship. No doubt he would spend the rest of the night without sleep, pacing the deck of the Prometheus, impatient for the turn of the morning tide.

Marlowe came over to stand beside Tyrian, and laid his hand softly on his arm. "Won't you come to bed?" Benedict had been driven away; to sleep with Tyrian would give him the victory.

Tyrian looked at him, bleak and indifferent. "No."

"Tyrian-"

"You're in no fit state. Get some sleep." Irritably, Tyrian closed the shutters. Wrapping himself in a blanket, he settled on the bench below the window and turned his back on Marlowe.

.

.

.

.

The Prometheus sailed into a Plymouth Harbour teeming with ships at the ready to fend off the Spanish invasion. Benedict's intention was to offload his cargo as swiftly as possible and immediately sail west - but his plans were thwarted by the delivery of a letter.

As the last of the Spanish gold was unloaded, a messenger threaded through the crowd on the busy wharf, enquiring urgently for Captain Red.

"I'm Captain Red. What do you want?"

"Captain, a letter from London, from the Court of Her Majesty the Queen." The messenger handed over a parchment packet, sealed with Her Majesty's personal seal.

Puzzled, Benedict broke the seal and read.

Captain Red, we send you greetings.

Folded up with the letter was a fine silk pennant embroidered with St George's Cross.

Benedict's heart turned over. He could not ignore the Queen's expectation that he would sail with the Fleet. The letter amounted to a direct order, and to disobey the Queen was treason. The Queen's ministers would know the contents of the letter, and there were witnesses to its delivery.

There was no alternative: Benedict returned to his ship to announce a change of plan.

.

.

.

.

On the night of 28 July, the Spanish Armada rode at anchor in a tight crescent formation. Under cover of darkness, the English fleet approached, and at midnight, eight fire ships were sent into the anchored fleet.

Panic broke out as the fire ships turned the ocean into a mirror of Hell. The sea and sky were alight with flames; fumes of smoke and burning pitch seared the lungs. Sparks sprayed through the air, catching on rope and canvas.

In their tight-packed formation, the Spanish were unable to manoeuvre quickly. Frantic to escape the burning terror, ships cut their anchor lines and headed for the open sea, where English vessels gave chase.

The Prometheus lay at the seaward margin of the English fleet. Small and agile, she relied on the ability to move nimbly. Benedict stayed on the fringes of the battle, watching the engagements through his telescope. A league to the west, the battle raged: smoke and flame and the roar of cannon. Too far away to hear men's screams.

At the outer edge of the Spanish fleet, El Halcon had successfully evaded the English fire ships. Tyrian stood on the bridge, surveying the English fleet. Stunned, he recognised the Prometheus.

Benedict had been adamant that he would sail west and would not join the fleet. What was behind his change of plan? Surely he had not come seeking revenge? For all his blazing jealousy- no, he could not think their quarrel so significant.

The next moment, Tyrian's attention was claimed by the sight of an English vessel bearing down on El Halcon's starboard side. He gave the order to engage.

From the bridge of the Prometheus, Benedict witnessed the ferocious contest between El Halcon and the English ship. Cannons roared; masts and yards were felled. It was going badly for the English ship - but then, they fired a broadside that shattered El Halcon's hull below the waterline. No ship could survive that level of destruction. The English vessel limped away westward, damaged but triumphant.

Watching from a distance, Benedict saw El Halcon's crew lowering their boats. They were abandoning ship. Would the Captain go with them? Benedict came to a risky decision. If Tyrian had escaped, well and good. If he was still aboard the disabled vessel, Benedict was going to find him, and bring him to safety.

.

.

The ship was already burning when Benedict boarded it. He had only one man with him, his First Mate, John Pigeon. One other man stayed below in the boat, waiting to assist their escape.

El Halcon was drifting, listing to starboard as the sea poured inward through the shattered hull. The fire had a firm hold toward the stern. A sword in his right hand and a dagger in his left, Benedict made his way cautiously along the deck, Master Pigeon at his back.

Tyrian stepped out of the shadows, silhouetted by flames, his sword in his hand.

Just at the edge of his vision, Benedict saw another movement.

"Nicholas! Get out of the way!" barked Tyrian. It was the cabin boy: he turned and ran. Benedict didn't bother to notice where he went.

Strange, I never cared about him fucking his cabin boy. Why did I care about Marlowe?

"Here to finish me off, Pirate?" Tyrian challenged harshly.

"I came to find you and take you with me. You can survive this!"

Overhead, the fire was catching in the sails and rigging. "Captain Red! We have to hurry!" Pigeon shouted loudly, barely heard above the roar of the flames. "The fire will reach the powder store soon! Captain! D'you hear me?"

"I'm offering you a chance, Tyrian!" yelled Benedict. "Your crew's gone - when your ship goes down everyone will presume you're dead. So come with me. Sail west with me."

"Offering me a chance? With a blade in each hand? If I come with you, you'll hand me over to the English! What reward would that bring you, Pirate? How much is my life worth?"

"This isn't a trap, Tyrian - I'm offering you an escape. Bring your boy with you - I don't care about him. I won't betray you."

"Then put down your weapons."

Benedict lowered his sword and dagger.

In the shadows to one side, Master Pigeon raised his own blade, ready to defend his Captain if he needed to. Catching the motion out of the corner of his eye, Tyrian whirled around, slashing at Pigeon, who dodged out of range. Turning back, he lunged at Benedict. The edge of his blade caught Benedict's shoulder, slicing the flesh. With a loud cry, Pigeon sprang at Tyrian. Their swords clashed. An upward thrust of Tyrian's blade caught Pigeon in the ribs: he lurched sideways and fell.

Tyrian turned his blade on Benedict. "Come on, Pirate - have your vengeance!"

"I don't want vengeance, Tyrian!"

"Then why seek me out like this? You took an oath to kill me once - have you come to honour your promise? Or is this because you think the English spy took your place in my bed?"

Tyrian attacked with vicious ferocity; desperately, Benedict fought back. Tyrian was giving him no quarter, and self-preservation took over. A savage thrust - and the point of his sword sank into Tyrian's chest.

Time froze.

Green eyes and blue locked together, shocked.

Tyrian staggered, fell - and lay still in a widening pool of blood. Benedict stood over him, paralysed.

Nearby, Master Pigeon moaned loudly, shaking Benedict back to reality. The ship was ablaze all down the starboard side. Time was short. There was no sign of Nicholas. Benedict seized his First Mate under the arms and dragged him to the rail. Clumsily, he got him over the side and lowered him into the boat, where his nervous crewman was waiting. They had barely rowed clear when the fire reached the powder store, and El Halcon was blasted out of the water.

A meeting with his fellow Privy Councillors was not something he was looking forward to with relish. Factional wrangling was marring the Council's ability to think clearly about the issues facing the Realm, and this led to a great deal of wasted energy. While Sir Francis Walsingham was alive, he had run the Queen's secret service with an iron hand, keeping control of all that was done, but since his death other powerful men had set up their own intelligence networks and were keen to gain the Queen's favour and take over official responsibility for her secret service.

Instead of struggling for position, the Queen's ministers should be putting their mind to the questions of the day, in Heneage's opinion. Although the Armada had been defeated, the Spanish threat had never gone away, and now, trouble was simmering in Ireland and France. Here in England, the common people were growing discontented, what with higher taxes and poor harvests and the plague threatening to break out again as the summer approached.

