For This Is Hell Page 3

  It mattered not, he was not about to wait upon their pleasure, and nor would he cater to their whims. He would rather burn. They would not distract him from his work.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  His works was all he had left.

  Scene Three

  In which, whilst slaking his thirst, our hero finds his inspiration

  “Ah, the man of the hour! Here he is at last!” Tommy Towne spotted Marlowe pushing open the tap room doors and leapt to his feet, waving the playwright over to the table around which the Admiral’s Men clustered, deep in their cups. “We had begun to think you had deserted us, Master Playwright.”

  “Aye, and left us to pay for our own ale,” Sam chuckled.

  “And, of course, it is better I desert you than my coin does,” Marlowe agreed, “or, heaven forefend, that my genius deserts us all!” As was so often the case, he found it easy to slip into jocularity around these players. They were more than actors. They were his actors. They were his friends. And that warmed him enough to offset the growing chill beyond the tavern’s doors. “Either would be far more a disaster, I fear.”

  “Oh hells, yes indeed,” Ned answered, smacking his lips after a hearty slug of ale. “Well, come and sit, drink what your purse has already paid for. We’ve even set aside the choicest throne at the head of the table, and dear old Sam has guarded your flagon with his life.”

  “Which means,” Sam added, “I may have drunk it down into my belly where it would be safest.”

  Marlowe laughed and slid into the proffered seat, which was hard up against the chimney breast. He could feel the warmth through the bricks on his back, making it a fine spot, indeed. In a few moments he was content, warm and with a view of the alehouse spread before him. If there was a better place in the world he would have been hard pressed to find it. Marlowe reached for the leather jack Sam slid across the table, and as he raised it he felt as a king surveying his subjects.

  “To the Admiral’s Men,” he toasted those around the table, hoisting the flagon high. “Long may your antics upon the stage win the hearts and minds of those fortunate enough to witness your genius, my friends!”

  “Hear, hear!” Other jacks were raised, then all drank deep.

  “So, Kit, was your solitude rewarding? Did you break the back of the scene?” one of the players, Tim who often played a priest, asked from the far end. Every head turned to Marlowe to hear his answer.

  “We playwrights are a fickle lot, moody, cantankerous, insecure, and selfish—it is all part of our charm, as well you know. And at times we must have privacy, else our imaginations cannot roam and you boys would have no words to say.” He gave them his most confident smile. “Now I have had my romp, my imaginings unfettered, and all is right with the world.”

  “Had your romp, have you?” This was a new voice, low and sultry, spoken close enough to Marlowe’s ear that it prickled his skin and tickled deep into his eardrum, sending shivers through him. “Alas, that I was not there to join thee.”

  He shifted slightly, inclining his head. There was a barmaid beside him, already refilling his jack though he had not yet lowered it back to the table. Although her hands were steady on the flagon and the pitcher, she only had eyes for him. Warmth that had nothing to do with the hot bricks at his back soared through Marlowe as he took in the full glossy length of her dark hair, her fine porcelain features and slender figure, her ample yet frighteningly pert bosom, and the curve of her hips beneath her apron. Alone any one of those might have taken his breath away. Together they stilled his heart. But still they were nothing beside the laughter in her dark eyes and the smile upon her full lips. With those she owned him.

  “I shall bear you in mind for all future romps, my good woman.”

  “There’s nothing good about me, good sir,” she retorted.

  He offered her a playful grin. “Mayhap I should be the judge of that?”

  “You, sir, are a rogue and flatterer.”

  “And don’t pretend you do not relish my words. You would be the only woman in London who did not want me for what my silver tongue can do.”

  “Add to that knave and scoundrel,” she accused, smiling even as she did. “Pretty words, prettier face, but tell me, how might you know anything about me beyond my looks? How then could you possibly know whether a duet between us would be to your liking? Not all dancers keep the same time, after all.”

  “Ah, sweet lady, I am a man of the world,” he assured her, attraction loosening his tongue and making him bold, “and a playwright besides—I can judge a soul upon an instant, and tell how two might fit together, for well or ill.” He deliberately let his gaze travel the hills and valleys of her body once more, then met her eyes and gave her his cheekiest smile. “Truly, thou and I would fit together like a hand in a glove, so close none could tear us apart, so smooth our every movement would be as one.”

  “And pray tell, who would be the hand, and who the glove?” came her reply, her free hand resting upon her hip, yet for all the challenge in it she could not have looked more inviting. “Or, who would hold dominance, and who surrender all volition?”

  “Why, neither, sweet lady,” Marlowe answered, the words coming readily. If only Iarbas’ flirtation could be half so sweet, or Barcas’ half so convincing! “For surely gloves have adorned such lovely fingers before?” And her hands were lovely, he saw—long and slender, not the roughened digits one might expect from a serving girl. “The glove coats the hand, and thus might be considered master, yet it bends as the fingers bend, so in that it allows the flesh to take the lead. The hand controls the movement, and thus could be said to be dominant, yet all sensation must pass first through the glove, so in that way it trails behind. They are paired, you see, a perfect match, neither ascendant o’er the other.”

