License to Quill Read Free

foiling Catholic plots against England, but with his famed cousin dead, even those days were reportedly behind him. Frizer was nothing more than Thomas’s business agent, and as he played backgammon that evening, he knew Marlowe’s death would be a painful financial loss to his master. Thomas had been Christopher Marlowe’s chief patron ever since they retired from the secret service. But then, how could anyone retire from the world of espionage without being dead?
    There was a knock at the door, and the three guardsmen looked up from their game.
    â€œWho goes there?” called Poley.
    â€œAle!” came a voice from behind the thick door.
    â€œI pray you remember the porter?” Skeres teased.
    â€œOf course I do,” Poley snapped. “Skeggs, go open the door.”
    â€œI move for no man,” Skeres scoffed. “And don’t call me ‘Skeggs.’ I’m only Skeggs when I’m working.”
    â€œYou are working.”
    â€œNo, I’m not. I’m playing ‘tables’!” Skeres smiled with a roll of the dice.
    â€œThe only thing you’re playing is yourself for a fool, so get off your foolish arse and open the door.”
    â€œEven my foolish arse moves for no man,” Skeres replied with a wink.
    At an impasse, the squabbling guardsmen looked down to small Frizer, who sat cheek by jowl between the two larger men. The agent struggled on his bench. “I cannot move left or right.”
    â€œThen fly!” Skeres laughed.
    Frizer grimaced as he pushed himself up from the table, careful not to bump his twelve-pence dagger into the silent playwright behind him.
    â€œMorley, you still with the living?” Skeres asked while Frizer walked toward the door.
    The dramatist snored in response.
    â€œHe’s sleeping,” observed Poley.
    â€œAh, sleep … Perchance to dream?” Skeres mused.
    â€œNot while we’re working,” spoke the expert.
    â€œAye, there’s a rub!” Skeres sang as he scratched at his crotch.
    Frizer opened the door and a thin, dark-haired porter entered the room carrying four frothy beers on a tray. He placed three beers on the table and balanced the fourth on his tray as he waited for Ingram Frizer to sit. However, something made the otherwise indifferent third man go rigid. He turned his head and fixed his eyes on the window above Marlowe.
    â€œWhat is it?” asked Poley.
    â€œI thought I saw a horseman outside.”
    Poley and Skeres turned around and stared out the dark portal. An uneasy silence filled the room as the men listened for hoofbeats. However, the tension was diffused by one of Marlowe’s loud snores.
    â€œMorley must be dreaming about men on horseback again,” Skeres snickered. “Come! Let’s finish our game.”
    Frizer shrugged and returned to the bench, but as he was about to sit, Poley caught him. “Where’s your dagger?” he asked.
    Frizer felt his belt and found his leather sheath empty. Alarmed, the three men looked up at their mysterious porter.
    The porter slammed the door and then smashed his last beer on the floor, causing an explosion that engulfed the whole room with thick smoke. Poley and Skeres leaped to their feet and drew their weapons with such speed that Frizer was accidentally slashed on the head by one of their rapiers. The agents coughed fiercely and stabbed their swords through the smog until a loud shriek filled the air.
    â€œMarlowe!” a bloodied Frizer cried out.
    The three spun around to see the window above the playwright thrown open. As smoke escaped from the room, their prized prisoner gasped helplessly from his blood-covered bed. Marlowe’s face had been mutilated and Frizer’s dagger was buried deep in his chest. Blood was shooting in streams with every pulse from the dying man’s heart.
    â€œTreachery!”
    â€œMurder!”
    â€œMorley!” the guards gasped.
    The men rushed to