With these larger questions to occupy his mind, Heneage could have done without having to deal with disobedience within the secret service. Christopher Marlowe was a talented agent, but he was becoming uncooperative. His growing success as a playwright seemed to have turned his head.

Heneage stamped his feet to get the circulation going, squinting downriver to see if there were any boats approaching. He needed to send an experienced man across the border into Scotland, where the Scottish king was making overtures to France and Spain. It was vital for England to know what was going to happen. Marlowe would be the right man for the job - if he could be brought back into line.
.
.
.
Some miles further down-river, Benedict Red stood above the docks at Deptford. A stiff breeze blew in off the water, singing in the rigging of the ships. Instead of the clean scent of the open sea, the wind carried the dockland smells of marsh mud and tar. Below, at the dock, the Prometheus was being refitted after standing idle for more than four years. Benedict had not been to sea since he was made Earl of Gloria for his loyal service to the Crown.

Some of the more conservative nobles still shunned him as an upstart of dubious worth, but he had made useful friendships with well-connected men at Court and in the City. The Prometheus was about to set out on a voyage of exploration and trade to the New World, jointly financed by Benedict and Sir Walter Raleigh. They were recruiting a captain and crew to undertake the expedition; he'd laughed off Raleigh's suggestion that he should captain the ship himself. He'd had no heart for the sea since the Battle of Gravelines. Since he'd killed Tyrian.

That part of his life was finished, he told himself. He had become a man of standing, who enjoyed the Queen's favour. He was rich. He had prospects. Women with marriageable daughters were starting to view him as a prospective son in law. Next year, or maybe the year after, he would marry some respectable, beautiful girl from a good family and start to breed pretty, clever children. Life would be agreeable.

Agreeable, but without savour. Benedict knew any marriage he might make would be for social form only. He did not expect ever to reclaim the fierce joy he'd known with Tyrian; that was the closest thing to love he had ever experienced, or ever would.

The regrets and recriminations were never far from his mind.

I shouldn't have joined the fleet and sailed into battle. Tyrian would have survived. Or would he? El Halcon would still have been lost. Would he have escaped at the last minute? Or would he have gone down with his ship, cradling his cabin boy in his arms as the water closed over their heads?

Abruptly, he turned and walked away from the river, pushing his bitter thoughts aside.

Enough of the past.

He had to travel before nightfall to Westminster, where he had been invited to a gathering at the home of Sir Walter Raleigh.
.
.
.
.
.
The house of Sir Walter Raleigh stood in the Strand, an imposing residence that spoke of his status and achievements, and the esteem the Queen once had for him. He had lately fallen out of her favour, after marrying in secret. Her Majesty did not like secrets that excluded her. Raleigh continued to command respect, however, amongst men who were interested in learning, and he had gathered round him a group of like-minded enquirers - men of letters, men of science, men who were not afraid of new ideas. Some at Court were mistrustful of what went on under Raleigh's patronage - there were mutterings about atheism and other dangerous thinking - but an invitation to join their discussions was prized by many.

Raleigh led Benedict into the library, where his friends were assembled. "Gentlemen," he announced, "I would like you to meet my good friend and business partner the Earl of Gloria."

He made the introductions: the Earl of Northumberland; Thomas Harriot the astronomer; the poet George Chapman - and Christopher Marlowe, playwright.

For five years, Benedict had studiously avoided occasions where he and Marlowe might meet. He had not expected to see Marlowe here. Pushing his displeasure aside, Benedict smiled graciously at them all. Marlowe did not bother to mask the hostility in his eyes. Perhaps Raleigh didn't notice; perhaps he chose to ignore it.

Wine was poured, and the conversation flowed freely. Raleigh spoke enthusiastically about their proposed expedition to the New World. Harriot the astronomer had travelled to the English colony of Virginia, and he and Benedict found common ground in discussions of navigation. These were men who valued enquiry, and accepted controversy as a natural part of the pursuit of learning. Lively disputes arose between individuals about fine points of philosophy or science; argument was relished, and pursued with vigour. Benedict revelled in the wit and passion of their conversation. If anyone noticed that he and Marlowe deliberately ignored each other, no comment was made.

At length, Raleigh rose and produced a polished wooden box from a locked cabinet. "Lord Gloria, are you acquainted with the herb from the New World?" He opened the box, taking out a pouch of shredded leaves, and a clay pipe.

"He means tobacco," said the Earl of Northumberland, by way of explanation. "It's good for the health - balances the humours. You must try it."

Benedict accepted the pipe of tobacco from Raleigh. "I have tried this in the New World," he said. "The native peoples there use it in sacred ceremonies."

"The Spaniards believe indulging in tobacco to be harmful," Chapman remarked. "Papists hold it to be a sin."

"Those who do not love tobacco - and boys - must be fools," Marlowe drawled, draining his cup of wine and pouring another. "Spaniards and papists alike, fools." He flicked a glance at Benedict, who returned the look with frosty indifference.

"What are you writing just now, Marlowe?" asked Chapman.

"An idea is stirring for a new play. In the meantime, I have a poem that should be finished shortly. Hero and Leander." He grinned at Chapman. "Some fine stuff in it about Leander stirring the sea-god to lust as he swims the Hellespont."

"Flirting with controversy again, Marlowe? You'll go too far one day," Northumberland commented. "His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury is becoming overly sensitive about the views people express - particularly about the views you express, or so I hear."

"That self-righteous old bag of wind?" snorted Marlowe.

"He takes exception to The Massacre at Paris," Northumberland remarked in serious tones. "If he had his way, that play would never be performed again."

"He takes exception to the theatre in all its forms."

"He hears criticism of himself in your words, Kit. He is not a man you should have as an enemy. He's powerful, and that makes him dangerous."

Marlowe shrugged. "I have friends in high places too. Their protection has aided me more than once, and will do so again."

The smug self-assurance in the playwright's words nettled Benedict: the same cock-sure arrogance that had been behind the man's spiteful reassertion of his place in Tyrian's bed that last night in Vlissingen.

Near to midnight Northumberland, Harriot and Chapman took their leave; Raleigh went down to the door with them to see them out.

With their host out of the room, Marlowe addressed Benedict directly for the first time that night. "Are you cultivating friends in high places now that you've been made an Earl? Or is it that you wish to play with fire, debating with men of unconventional mind?"

"And you, Master Marlowe?" Benedict countered. "Are you befriending people for their intellect these days, instead of their talents in bed? The first time I met you, you were flouncing out of a Spaniard's bedroom."

"Making way for you to occupy it," Marlowe snapped viciously. "Does the English Crown know you were a Spanish Captain's whore?"

Benedict's reply was full of icy contempt. "I performed faithful service for Her Majesty. I brought her the wealth of the Spanish colonies, to support her war against Spain and to further the true Protestant cause."

"So she gave you an Earldom to reward you for your piracy on the high seas. Would she have been so quick to do so if she knew you'd consorted with an enemy of England - sweating and rutting in his bed?"

