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.