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."
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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.
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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."
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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.'

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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."
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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. ~