"It seems her spies never saw fit to report it," Benedict said disparagingly. "Perhaps because the spy who knew most about it wanted to conceal the fact that he, too, had been consorting with the enemy after the same fashion. Once a spy starts concealing facts to protect himself, he becomes ineffective. Obviously, your masters don't know about your divided loyalties."

Marlowe's temper boiled up. If they had not been in the house of a friend, his dagger would have been in his hand. "My loyalties are not divided."

"I think they are: divided between the interests of England and the interests of Master Kit Marlowe."

Raleigh stepped back into the room, catching the last of this exchange. Concern showed on his face as he looked from Marlowe to Benedict, but before he could speak, Marlowe said, "Sir Walter, I thank you for your hospitality. I must bid you good night. No need to see me out."

Raleigh nodded politely as Marlowe left, then frowned slightly at Benedict. "What was that about?"

"Nothing to remark on," Benedict replied, wondering how much Raleigh had heard.

"Master Marlowe is hot-headed," said Raleigh soothingly, "but he has a sharp mind to go with his sharp tongue. He is a faithful member of our circle. Pay him no heed."

"Sir Walter, I'm not troubled by him," Benedict assured his host. "It's nothing to worry about. The hour is getting late; I must take my leave as well. Good night, Sir Walter."

As he made his way home, Benedict considered how troublesome Marlowe might become. Since he had been granted his title and lands for enriching the Crown with Spanish gold, the Earl of Gloria had been determinedly cultivating his reputation at Court. If Marlowe decided to spread malicious gossip about his connection with Tyrian Persimmon, he would quickly find himself out of favour.
.
.
.
.
.
The following afternoon, Sir Thomas Heneage called at Raleigh's house. Raleigh was surprised: although the two held each other in high regard, Heneage had downplayed their friendship of late. Heneage was ambitious, and Raleigh's activities and associations had become controversial.

Raleigh poured two cups of wine and handed one to his guest.

"Sir Walter, I have a problem that you may be able to help me with," Heneage began. "The playwright Christopher Marlowe. I believe that you know him well and may have some influence over him."

Raleigh raised an eyebrow. "I know him well enough, certainly. Whether anyone has any influence over him is open to debate."

Heneage gave a wry smile. "Sir Walter, you are a well-informed man, so I will not beat about the bush. You know well enough that Marlowe works for me in the service of the Queen from time to time. You see, the thing is, he has become somewhat uncooperative of late."

"Giving you trouble, is he?" Raleigh suppressed a grin.

"He is. Lately he has been insisting that he should be required to do less for the service so he can put his energies into his writing for the theatre."

"He's a talented writer," remarked Raleigh, sipping his wine.

"Oh, I don't dispute that - but the Queen has need of his services and I need him to overcome his reluctance to accept the work that has been offered to him. I need him to realise that personal ambition should not take precedence over the welfare of the Realm." He paused. "I had hoped I might persuade you to help me influence his thinking."

Raleigh raised his eyebrow higher, and looked pointedly at Heneage. "Are you hoping I'll have an encouraging chat with him - or are you asking me to help you blackmail the man?"

"Blackmail? No, Sir Walter - God forbid - although if I did have something I could hold over him, he might be more inclined to listen. To put it simply, it would be in the interests of the Queen, and may I say, of Master Marlowe himself, if he were to be a little more cooperative."

"What makes you think I would want to help you in this way?" Raleigh asked. "I'd need to be convinced that it would be in Marlowe's interests."

"Look, you've heard the rumblings around the city. People are on edge - hostile to Catholic sympathisers, suspicious of Puritans, looking for heretics in every dark corner. Her Majesty has said she has no desire to make windows into men's souls, but for all that, faith has become an object of public scrutiny. Marlowe has far too much to say on the subject, and he's attracting attention for his atheistic opinions." Heneage paused and drank. "It would be best for him if he were out of the country for a while - and I need an experienced man for a task of particular importance."

Raleigh shook his head. "He's clever, he's cynical, and he's stubborn as a mule. He's not a man you can talk round with sweet words. I'm not sure that I can be of service to you, Sir Thomas."

Heneage pressed his lips together and puffed out his cheeks. If he couldn't rely on Raleigh's support, he would have to find another way to influence his reluctant agent.

Looking thoughtful, Raleigh picked up the wine jug and refilled Heneage's cup and then his own.

"Speaking of Master Marlowe," he said, "there is something that has made me curious."

This time it was Heneage who raised an eyebrow.

"I held a gathering here just last night - the usual thing: discussion of science and astronomy, the issues of the day. I took the opportunity to introduce the Earl of Gloria to some friends. He and Marlowe had words."

"What about?" asked Heneage.

"I don't know - I was out of the room for most of it. But it seemed to me that there's an old quarrel still causing rancour between them. Marlowe seems to harbour some sort of resentment towards the Earl."

"And you have no idea what it's about?"

Raleigh shrugged. "Not specifically - but I think it has something to do with Marlowe's spying. Something was said about divided loyalties."

Heneage considered this for a moment, and came to no conclusion. "It may be important; it may be nothing. The Earl of Gloria - what's your opinion of him?"

"Ambitious, intelligent. A self-made man. He's shown his support for the Crown many times over. He enjoys Her Majesty's favour."

"He would," grumbled Heneage. "He's a handsome flatterer who's brought her gold by the shipload."

"You're not impressed?"

"I reserve my judgement," Heneage said darkly, sipping his wine. "Did Marlowe have anything to say about his heretical beliefs at your gathering?"

"Heretical? Surely it's for the right authorities to determine whether his views are heretical or not?" Raleigh commented mildly. "Some of what he said might be deemed controversial, but there was nothing to shock men of the world. Sir Thomas, Marlowe is aware that his opinions have caused him to be noticed, but he doesn't care. He's happy to express outrageous opinions. He has no fear of the present disquiet in the city because he believes he enjoys your protection and the protection of the Crown."

Heneage gave a disgusted snort. "So he thinks I can shield him from the wrath of the Church and the Privy Council? Damn him, he won't be able to hide behind my skirts if the authorities decide to investigate him."

When Sir Thomas left half an hour later, he and Raleigh parted amicably. Raleigh apologised courteously for being unable to assist Heneage with his problem agent.

"Think nothing of it, Sir Walter," Heneage responded, unperturbed. "It was forward of me to ask you to become involved. All will be well."

All will be well, indeed, he thought, as the door closed behind him. So Marlowe draws confidence from my protection, does he? And what of this quarrel with the Earl? What is this about divided loyalties? Heneage smiled to himself. I will get you back in hand yet, Master Playwright.
.
.
.
.
.
Being an experienced politician, Heneage knew the value of being seen at Court, so his attendance at Her Majesty's palace at Whitehall the next day was not unusual. Threading through the richly-dressed crowd, he took careful note of who was there, and what topics were being discussed. It was professional habit: Her Majesty's spymaster liked to keep his skills sharp.

What he had heard about the disagreement at Raleigh's house interested him, but he needed to understand it better - and there, over by the windows, was the very man he wanted to speak to. Heneage made his way over to a small group gathered round the Earl of Gloria.

"Gentlemen, please forgive me, but I need to speak with Lord Gloria," said Heneage in courteous tones, steering his target firmly away from the group.

Once they were in a quiet corner, Heneage started in without preamble. "Sir Walter Raleigh told me that you had a disagreement at his house with the playwright Marlowe."

