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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.