  “Beautifully put, wordsmith—each still strives for mastery,” she whispered, her sweet voice going throaty as he leaned in, her breath against his ear once more, her bosom pressed up around his arm. He could feel her weight against him, and the frisson where mere cloth separated them. “But in this contest, there are no losers.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed, finding it hard to ply his voice. His mouth was suddenly dry despite the ale he had just quaffed. “And certes, it is a contest I would happily engage in.”

  She laughed then, silver jingling within a chest. “Oh, would you, now?” It was her turn to eye him up and down, boldly and without haste. “That is good to know. And who can say, perhaps you will, if you continue to amuse me.”

  There was no room for him to rise, and certainly not to his full height, though other parts of him might, but Marlowe sketched a passable bow from his seat. “That, madam, sounds like a challenge. I shall make it my quest to amuse you.”

  “I hope so.” Her lips curved in a silent promise. “Very much so indeed.” Then, with an exaggerated sashay of hip, she was away to wait upon other thirsty tables.

  “Well, well, well. I do believe the playwright has rediscovered his muse,” Ned clapped him on the back. “And a fine and buxom one she is. Cleavage like that could drive even me to verse, if I thought she might smother my face in those beauties. Imagine the ecstatic prose that would flow from my mouth!”

  “I would really rather not,” Marlowe demurred, grinning despite himself.

  Other, similarly ribald comments followed as the cups were drunk deeper, and Marlowe joined in, his spirits rising. Ned was right, this was exactly what he had needed. Brooding alone in his rooms was good for nothing. A man should bask in the company of friends and good humor. And, to be frank, in an entirely other form of companionship as well. His eyes followed the barmaid around the room, watching her move from table to table, somehow avoiding those pawing hands. She glanced his way more than once, every bit as interested in Marlowe as he was in her, and laughed to see his so-open admiration.

  Already he could feel his creative urges rising.

  *

  “Vanquished so soon? I had hoped for more of a fig
ht,” the barmaid purred behind him as Marlowe stood to wrestle his way from behind the table. She had somehow slithered up beside him unnoticed, a feat no doubt aided by the quantity of ale he had downed, and he felt a delicious thrill chase down his spine as he turned and all but fell into her dark eyes.

  “Nay, merely respite. One must part with those fine ales already sampled,” he replied, indicating his now-empty leather jack, “but then the way shall be clear for yet more ambrosia.” He leaned in closer to her. “Be that ale or lips, if thou art the deliverer of such delights I know which I would prefer.”

  That produced one of her tinkling laughs. “You, sir, are incorrigible.” She pushed him away, but gently. “Do you think I am just another keg of ale to be tapped, pulled and quaffed as you wish?”

  “Hardly. A fine wine. A delicate liquor. Something to be sipped and savored.”

  “Charm, charm, and more charm. Pretty words,” she said, smiling and twisting so that her backside was pressed against him as he slid past. “But perhaps I shall let you have a taste of mine delights, though only a taste.”

  “Name the place and the hour, and I will be your servant in the sack,” he promised, making sure she felt the iron of his conviction hot against her.

  “Keep thy senses as sharp as your tongue and perhaps you will be lucky enough to serve me. You never know.” She winked at Marlowe, pushing back just long enough to enflame his every nerve, and then she was off again. It was all he could do to stagger to the door and out into the street, where he dropped his breeches at once and relieved himself against a nearby wall in a steady stream of steaming piss. That was the beauty of the many alehouses of London, the privy was wherever one chose to see it—even in the taproom should it so amuse, he thought, fastening up again.

  He turned back toward the tavern but didn’t manage a single step. For there, gliding toward him, her gait so smooth it might have been the ripple of a gentle wave, came the very object of his ardor.

  She pressed her finger to her lip, saying nothing as she slipped past him. Her hips were heavy with promise. She turned slightly, drawing him on with a curl of her finger. Marlowe moved as if bewitched, following in her wake. His steps were rough and cloddish echoes of her grace.

  She led him slowly down to the banks of the Thames, looking again and again over her shoulder with seductive promise. Their path took them less than a stone’s throw from the alehouse, and then they skirted a pair of ramshackle huts to take shelter in an old ruined boathouse, though in truth it was little more than the crumbled corner of what had been. The rough-hewn stack of stone still rose above their heads, and where the walls met enough remained to shield them from the eyes of those strolling past. Especially now, with the encroaching dark serving to cast deep shadows in which to hide.

  She turned and snaked into his arms, the length of her body pressed up against his. “Surely there are spots of more comfort and privacy?” he mumbled. “My own rooms—”

  She silenced him with a fierce kiss.

  He could feel her laughter through their conjoined lips.

  A heady rush swept through him, beginning with a cool, floating sensation that shivered from his lips into his mouth, through his tongue and down his throat to quench the inner fire even as it stoked his passion.