Benedict answered carefully, "A disagreement? No, Sir Thomas, I would not say a disagreement."

"But rough words were spoken," Heneage pressed.

"Perhaps. It was nothing."

"Lord Gloria, you may tell me to mind my own business if you wish, but I am concerned - concerned for the Queen's interests. Raleigh seemed to think you knew Marlowe before."

Benedict looked steadily at Heneage for a few moments, then decided he had nothing to lose by seizing an opportunity to tarnish Marlowe's reputation.

"Yes, I did. I met him at Vlissingen, before the Armada was defeated, when I was on my way back to England to join with Her Majesty's forces." A little doctoring of the truth would not hurt. "I met him in a tavern - I believe that's where he spent most of his time, if the truth is told. But he was only an acquaintance."

"Raleigh seemed to think that he held something of a grudge against you. A strong feeling for someone who was only an acquaintance."

"Ah, well. I think he is wary of me because I know his secret."

"What secret?"

"That he was involved with a Spanish Navy captain in Vlissingen. Marlowe is a sodomite-"

"Yes, that's well known; he does little to hide the fact," snorted Heneage. "So, he was a Spaniard's bed boy, was he? Do you know, perhaps, who this Spaniard was? Anyone of importance?"

Benedict wrinkled his brow, as if trying to recall. "I did hear his name, Sir Thomas. Was it - let me see... His ship was called El Halcon."

Heneage's eyes blazed with triumphant rage. As soon as he heard the name of the ship, he knew exactly who this Spanish captain was. "Lord Gloria, I'm obliged to you. I must bid you good day; I have business to attend to."

Benedict inclined his head gracefully. "Of course, Sir Thomas. I hope we meet again soon. Good day to you." And may you do your worst with Master Marlowe, he thought grimly.

Heneage made his way back to his carriage and headed for his lodgings. Marlowe's indiscreet dalliance with the enemy might give him just the leverage he needed to regain control of his recalcitrant agent. As soon as he arrived home, he penned a note to Marlowe, requiring him to come to his rooms the following day for an urgent meeting, and sent one of his servants out to deliver it straight away.
.
.
.
.
.
Sir Thomas Heneage's servant set two full tankards of ale and a plate of bread and cheese on the table, bowed, and left the room. Although the refreshments and the crackling fire suggested hospitality, Heneage's face was full of grim warning. Marlowe felt wary as he took the seat he was offered.

"Marlowe." Heneage's voice was cold. "We have been hearing things."

"That's what you do this work for, isn't it?" Marlowe said insolently.

Heneage smiled briefly. "There are some things I want to hear, and some that I do not. What I have referred to is something I did not want to hear."

"Oh?"

"It concerned you, Marlowe. It seems there is a school of thought that you were not entirely scrupulous in your dealings on our behalf in the Low Countries five years ago. We hear you spent much of your time carousing in a tavern in Vlissingen-"

"I get my information where and how I can," Marlowe said smoothly.

"Carousing in a tavern with a Spanish Navy captain. A Spanish Navy captain who was English by birth and a traitor to his Queen and country. A scoundrel who caused more damage to our interests abroad than any other I can call to mind! Tyrian Persimmon - may he rot in Hell! And you, Marlowe, kept company with him and made no report of it! Did you not learn anything worth reporting in the hours you spent together?"

"It would seem not, Sir Thomas - otherwise I would have made a report of it."

Heneage slammed his hand down on the table-top making the tankards jump and slosh. "Since many of the hours you spent with this Spanish cur were spent in his bed, perhaps there is another reason? Protecting your lover, Marlowe? Or protecting yourself? Were you feeding information to him? May God damn you, you foul traitorous bugger!"

A tense silence hung between them.

Heneage paced back and forth, then came to stand over Marlowe, his face dark. "Your position is precarious, Master Marlowe. You have been uncooperative of late."

"Sir Thomas, I have told you, and I have told others: I wish to devote more time to my writing-"

"Your wishes are of no importance! England is still in danger. Spain remains hostile; France and Ireland trouble us. The Queen is without an heir and the succession is in doubt. The future of the Protestant cause is insecure. England needs her agents to be diligent in their work - not neglecting their duties to amuse themselves with their quills and ink!"

The spymaster fixed a steely glare on Marlowe, who stared back at him defiantly. "You don't own me, Sir Thomas!"

"Are you sure of that?" Heneage retorted. "It's clear to me that you have been neglectful of your duty for a long time. You were sent to the Low Countries to be the eyes and ears of England - not to pleasure yourself in the bed of a turncoat murderer. You should watch your step, Marlowe. Unruly spies are like unruly dogs: they must be brought to heel."

"What would you do with me? Throw me in prison? I could do with some quiet time to work on my new play."

Heneage's voice became low and threatening. "There'll be no quiet time for you, Master Playwright. If you refuse to cooperate, I may have no choice but to withdraw my protection, and then what? Unruly spies may rot in prison cells till they learn their lesson, but heretics have no such luxury. Heretics die, Marlowe; they die in the cleansing fire."

Marlowe felt the blood drain from his face. Heneage stood over him, his expression bleak.

"You, Master Marlowe, are well known as an atheist and a blasphemer. Half of London has heard your declarations, that the Holy Virgin was a whore and our Blessed Saviour a sodomite like yourself. There are many who would be pleased to stop up your filthy blaspheming mouth."

He said nothing; he clenched his teeth, his mouth forming a thin line.

"Your name is mentioned in the Privy Council," warned Heneage. "Some there would like to see you arrested for heresy. I have persuaded them to stay their hand for a short time - and if you cooperate, you may escape further attention. You had better behave, Marlowe, or you will find yourself under arrest for your blasphemy, and you will burn."

Marlowe stared into the flames blazing in Heneage's fireplace. When he finally looked up, Heneage held his gaze for a long moment.

"Her Majesty's interests require that you should go to Scotland, to the court of the Scottish king. It is most likely the Queen will name him as her successor - but he is courting alliances with France and Spain, and we need to know what his intentions are. Make yourself ready for travel. You will leave on the last day of the month."

Marlowe got to his feet, preparing to go. He felt badly shaken.

Heneage laid a hand on his shoulder. "Cleansing fire, Marlowe. Remember that."
.
.
.
.
.
The next morning, thunderous knocking on the front door disturbed Heneage at his breakfast. He sent his manservant to answer the door, and after a few moments the man returned with a sealed letter, saying it had been delivered by one of Sir Robert Cecil's men.

Heneage frowned. Cecil was his immediate superior in the secret service, and a fellow Privy Councillor. Sending a messenger around this early in the morning suggested something serious was afoot. Pushing away his plate, he broke the seal and read the letter. It was an urgent summons to Cecil's house.

Less than an hour later, Heneage presented himself at Cecil's front door, and was let in. Judging by his rumpled appearance, Cecil had been up all night. He waved Heneage to a chair, and held a document out to him. "Read this," he said, his voice curt with worry.

Heneage read. A poem, of sorts, addressed to the immigrants from France and the Low Countries now living in London - clumsy verse, full of vicious accusations and threats of violence, signed with the name ‘Tamburlaine'.

