For This Is Hell Read online

  “Would you, now? You would do well to remember that the Privy Council serves at Her Majesty’s pleasure, not yours,” the central man informed them all coldly. “We act on Her behalf in everything we do, and you ignore Her decrees at your own peril.” He turned on his heel. “We shall return to enforce this proclamation, with force if necessary.” As agents of the Queen, the Privy Council had the authority to command soldiers, or at least the local guard. It was not, perhaps, the wisest fight Henslowe had ever picked, but Marlowe loved him for it.

  “Bring whatever blades you wish,” Ned rasped. “We have steel of our own, and fine knowledge of its use—come at us, and you will see how players defend themselves!”

  “In a dress, I assume,” the third man sneered, his eyes flicking toward Sam.

  “We will shut this playhouse,” the silvered man warned them all, “and that play will never reach its audience. You have our solemn oath on that, Marlowe. I would urge you to rein your fools in. It will only hurt you if we are forced to resort to other methods to bring the curtain down.” He turned on his heel, as did his companions, and together the three of them departed.

  “Miserable creatures. I’m surprised you have spine enough to walk like men,” Ned called after them. “Slither back to your nest!”

  “Enough, Ned—they’ve gone,” Henslowe urged. Even so, it took Ned a moment to calm down. “Though they will return. And it won’t end well, boys.”

  “Aye, and the fault lies with me,” Marlowe admitted. “They are frightened of this play, though I cannot for the life of me think why. It is just a play, a performance, no great truth, yet they seem desperate to prevent it. I dread to think how far they’ll go to see we never set foot on the stage.”

  “Well, frankly, bollocks, my friend. They can try and they can try,” Henslowe replied, with a grin, “But the show will go on. We will combat them with every tool at our disposal, the sharpest being your words.”

  That drew a smile from Marlowe. “Yes, of course.” He turned back toward Ned and the rest of the Admiral’s Men. “So, once more through the scene then?” They nodded and scurried back toward the stage and their places. But even though he followed them and gave them his best attention, Marlowe found it impossible to work when he was so troubled. Both by the actions of the Privy Council—and the ominous warning they had left behind—and by the stories his friends had recounted. Curious events were occurring, for sure, but what did it all mean?

  Scene Five

  During which our hero ponders the nature of love’s fires and tests the mettle of pen over sword

  “Thou dost seem troubled, my love.” Lorelei slid forward, the water rippling around her, offering tantalizing glimpses of pale flesh. She rested a cool, damp palm along his cheek. “Do I not please you? Have you grown bored so soon?” She batted her eyelashes at him, a flutter of motion behind the waterfall of her hair.

  “Nay, rest assured you are still more than enough to drive a man from his right mind,” Marlowe promised, tilting his head to kiss her hand. A tingle arose from his lips at their touch. They were lounging in the large brass tub that stood in the corner of his rooms. The tub was filled with cool water and scented soaps and the two of them, entwined. “Forgive me, my sweet. Truly the fault lies not with you—thou art as near perfection as mortal flesh could bear, I swear. Other matters nag at me.”

  “This new play of yours?” She slithered closer, her breasts rubbing across his legs, belly, and chest as she stretched herself across him. She stopped with her face a hair from his, her lips so close he could breathe her in. “I had thought my role as muse was successful?”

  “Beyond all compare,” he assured her, leaning forward to kiss her lips. The cool sensation swept down through him, leaving Marlowe both aroused and becalmed, like a panicked ship in a dead sea. “The problem lies not with the writing, for the words flow marvelously—my pen has scarce been able to keep pace with my fevered imagination.” He held up his writing hand to show her the calluses and blisters and ink stains there, mute evidence of his claim, and she kissed each finger in turn, leaving them free of aches at last. “The difficulty presents itself in the staging, or at least the performance, of all things, for there are people intent on seeing this tale die unspoken.”

  “So speak it to me now, then,” Lorelei urged, a grin touching her full lips. “Make me your rapt audience of one, and delight me with your genius.” One of her hands snaked between them and grasped his manhood in a grip slippery yet firm. “And I will delight thee in return.”

