But Cecil’s duplicity is manifest in what he burns, dear Mercutio. He is the very consuming flame, leaving only charred scraps of knowledge for those who come after. We attended his book‑burning, Dick Burbage and I, and it was Dick who whispered in my ear, ‘and now we are on our own in troth, gentle William.’
I fear me he is only right. We cannot rely on princes and their agents any longer, gentle Mercutio. We must act by the strength of our own hands, if we are to preserve what we have won.
Come to London. Meet us at Tom Walsingham’s study. We will craft our Bible no matter who says us nay.
And at the end of the long, fat, flyblown summer, Burbage and I and the others will open the Globe.
May it be our final weapon.
With love, my friend.
Your Romeo
Act IV, scene x
Lucifer: Tut Faustus, in hell is all manner of delight.
–Christopher Marlowe, Faustus,Act II, scene ii
Kit leaned against the wall beside a bright window in Tom Walsingham’s salon and watched Tom pace, and Will nod, and Ben trim the nib of a pen and smooth its shaft with a knife Kit thought was likely sharp enough to shave with. Which reminded him of his own need for a barbering, and he brushed his hand across rasping cheeks. Unlikely as you are to be kissing anyone that cares. Or anyone at all, for that matter.He sipped his wine and swirled it in the goblet, wishing bitterly that he could close the distance to the little coven by the fire and be one of them again. Wishing he could remember the touch of Will’s hand, the press of Tom’s mouth, without tasting the enormous soft emptiness that threatened to open like black wings and enfold him.
“Master Marlowe, if you are sufficiently refreshed, we could resume?” An otherwiselight swirled from the tip of Ben’s pen as he dipped it and bent over the papers spread on the table before him, never looking at Kit.
Kit set his wine well aside and came back to the musty‑smelling book, gently sliding the ribbon aside to resume his place on the page. “Matthew?”
“Thereabouts, ” Ben answered.
Kit bristled at the big man’s tone, backing down chiefly because Will turned enough to catch his eyes. Kit angled the Bible for better light and began to read aloud, in Greek, with, he thought, fair facility. Ben scribbled a literal and far from poetic translation, and Will read over his shoulder. Kit tried not to watch the casual camaraderie between the two, or the way Tom lounged by the fireplace, smiling his pleasure at the poets hard at work in his salon.
Kit’s shoulder itched under his doublet. He reached up and over without pausing in his reading–nearly a recitation by heart, to be truthful–and absently rubbed at the tenderness of the witch’s mark before he realized what he was about and forced himself to stop. As if in response, the scars on his torso and thighs flared white pain. He jumped and yelped, almost dropping the book. “Edakrusen o iesous! ” Damme, while Lucifer was healing things, he could have healed those too.
“Christ,” Ben growled. “Is there a cinder in your eye, now?”
“An old injury,” Kit said, straightening the hang of his rapier. “Shall we continue?”
“Can we do it without interruptions?”
“Gentlemen – ” Will, standing and moving between them. Kit cringed at the way his steps seemed hobbled, and set the Bible down, careful of its pages and spine.
“Your pardon, Will, ” Kit said, as Ben dropped his quill into the inkpot and turned over the chair back to face Kit.
“Tell me, Master Marlowe,” he said. “Is it true a witch kisses the Devil’s bunghole to pay for his powers?”
“Master Jonson,” Kit replied, letting his left hand fall from the hilt of his sword as he moved away from the wall. “Come, kiss mine and find out.”
“If I were to play the sodomite, I should choose, I trust, a less slant‑heeled paramour.”
“Gentlemen.” Tom Walsingham, this time, stepping away from the fireplace to lend the support of his stature to Will’s plea for peace.
“As a point of fact,” Kit said, through that same imperturbable smile, “that’s only part of the process. An enjoyable one, if performed faithfully”–ignoring Will’s livid blush, and Tom’s sudden coughing fit–“and I might offer to demonstrate, but I prefer my bedfellows agreeable in–”
“Christofer, so help me God – ”
“–body andtemperament, and you, dear Ben, are neither, and have neither – ”
“Kit!”
“Yes, Sir Thomas?” Sweetly, with his best and gentlest smile.
“Enough. Just enough, both of you.”
“Yes, Sir Thomas – ” Kit gasped and doubled over as another ripple of fire caressed his body. He went to one knee, pushed both hands before him to keep from collapsing to the floor, and bit down on a scream. “Will, my cloak.
Will was already moving; not fast enough, as Jonson levered his bulk from the chair and swept Kit’s cloak from the pile in the corner. He threw it about Kit’s shoulders and tugged it tight. Kit leaned back on his heels, breathing again, gripping the collar in his left hand.
They crowded him, and he waved them back, wobbling to his feet with assistance and a warning glance from Tom. Kit looked from Tom to Will, and Will to Tom. “What, sweet Thomas, not devilish enough for thee?” But he gave himself over to the half a smile that bubbled up, despite his frustration, and offered it to Tom as an indicator of peace before turning back to Ben. “A kindness, Master Jonson,” he said. “I will not forget it.”
“What was that?” asked Tom, concerned.
Kit shrugged and reached for his wine. “The Prometheans seeking me through old scars, perhaps.”
Jonson’s mouth twisted as he nodded. “Then shall we continue?”
But Kit felt a hot wind ruffle his cloak, and saw Ben’s eyes suddenly widen.
:Come:
The light that streamed past Kit was brighter than that from the window. White, and not the pale gold of winter afternoons. Kit set down his cup and turned into it, facing a jeweled, starlit darkness that seemed to unscroll within the room. He tugged his cloak close.
“Kit.” Will and Tom, as one, and Ben a moment behind: “Master Marlowe–”
«Come, my love»
I have to go,” Kit said, turning over his patchworked shoulder to regard the other three. “He’s calling me.” He looked away with effort and squared his shoulders, and stepped into the light.
Angels singing, and cries–those cries that might be ecstasy or might be grief: he could not say. Broad arms, white wings, enfolded him in comfort; the last lingering burning of his scars faded into cool and calm as Lucifer held him close and stroked his hair.
“What have you done to me?” Kit asked, recovering himself enough to step away, for all the brush of those wings fanned the longing in him to a sharp, pale flame. He stood beside the Devil as if on nothingness, surrounded by stars. Despite himself, he threw back his head, his hair brushing his collar, and stared up into the vaulted, sparking void above.