"Nothing but mindless slander - the sort of bleating you hear from the ignorant rabble." Heneage's tone made his opinion plain as he read from the text: "‘Your usury doth leave us all for dead - Every merchant hath three trades at least - Cutthroat-like in selling you undo us all - Twenty in one house will lurk, living far better than at native home -'"

"A copy of this was nailed to the door of the Dutch Church in Broad Street late last night," said Cecil. "Other copies appeared in a number of other locations at about the same time."

"Who's responsible?"

"Whoever did it was not seen - but because the document is written in verse and contains reference to his plays, a number of our fellow Privy Councillors have drawn the conclusion that the author of this libel is Christopher Marlowe."

Heneage glanced over the document again, and shook his head. "I think it's unlikely this is Marlowe's work," he said gravely. "He's known to be outspoken, and much of what he says is ill-advised - but nailing up inflammatory tracts hardly seems his style. Besides, the poetry is bad. Marlowe writes better than this."

"My thoughts exactly," Cecil replied. "Now think, Sir Thomas. Why would anyone make a false accusation of this kind? Most likely the true target is not Marlowe. He's only a pawn in the game. This has been done to discredit us, Heneage. There are those who want us out of the way because they would like to take over responsibility for the security of the Realm, and climb higher in the Queen's favour. Discrediting one of your men is the thin end of the wedge - the first shot in a battle that might bring both of us down."

Heneage could not sit for a moment longer. He began to pace back and forth across the room. "The trouble is, Marlowe is an easy target. He has gained a reputation as an atheist. He has made enemies. The Archbishop of Canterbury has been complaining about his writings for a long time. It's only the Queen's fondness for the theatre that has stayed his hand - if it were not for fear of offending her, the Archbishop would have had Marlowe arrested long ago."

"Exactly: an easy target, and one they can be fairly certain of convicting. Marlowe may not be guilty of this, but will most likely be found guilty of something. If we let them go ahead and make an example of him, our enemies will use him as a weapon against us, to shake the Queen's faith in our judgement." Cecil paused for a moment, watching Heneage's agitated pacing, wondering how the man would react to his next words. "He's become a liability, Heneage. He needs to be removed."

Heneage stopped pacing and looked at Cecil, shocked. "That's extreme, Sir Robert. He can still be useful to us. He's skilled; he has contacts."

Cecil shook his head. "We can't risk keeping him."

"Sir Robert, I beg to differ -"

"If he's arrested, he will almost certainly be tortured. Marlowe knows too much to abandon him to the torturer. God alone knows what he might reveal under duress. Years of careful work in defence of the Realm could be put in jeopardy."

Heneage ran his hands through his hair distractedly. He had invested a good deal of energy into getting Marlowe back under control with a view to using him in Scotland. "Look, Sir Robert, I would agree that he has been troublesome to work with, but I am confident I have him back in hand. I was going to send him to Scotland - his particular skills will be invaluable at the court of the Scottish king -"

"He can't be sent away on official business, man. He's under suspicion of heresy, and heresy is treason. The man can be of no further use to us." Sir Robert's stony expression suggested his mind was made up.

Heneage tried again. "Then he needs to disappear. If he goes missing, they can't continue with the prosecution - and they can't forge a weapon to use against us. A year or two in the Italian states, until present concerns are forgotten, and he may once again prove useful."

Cecil did not reply. He was not going to waste time trying to change his colleague's mind. Let Heneage believe he could reform Marlowe. Let him put his plan into action. A more permanent solution could be set in motion without Heneage's knowledge.

Taking Cecil's silence for assent, Heneage smiled grimly. "When the Privy Council meets today, we must prevent them from throwing him in prison. Somehow, he must remain at large until we can arrange his safe passage out of the country. Not everyone is a convinced supporter of the Archbishop, so we should be able to create enough doubt in the minds of our fellow Councillors to ensure we have some breathing time."
.
.
.
.
.
After long and bitter argument in the Privy Council, it was decided that Christopher Marlowe should be brought before the Council for questioning. Some wanted to see him arrested straight away, but it was decided there was insufficient evidence and that more information should be sought. As the man was known to be a troublemaker, the Council would require him to report to them daily while the investigation was carried out.

This outcome satisfied Heneage: he could put the next stage of his plan into action. However, he recognised that further examination of Marlowe's views would implicate others. He was thinking of Sir Walter Raleigh, who had lately been of assistance to him. In courtesy, he thought he should warn him.

That evening, Heneage called at Raleigh's house. When he arrived, he found Raleigh with the Earl of Gloria, the two of them bent over a collection of maps and navigational charts spread out on the large table in Raleigh's drawing room. Heneage had heard that the two had entered into a business agreement.

"Sir Thomas! How good of you to call. Will you take a cup of wine? Lord Gloria and I are just going over some plans for our expedition to the New World."

"Forgive me, Sir Walter, but I must decline. I have an urgent matter to discuss with you, and then I fear I must be on my way."

"Of course. Will you excuse us, Lord Gloria?" Raleigh led Heneage through into his library and closed the door behind them.

Benedict watched them go, struck by Heneage's grave expression. Curious, he walked quietly over to the door to listen. The solid wood muffled the voices, but Benedict's keen hearing could pick up some of what they were saying.

"- The Privy Council - Dutch Church in Broad Street - Christopher Marlowe -"

At the sound of that name, Benedict pressed closer to the door, trying to hear more clearly.

Heneage was speaking forcefully. "Sir Walter, I am telling you this off the record. The faction within the Privy Council that's behind this move to arrest Marlowe is doing so to increase their power and influence. Marlowe is of little importance to them, he is merely a means to an end. But you should beware: all who associate with Marlowe and share his unorthodox views will come under scrutiny. You no longer enjoy the Queen's protection as you once did. You may be next."

Raleigh's reply was harder to hear. "-would be ill-advised to assume that I or any other of my associates share Marlowe's views in their entirety. None the less, there has been no treason spoken under my roof, by Marlowe or any other."

"I would not assume there was."

"What is the Council proposing to do?"

"Marlowe is to be brought before them for a hearing. Some were in favour of imprisoning him straight away, but cooler heads prevailed. He will be ordered to report daily to the Council for the time being, while further evidence is sought."

Benedict stepped back from the door. Marlowe's charmed life seems to be coming to an end, he thought. Not formally under arrest yet - but that may follow. A smile of dark satisfaction played on his lips as he went back to the maps and charts on the table.

The Rose Theatre was filled to capacity: not a spare seat in the galleries, not an inch of standing space at the front of the stage. The play showing that afternoon was Christopher Marlowe's Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. Benedict sat in one of the upper galleries, enjoying the reactions of the crowd almost as much as the performance. Some audience members seemed to think that devils really were being conjured on stage, and that they were truly seeing Doctor Faustus making a bargain with the Devil, selling his soul in exchange for knowledge and luxury.

"Faustus, begin thine incantations, And try if devils will obey thy hest," intoned the actor Ned Alleyn, costumed as the ambitious Doctor.

"No, no! Don't do this! For the love of Jesus!" howled an old woman in the audience. The rest of her admonitions, and a good deal of Alleyn's speech, were drowned out by the derision of the crowd around her.

The powerful story wove its magic, carrying the audience along as it unfolded. At the last, as Doctor Faustus faced the moment when the Devil would come to claim his soul, a horrified hush descended on the audience. Ned Alleyn stood centre-stage, his voice loud and full of despair and passion.