  “How could I resist?” He coughed, and the sound became a groan as her fingers proved too dexterous for him. “Very well. What would you hear?”

  “You have shared the conceit already,” she reminded him, “and told me some of the opening. So, something else. Entertain me with some other scene. Is there a moment where the lovers speak their true feelings to one another? I would like to hear that.”

  “My pleasure.” He kissed her again, and then leaned his head back, shut his eyes, and let the scene spring to life behind his eyelids. “Elissa is walking the gardens,” he explained, painting the picture for her with words. “She seeks solitude and wisdom, for though Iarbas presents a wise match there is no warmth there. Her foot catches on a root and she stumbles by the balcony’s edge. One step behind her, Barcas catches her before she can fall, and at his touch the young queen feels a rush of heat. She meets his gaze and falls deep into his eyes, into the passion she sees boiling there. And there, she burns…

  “‘Never shall I let thee fall,’ he tells her, ‘for mine own heart is tied to thy fate, and werest thou to plummet I needs must follow—those strings of love bind me so tight I could never be far from thee, even though we must both meet our doom on the courtyard below.’

  “‘And wouldst thou die in such a fashion?’ she asks, “Shattered against cold stone, thy queen lifeless beside thee? I had thought all young warriors sought death in battle, glorious and blood-drenched?’

  “‘To die beside thee would be glorious beyond measure, believe me, my queen,’ Barcas answers, ‘and to be so close, even in death, is all I might wish and more.’ He glances away then, realizing he has said too much, but he cannot help himself. ‘For indeed I know my place, and it is in the ranks, guarding over thee, and never closer, though my heart might yearn for it.’

  “‘Tell me something, Barcas.’

  “‘Anything.’

  “‘Am I not thy queen?’ Elissa demands.

  “‘Body and soul,’ he answers without hesitation. “Thou dost reign over me.’

  “‘Then surely thy place is where I will it?’ she contends, ‘and at whatever distance I determine, no?’ She steps closer, so close his breath mingles with hers, becoming one, theirs. ‘And I would have thee near, dear Barcas, always. For the heat I feel from thee doth warm my lonely soul, and cause my heart to blaze and take flight as if carried upon a skyward flame.’”

  “Ah, the flames of lust,” Lorelei commented with a throaty chuckle, her hand continuing to caress him. “It burns so bright, and so hot, but for so brief a time. Is it not better to fall into a deep pool of abiding—enduring—affection? Is it not more potent to drown in love than burn up in it?”

  “The two are not exclusive or adverse, surely?” Marlowe replied, let his own hands sweep along her curves, tracing her lines above and then beneath the water. “Deep emotion can burn as well as simmer steadily below the surface. I would hate to think our fire would burn out, wouldn’t you? So for Barcas and Elissa, though their love is new—this bright burning thing, filled with gouts of flame—it rises from a glow banked deep within, and will remain stoked as long as there are coals to burn and breath in their lungs.”

  “Ever the poet, yet you cannot deny that fires do gutter and die, it is their nature,” came her counter, “but currents flow unabated. The sea never fades or dwindles, and its edges are bounded only by our imagination. A wave hits the shore, it breaks, and yet even as it breaks it begins to form anew out
in the deep water, ready to roll in towards the shore once more. Ever was it so, and ever shall it be.”

  “True, and yet even the greatest ocean is subject to the moon,” Marlowe pointed out, “and in that it is subservient, whereas fire knows no limits. It can overcome all obstacles—it may even leap through the empty air, to dance from tree to tree or bridge a river or lake, carried aloft by the wind with no cessation to its heat. So is love, great love—under adversity it may be banked, but as long as a single coal contains an ember, a spark, within, then that fire may rise again, restored to a blaze even beyond its former glory.”