  Then she had slipped through his grasp once more with a shimmy and a twist, a continuous sinuous motion. Her dress gathered in a pool at her feet. She stepped out of it and into the shadows. Their darkness added to that already cupped below her breasts and between her legs. Her face was all but hidden beneath the waterfall of her hair as it spilled across her brow and cheek. Suddenly she was moving again, turning away from him, gliding through his fingers like water, impossible to hold onto, and dashing two, three quick steps. The last became a leap that saw her arch her back and rise into the air, and for a frozen fraction of a moment the thin moonlight caressed her alabaster-smooth skin as she dove, piercing the midnight-black waters of the Thames with barely a splash as the filthy river swallowed her whole.

  He stared at the still water, unable to believe she had actually thrown herself into the Thames when people pissed and puked in it, when every effulgent and effluent was emptied into it from bowels to refuse to bilge from the tall ships down the river. Seconds ticked past and still she didn’t reemerge. There was not so much as a ripple on the black skin of the water.

  Then her head broke the surface.

  Again without a word, she beckoned him to her with one long, wet, and glistening arm.

  “I—I am not much for swimming, lady, even given the delights on offer,” Marlowe admitted, but even so found himself taking a faltering step toward the water’s edge. “I’m more for dryness and a warm bed. Perhaps we could adjourn somewhere less polluted?”

  “Come,” she whispered, opening her arms wide. He stared at the water sheening her nakedness and he was powerless to do anything but comply. Before he could come to his senses and stop himself from such recklessness, Marlowe stripped away his own clothes and launched himself into the water to join his newfound muse.

  The cold hit him hard, a furious body blow that drove the very wind out of his lungs and gripped his balls tight, shriveling him. Still she drew him, and so he struck out to swim toward her, sinking beneath the surface. He broke through again an instant later, sputtering and coughing up the foul water and flailing his arms even as the river attempted to drag him under a second time. His entire body rebelled, shivering uncontrollably.

  Suddenly she was beside him, wrapped around him, her arms and legs like the damp tendrils of her night-black hair. Her body undulated against his, seeming to touch him everywhere, every inch of his skin thrilling at her touch, and he found himself beginning to respond in a dim portion of his mind. The numbness was still there now that the shock of absolute cold had subsided, though now it had become an almost pleasing fog, cool and calm and comforting as it wrapped him tight. He felt the tantalizing coolness of her water-slick skin and the undeniable heat elsewhere, and let his mind drift free of his body, lost to waves of pleasure as they washed around him.

  Somehow she kept them both afloat as they coupled amid the currents, the river rippling about them as if it too were part of their lovemaking. Perhaps it was.

  Sated, she drew him back up to the shore and helped him stumble, dazed and confused, onto dry land. It was only then, when the raw night air hit his bare skin, that Marlowe’s body began to shiver again, as though his flesh had just remembered it was freezing. She laughed at him, not unkindly, and shook herself lightly before slipping into her clothes once more.

  “So,” she asked playfully, “how do you like the water now?”

  “Well enough,” he admitted with a grin, “though let’s be plain, it was more the lovely welcoming woman than the wet embrace of the river that pleased me. A lady whom, it strikes me now, I have no name with which to serenade.”

  She helped him tug his shirt over his head, then kissed him lightly again, her lips still cool and wet from their dip. “Lorelei,” she breathed into his parted lips, filling him with her name. “My name is Lorelei.”

  And then she was gone, a glimmer of pale skin and damp hair bustling back up the slope to the alehouse and work. But before she slipped from sight, the single lingering glance she threw his way intimated this would not be the only time he would feel her come around him.

  Marlowe sighed and shivered, content despite the cold as he wrapped his arms about his chest. He considered returning to the tavern. Surely Ned and Sam and the rest still sat at their table, drinking and jesting and laughing? But he felt the overwhelming need for dry clothes, a tisane of hot tea, and something else, something he had feared he would never feel again since his talent had deserted him—he felt the burning need to write.

  Scene Four

  Wherein the villain flirts outrageously with his Queen, drawing similarity between ale and women

  “Forgive me, my beauteous queen,” Ned declared, relishing the guise of the sinister Iarbas, �
��for thine beauty leaves me somewhat unmanned, and disarmed of the guile necessary for fine words I find myself incapable of the delicate speech.”

  “And art thou vanquished so soon?” Elissa taunted, batting her lashes at the tall, dark suitor. “I would have thought thee made of sturdier stuff.”

  Ned smiled, and in that smile every last trace of him disappeared. Only Iarbas remained. “Indeed, madam, my stuff if sound enough, ‘Tis only mine lips that disobey”—his smile became a leer—“And if thou wert mine, t’would not be mine lips I would wish thee focused upon.”

  The young queen feigned shock but it was obvious she was more than enjoying the indelicate flirtation. “Naughty wretch!” she scolded. “Dost thou think me but a mere ale to be quaffed in haste and cast aside after thy thirst is quenched?”