"Now, body, turn to air,
Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell!
O Soul, be chang'd into small water-drops
And fall into the ocean, ne'er to be found!"

From under the stage, a peal of thunder sounded. Alleyn turned sharply, his robe swirling around him.

"O, mercy, heaven! Look not so fierce on me!
Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while!
Ugly hell, gape not! Come not, Lucifer!
I'll burn my books! O, Mephistophilis!"

Ugly in red and black costumes, their faces smeared with soot, three devils now came into view - and with much snarling and slobbering, dragged Alleyn offstage to audible gasps from the audience.

Benedict grinned. A masterly performance. The actor had the audience enthralled. A woman in the front row had swooned when the devils appeared, and was being fanned back into consciousness by her friends.

Deafening applause broke out, and the actors filed back on stage to take a bow.

The theatre began to empty. Those in the expensive upstairs galleries sat back in their chairs, chatting, waiting for the press of unwashed groundlings to clear out before they left.

What leads a man to sell his soul? Benedict mused, watching the crowd downstairs milling toward the exit. Perhaps the price isn't always as high as people might suppose. God knows, I've already sold mine many times over. When I swore on my father's grave I'd kill Tyrian I gave up my innocence for revenge. The night I first went to Tyrian's bed, I betrayed my family and my own oath in the name of passion. He smiled wryly. If I still had a soul to sell over again, what would the price be this time? In what shape would Mephistophilis come to me now?

"Lord Gloria! Did you enjoy the play?" Benedict looked up to see Sir Robert Cecil standing beside him.

"Sir Robert, it's good to see you. Yes, I did enjoy it. Alleyn gave a fine performance."

Cecil nodded in agreement. "A good story. Marlowe writes well - although his material is controversial. Selling one's soul to the Devil for material gain? A dangerous concept."

Benedict smiled. "But Faustus repented at the end."

"A repentance driven by fear alone: not enough to save his soul. Still, it's only a play."

The people nearby were beginning to head toward the stairs. Cecil sat down on a now-empty chair next to Benedict.

"My lord, I need to speak with you. A matter of some gravity."

"Of course, Sir Robert." Benedict's expression was friendly, but he felt wary. Instinct told him that this was no chance meeting. What did Cecil want?

"I understand you know Christopher Marlowe."

This again.

Aloud, he said, "Yes, Sir Robert. We know each other, although our acquaintance is slight."

"I'm disturbed by what I've been hearing about Marlowe lately. He's under investigation by the Privy Council, and depositions from loyal subjects have sworn to his blasphemy and his lewd conduct. Since you're acquainted with him, perhaps you've heard his heretical opinions yourself."

"He is outspoken," Benedict said carefully.

"Come now, Lord Gloria, there's no need for caution. You're not under investigation here; it's Marlowe who concerns me. I know that you're aware of Marlowe's professional connections with Her Majesty's government. You've known him for a long time. It was you who first alerted us to his indiscretions in the Low Countries. Now, a loyal man would have taken his responsibilities there seriously - and yet, Marlowe wasted his time, consorting with an enemy of England. Clearly, he's a man who puts his own pleasure above his responsibilities to the Queen."

"This was some years ago, Sir Robert," Benedict said uneasily. "Time has clouded my memory of it." He was on his guard: he had the impression Cecil was trying to draw him into open criticism of Marlowe and he was not sure why. "As I've said, we don't know each other well. In fact, I try to have as little to do with him as I can."

"Ah, so there's antagonism between you?"

"Sir Robert-"

"No need to explain yourself, Lord Gloria. I know that there's bad blood between you, and that your quarrel began in Vlissingen." Cecil's small hard eyes glittered in the dim light.

The gallery had emptied around them, and Benedict felt trapped. Of course Cecil would have used his intelligence network to enquire into his background. How much did he know about what had happened in Vlissingen?

"The enmity between you and Marlowe has been noticed, you know. I've heard people speculate that it must be jealousy over a lover. Nobody seems to know who. Some pretty boy, it's supposed. If it were known who the lover was, it would create quite a stir in Court circles, wouldn't it, now? I don't need to spell it out for you. If it were to become known that you had links with Tyrian Persimmon, your reputation would be destroyed overnight. You'd be out of favour with the Queen - quite likely, she would strip you of your title. If people became curious about the extent of your activities and dug up further uncomfortable truths, well... "

Benedict swallowed in a throat suddenly gone dry.

Smiling blandly, Cecil said, "But perhaps it wouldn't be in anyone's interests for your past indiscretions to be made public. I think I could help you to keep old secrets hidden - provided, of course, that you're willing to help me."

He glanced about to be sure that they were alone. The last of the theatre patrons had left the gallery; there was no-one within earshot.

"My colleague Sir Thomas Heneage - whose abilities I respect and admire - places a good deal of faith in Marlowe. He knows him to be a difficult and wayward man to work with, but none the less he admires his skills and believes he's worth protecting. But sometimes, Lord Gloria, sacrifice is necessary for the greater good. Marlowe's name is becoming infamous in London. He's outspoken, rash. He's an atheist. Her Majesty is Defender of the Faith; she can't be associated with an atheist, no matter how indirectly."

"Why are you telling me this, Sir Robert?"

"Because you are Her Majesty's loyal subject, and you are a known supporter of the Queen's interests." Cecil's expression was benign, but Benedict heard the hint of a threat under his mild tone.

"The time has come to take grave steps, Lord Gloria, and I must ask you to assist me. Tomorrow, Marlowe is to meet agents from the service at Deptford, at the house of Mrs Eleanor Bull. Sir Thomas has made arrangements for Marlowe to sail to the Italian states, to spend some time in exile for his own protection. The agents are there to ensure he boards his ship safely, without attracting attention." Cecil's voice hardened. "I'm overriding Heneage's plan. Marlowe has become a liability. He must not leave the Widow Bull's house alive."

Benedict stiffened. "Sir Robert, I'm not an assassin."

Cecil smiled, calm and composed. "My lord, you misunderstand me. I would not ask such a thing of you. I simply want you to carry a message to someone."

"What message?"

"There is a man who needs to receive his instructions."

Instructions to kill Marlowe.

"And if I refuse?"

"Why would you refuse, my lord? You're Her Majesty's faithful supporter." Cecil's benevolent smile faded. "Your own indiscretions at Vlissingen, and other places, are in the past - where no doubt you want them to remain. All I'm asking is for you to assist me."

Distrust narrowed Benedict's eyes. "You're asking me to assist you with a murder."

"My lord, murder is the prerogative of thugs and criminals. What we're discussing here is the protection of the Queen's interests. Marlowe has become a threat to the stability and safety of the Realm. It's in Her Majesty's best interests for that threat to be ... eliminated. This is a delicate business, as you will appreciate. I'm a member of Her Majesty's Privy Council. What I must do, and what I can be seen to do, are sometimes incompatible. This is one of those times. I can't be implicated in this business, although I must ensure that it's done. That's why you must carry this message for me."

The theatre had emptied. Silence thickened around them.