  “And water may drown fire, just like that!” Lorelei snapped her fingers. “Quenched. Drenched beyond its ability to withstand,” she countered, her grasp bordering upon painful now as she tugged him down in the tub. Marlowe’s head slipped below the surface. He opened his mouth, gasping, bubbles rising. His vision swam, and as she pushed him down he could barely make her out beyond a haze of swirled shadows and light, a twisting, writhing mass of hair and limbs that tangled all about him.

  He pulled himself away from her just long enough to surface, and gulped down a deep breath. Water sprayed all about as he shook his head. “But fire can transform water to steam,” he replied, grinning, “and boil it away until the pot turns dry.” The bathwater, previously gone cold, began to warm once more, until tendrils of that same steam rose all about them and Marlowe felt his cold-paled skin turning rosy.

  Lorelei shrieked and swatted at his hands, her hair rising in the steam to coil about her head and shoulders. “What have you done, you rogue! Are you trying to broil me like some trout? What next? Would you fillet my meat at your leisure?”

  “Ha! Hardly, woman, though I would gladly spear you,” he replied with a grin, leaning forward in the tub and scooping her up onto his lap. “Come, let’s play fisherman, shall we? I rather like the idea of you dancing at the end of my pole.”

  “Fie, I am not about to be caught so easy.” She pushed him away and swam to the far side of the tub. “I come when I will, sirrah, and not when you demand.”

  “Indeed, then it is obviously my good fortune that you would come so often.” His grin widened. “Surely you are the most obliging fish I’ve ever encountered. Will you not take the bait once more?”

  “Hmph!” She slapped the water, sending a splash across his chest and face. “Perhaps this fish should withhold its affections for a time? Might be you would come to appreciate them more if you were forced to do without?”

  “Madam, believe me, no one could appreciate you more than I,” he protested, laughing as he shook the droplets off. “Willingness in no way lessens delight.” She smirked at that. It wasn’t a smile, though. And the look changed further, to surprise and then dismay as he began to lever himself up out of the tub. “Alas, now, I fear, you must excuse me. There can be no rest for the wicked. And I think we have confirmed that at the very best I am truly wicked.”

  “What?” She leaned across the tub’s lip, her breasts pressing temptingly against the cool metal. It would have been so easy to succumb, to climb back into the water and lose himself in her anew. “Are you casting me aside so casually?”

  “Never, my sweet,” he assured her, leaning in for a kiss. He pulled back as her arms attempted to snake about his neck and draw him back down into her watery embrace. “You only have yourself to blame, sweet Lorelei—you have enflamed me once more, and new lines spring to mind, burning their words within me. I need to write—they must hit the page before they turn to ash and blow away like smoke on a blustery shore.” He bowed, naked and soaked but still wrapped in dignity. “However, I would dearly like to resume our . . . engagement at some later time, after my words stain the pages… assuming you are willing?”

  “You are a bad, bad man, Kit Marlowe. I should hate you, turning your back on me like this, but how can I resent being your muse? What girl wouldn’t wish to inspire a man to great art?” She snorted as she rose from the tub herself, very deliberately allowing him to see exactly what he was giving up to go and write. “I will wait, wet, for you.”

  “And I for thee—well, not wet, obviously, I’d catch my death,” Marlowe said, extending a hand to help her step down and offering her a towel that had been warmed by the fire. She accepted the first but waved away the second. “Believe me, it is only the play that draws me away, and only for so long as it takes to find the right words.”

  “She is a jealous mistress, this bitch, demanding all your attention,” Lorelei commented. “Suddenly we are rivals for both your heart and your time, this thing I created.” She reached out and gave his manhood a not-so gentle reminder. “But remember this, writer man—it lacks the power to please you in the same ways I can.” She looked at him knowingly, her gaze dropping below his waist, where her hands had just lingered. “That will bring you back to my bed soon enough.”

  “You won’t hear me arguing,” he agreed, though he was tempted to point out that, in fact, they had not once been in her bed, or even to her lodgings for that matter. He knew better than to wade in such waters, though—her humor was already at dangerously low ebb.