Cecil knew about his relationship with Tyrian. Sleeping with a man was believed to be an abomination in the eyes of God. Men had gone to the gallows for it. Although irregularities in people's personal lives were often overlooked, they became important if they were thought to influence a man's political affiliations or his loyalty to the Crown. Sleeping with a man who was an enemy of England would bring his loyalty into question.

Sodomy and treason. With one hand, Cecil held these over him as a threat; with another, he offered protection, but at a price. If Benedict carried Cecil's message to the killer, Cecil could deny his own involvement. Since Benedict's dislike of Marlowe was no secret, people would easily believe he had ordered the man's death.

Benedict could see no way to escape. He grimaced in revulsion. "You want me to do your dirty work, so that you can keep your own hands clean."

"I would not put it in such crude terms, Lord Gloria, but in essence, yes, that's how it must be. And if you carry this message for me, your own past indiscretions need not trouble you." Smiling once more, Cecil placed a brotherly hand on Benedict's arm. "You'll find me a loyal and steadfast friend, Lord Gloria - a friend for life."
.
.
.
.
.
The Swan Inn stood in a crooked lane in Bankside, a short distance from the Rose Theatre. In the crowded downstairs rooms, the landlord was serving food and drink; upstairs in the rooms above the tavern, prostitutes of both sexes plied their trade. It was early evening, and Kit Marlowe was getting drunk.

He emptied his jug of wine and called for another. The next morning, he was to meet men sent by Sir Thomas Heneage at a house in Deptford, near the docks. He was to be sent away - not to Scotland, as he had expected, but to some unknown destination. Heneage had refused him any solid information about where he was to go, but had been quite clear about the urgency and importance of Marlowe's compliance. Given the situation with the Privy Council and the impending threat of arrest, Marlowe felt glad to be leaving the country.

It was probably imprudent to drink deeply the night before travelling, but the day had gone badly, and he wanted to blot it out.

That morning, he had gone to see Philip Henslowe and Ned Alleyn at the Rose Theatre, to tell them that the new play they had commissioned would be delayed. Henslowe had been displeased and had cursed him loud and long. How could he make money out of his theatres, he had demanded to know, if playwrights could not be trusted to provide the goods they were paid for? Alleyn's bitter reproach enraged him less but cut him more deeply. They'd parted on bad terms. Marlowe felt remorse at letting the company down, but he had drowned out his remorse with anger; now he was drowning out his anger with wine.

It seemed wrong to be leaving the country now, when his work in the theatre was going so well. His plays had been successful, and the new one that was taking shape in his imagination would surpass anything he had written so far - would surpass anything written for the English stage, by anyone. But here he was, preparing to slink away to a foreign country to escape arrest and all that might follow. Choices he'd made as a younger man, seduced by money and adventure, had conspired against him.

Still, Sir Thomas Heneage seemed genuine enough in his assurances of protection and support. Perhaps he would be as good as his word; perhaps he would clear Marlowe's name and make it possible for him to continue his writing.

Not that he could expect to receive any more commissions from Henslowe and Alleyn, not after today's quarrel.

His second jug of wine arrived. The boy who delivered it pouted prettily at him, gazing through lowered lashes. Drunk and sullen, Marlowe ignored him and filled his cup.
.
.
.
.
.
South of the river, the houses, taverns and brothels crowded together in a haphazard jumble. Dressed plainly, his hair tucked under a grey woollen cap, Benedict made his way through a maze of narrow winding streets to a small tavern, where he was to meet Ingram Frizer. Frizer was one of the three men who were to join Marlowe at the Widow Bull's house the following day. Benedict did not know Ingram Frizer, but he knew his reputation as a fixer and enforcer, a bully for hire.

Benedict had to duck slightly to enter the front door of the Blue Boar. Tallow candles lit the taproom, throwing a weak yellowish light and creating deep shadows in the corners. In one of these corners, half-hidden in the gloom, sat the man Benedict knew must be Ingram Frizer. He crossed the room to sit at his table. Frizer's knowing expression said that he had spotted Benedict first.

"Frizer?" Benedict enquired.

Frizer confirmed his identity with a nod.

"I've brought a message from Sir Robert Cecil."

"How do I know you speak for him?"

Benedict laid his hand on the table, showing that he was wearing Cecil's signet ring. "He says if you see that I'm wearing this ring, you will know that he sent me."

Frizer glanced at the ring, and nodded again. "Why would he send you?" he asked, looking Benedict over from head to foot.

"This is not a message that should be heard from his lips. He must keep distant from this business."

Frizer grunted. "So, what have you got to tell me?"

"Tomorrow morning, Christopher Marlowe will go to the house of the Widow Bull in Deptford Strand to meet with yourself and two others. His instructions are to wait there with you until the tide is right, then board a ship to take him away from England. You were to ensure that he got onto his ship safely - but now, your orders are changed." He handed Frizer a dagger, and a purse full of coins. "Marlowe must not leave that house alive."

Frizer held the dagger up to the light. Its bright blade glinted. "This is new," he said, fingering the razor-sharp edge.

"It's a plain weapon, but fit for the purpose. So you know your job, Frizer?"

Frizer grinned crookedly. "Marlowe's a dead man, trust me. My lord."

Benedict flinched. Of course he knows who I am. He was probably told who to expect.

Frizer chuckled at Benedict's uncomfortable reaction. "Never mind, my lord, we're all in this together. Cecil must have something on you to turn you into his messenger boy."

"This is about the security of the Realm, Frizer. My concern is for the Queen's interests."

"Of course, my lord," Frizer replied sardonically.

"And Frizer - you haven't seen me."

"Course not, my lord."
.
.
.
When he left the tavern, Benedict made his way down to the river where he leaned on a railing in the dark watching the black, roiling waters swirl by. The troubled river echoed the turbulence of his thoughts and the churning in his gut.

Messenger boy. More than Cecil's messenger boy: I'm the shield to protect him from blame. His scapegoat.

Marlowe would be dead by tomorrow night; but Benedict would never be free of him. He would never be free of Sir Robert Cecil, either. If things went very wrong, he would end up on the scaffold. He smiled bitterly to himself, remembering a line from Marlowe's play.

‘Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistophilis.'

.
.
.
.
.
By ten in the morning, the fog had cleared off the river at Deptford, and pale sunlight warmed the streets. At the house of the Widow Bull, three men waited for Kit Marlowe.

Robert Poley, the senior member of the group, had known Marlowe for a long time, and Heneage thought Poley's presence would ensure Marlowe's trust and cooperation. Poley had Marlowe's travel papers, and the instructions he would need when he landed at his destination. Waiting with him were Ingram Frizer and Nick Skeres: their job was to make sure Marlowe got to the ship without further complications.

Frizer and Skeres sat at a table, bent over a backgammon board. Poley fidgeted, restless and impatient.

"He'll get here," Frizer said, irritated. "He's not late yet."

There was a knock at the door, and Marlowe was shown in by a thin, plain-faced servant girl. He looked pale and ill; there were dark circles under his eyes. As he set down his leather travel bag, his hands trembled slightly.

"Hangover, Marlowe?" Frizer enquired mockingly. "You look like death. How much did you drink last night?"

"I slept badly," mumbled Marlowe.

"Not wise to drink too much before travelling," Frizer chided. "The sea is unforgiving of hangovers."

"Leave off, man," Poley said. "Marlowe, sit down before you fall down."

Poley rummaged through his pockets and found the letter guaranteeing Marlowe a place aboard the Rising Sun bound for Genoa. "Sir Thomas has arranged for you to sail to the Italian states, where you will stay for at least two years. While you're there, you'll be contacted from time to time. It's expected that the present danger will pass, and when the time is right you'll be recalled."

"So I'm to remain chained to Heneage, like a dog to a post," complained Marlowe.

"You will stay out of prison, and out of danger of torture and execution. That's more than could be said if you stay here in England."

Marlowe took the letter of passage with bad grace. "You must forgive me," he said, not at all contrite. "I am not well. As I said, I slept badly."

"Then rest now. Your ship doesn't sail till the evening tide. We'll pass the day quietly here, then see you safely aboard. A meal will be sent in for us soon - have you eaten?"

At the mention of food, Marlowe's stomach gave an unpleasant heave. "No," he said. "I require nothing."

"Well, you may change your mind. For now, rest." Poley indicated a day-bed by the wall.

Grateful for the excuse to avoid conversation, Marlowe lay down and closed his eyes. He must have slept, for the next thing he knew was the clatter of dishes and the smell of a highly-spiced fish pie being cut open. To his surprise, his stomach responded not with nausea but with hunger.

"Will you join us, Marlowe?" Poley called.

Marlowe nodded, and came over to the table.

Frizer said little during the meal. Skeres gobbled his food, dropping crumbs and gravy on himself. Marlowe ate sparingly, so as not to overtax his stomach. After the meal, Frizer and Skeres both slept, snoring loudly; Poley and Marlowe conversed in a desultory fashion, in the garden to avoid the snores of the sleepers.

An hour or so later, Frizer woke up and called for a jug of wine. Marlowe felt better, so he accepted a cup. He and Frizer drank most of that jug, and another was called for. Poley entreated them to go easy - they must not lose sight of the time, Marlowe was their responsibility, he must be delivered to his ship without fail. His entreaties fell on deaf ears.

About six o'clock, the servant girl brought in their evening meal. Frizer and Marlowe had drunk most of the second jug of wine, and were becoming argumentative.

"Will you stop this?" Poley demanded, exasperated. "There's no profit in provoking each other."

"He enjoys provocation," sneered Frizer. "His writings are nothing but provocation. His very existence is a provocation."

"Be thankful, then, that I will be gone from your sight soon enough." Marlowe poured another cup of wine.

"Would that you were gone already," grumbled Frizer, snatching the jug from him.

Marlowe eyed Frizer with dislike. "The best that will come out of today is that I will be out of the clutches of the likes of you, and away from the stinking pit that England has become."

"You'll be going to a worse stinking pit. You'll spend eternity with the stench of brimstone up your nostrils, and serve you right," snarled Frizer. "Blaspheming atheist. Buggering sodomite." He sat at the table, turning his back on Marlowe.

Enraged, and more drunk than sober, Marlowe threw his wine cup across the room. Snatching his dagger from its sheath, he lunged at Frizer and struck two swift blows at Frizer's head with the handle of the weapon, opening two ugly gashes on his scalp. Blood flooded through Frizer's hair.

With a roar, Frizer lurched to his feet and turned on Marlowe, fists flailing. Poley, horrified, struggled to keep the two apart. Skeres grinned stupidly, enjoying the spectacle, and did nothing to assist. In a flurry of thrashing limbs, Frizer, Marlowe and Poley crashed to the floor, Poley shouting "For God's sake! Stop this, you drunken fools!"

Frizer seized Marlowe's wrist, twisting it roughly, and wrested the weapon from his grasp. It clattered across the floor, out of Marlowe's reach. Marlowe kicked out viciously. His foot connected with flesh and bone - whose, he could not tell. There was a flash of steel as Frizer struck out with his own blade. A high-pitched cry tore the air, followed by a whimpered curse - and Kit Marlowe lay dead, Frizer's dagger lodged deep in his right eye.

Poley staggered to his feet, and stood looking down at the corpse. "Frizer, you drunken lout, you've killed him. Your instructions were to get him safely onto the ship. Sir Thomas will not be pleased."

"The bastard had it coming," snorted Frizer, sounding more sober than before.

Abruptly, Poley realised that Frizer had not drunk as much as he had thought.

"What's going on here, Frizer?" he demanded.

Frizer gave a crooked grin. "Just doing my job, Poley. Just doing my job."
.
.
.
.
.
Benedict was told about Marlowe's death by Raleigh, as they stood on the deck of the Prometheus at Deptford docks. The shipwrights had finished their work, and the ship was ready to be loaded for her journey. She would sail for the New World in a week's time.

Raleigh had been uncharacteristically quiet all morning; he seemed preoccupied as he and Benedict inspected the ship.

"Sir Walter, is something troubling you?" Benedict asked at last. "You're not yourself."

Raleigh hesitated before he answered, as if unsure how his news would be received. "Kit Marlowe. He's dead. He was stabbed in a brawl."

So Frizer had done his job, and the stories were already circulating. Stabbed in a brawl? People were unlikely to question it: Marlowe had been the volatile, argumentative sort. Frowning, Benedict leaned over the rail. The river was gliding seawards with the ebbing tide.

There was an awkward pause.

"It would be hypocritical of me to say anything, Sir Walter."

"I know you and he disliked each other, and I never understood why. It was a waste. You should have been friends. You were alike."

Alike? Was that what Tyrian had seen? Benedict could never think of Marlowe without thinking of Tyrian. If Tyrian had not taken Marlowe as a lover- If Tyrian had not expected him to take revenge for being slighted-

Raleigh leaned on the rail beside Benedict, and neither of them spoke for a while. The only sounds were the lap of the water, the wind in the rigging, and the squealing of seabirds.

"The tide's going out," Raleigh remarked at last. "The tide's already gone out for poor Kit." He sighed. "I'll not inflict my melancholy mood on you, my friend. I will bid you good day."

Benedict watched him leave. Raleigh would regret the loss of Kit Marlowe; Benedict would not. All the same, news of Marlowe's death brought no satisfaction, and only time would tell whether his own part in the killing would remain hidden. Sir Robert Cecil's assurance of friendship for life hung over him, a dark promise that he would be called on to pay the same debt over and over again.

Overhead, the calls of the seabirds changed sharply, and looking up, Benedict saw a peregrine falcon high above the masts diving at a smaller bird. Twisting away to escape danger, the bird flew low across the face of the water toward the farther bank, to live for another day at least. The falcon wheeled around, and winged swiftly down-river. It would spend no time in regret.

In that moment, resolve firmed in Benedict's heart. No regrets; regret is a poison. Tyrian, I'll carry my remorse for your death in my heart forever, but I won't let my life be limited by fear of men like Cecil.

He strode across the deck and down onto the quay, new determination visible in the set of his shoulders and the renewed fire in his eyes. He would live without regrets. His life was his own.

~ The manner of Kit Marlowe's death was recorded in the Coroner's Report: an argument had broken out over the payment of a tavern bill, and in the brawl that followed Frizer had killed Marlowe in self-defence. If the facts as recorded did not reflect exactly what happened, it was no matter. Ingram Frizer was pardoned by the Queen a month later. The events at Deptford were never connected with Heneage and Cecil. ~