  “Go then, Marlowe. Go. Write.” She playfully mocked him as she tugged her clothing on once more. The fabric clung to her still-damp skin. “But it’s a risk, is it not? You might well have to sink to your knees and beg me to return once you’ve finished your masterpiece.” And with that and a parting kiss she swept from his rooms.

  Marlowe stared after her even past the point where the door swung shut and she was long gone.

  “And who said women were a mystery?” the playwright muttered to himself as he toweled the damp from his body. He let the flames warm his flesh, enjoying the feeling of sensation returning. Finally he pulled on a loose shirt and pants. He caught his reflection in the window. “And this one… all fire on the surface, but ice-cold water beneath, alluring and numbing.” He shook his head to clear it. Now was not the time to dwell upon the mystery that was Lorelei. Not when the words wanted out of his head.

  “But she knows you well enough, my jealous little mistress,” he said softly as he sat at his desk, smoothing out a clean broadsheet before him. “Demanding as you are. Still, with you I always know precisely where I stand. There’s something to be said for that.” And right now she was warm and willing, and he dove into her heat body and soul, dipping his quill and scribbling away, the words dancing into his mind and out again so quickly he scrambled to write them down before they swept away from him.

  He had finished the balcony scene and was just painting the scene around Iarbas’s final understanding, that moment when it becomes all too easy for him to see Elissa’s affection for Barcas, when he paused. Beside him, the candle’s flame flickered. A cool breeze tickled the back of Marlowe’s neck. That gave him a second pause. Surely he had left the window pulled shut? The nights were cold and he was hardly one to invite the freezing weather within his home.

  He leaned back, shifting to glimpse the window in question—and a knotted cord brushed his cheek as his head moved. He caught the reflection of man in the glass, and twisted violently as the cord snapped tight, quick as a striking snake.

  Marlowe shouted incoherently, simply for the sake of making noise and hoping to draw attention, and kicked up from his stool. He wrapped his hand in the cord and dragged it aside before it could bite into his throat. With the other hand he reached for the candle. “You’ll have to do better than this, assassin!” Marlowe rasped. The cord, still in his hand, smoldered and caught fire. The masked man dropped it with a muffled curse. But even before the burning rope had hit the floorboards, a blade appeared in his hand.

  He lunged at Marlowe.

  “Damn, but you are persistent! Who are you, then? Let’s see about unmasking you, shall we?” Marlowe demanded, knocking the dagger hand aside with his forearm. He allowed a smile to touch his lips. The heat from the contact, brief as it was, suffused the blade and made the stranger gasp. “Have you been sent by one of the many broken
hearted left behind? Or perhaps you are a cuckolded husband? I’m sorry, of course, but I never stick it where it isn’t wanted. And if you’ve come to collect on some debt, then surely poking me full of holes would rather preclude any sort of repayment.” Marlowe danced back a step, keeping just out of reach of the dagger. “So, then, have I perhaps insulted some lord, either titled or criminal in nature, without my knowing?”

  Still the man said nothing.

  Instead he lunged forward, trying with the dagger a second time.

  Marlowe dealt with that easily enough, all the while assessing. His attacker was of average height, slender but strong. He handled the blade well enough, so was certainly trained. He wore dark clothes, a jacket and trousers paired with soft black boots and matching gloves, with a black scarf wound about his head to disguise his features. Only the eyes gleamed forth, dark and cold.

  “Come sir, you’re making it very difficult to like you. Why don’t we sit down and talk this out like gentlemen?” Marlow insisted. “How about a gesture of good will? Show me your face. It’s so much easier to discuss terms face-to-face rather than face-to-scarf.”

  The stranger stabbed at him again. The fact that he insisted on stabbing over slashing, which would have caused more lasting damage, gave Marlowe hope. It also made him predictable. He waited for the fourth thrust, knowing it must come, and as it did Marlowe caught the man’s wrist, drawing him in close. His attacker struggled but could not pull free, and Marlowe smiled dangerously as the man gasped at the heat of his grip. He felt the man’s skin blister.