License to Quill Read Free Page B

“These methods are malodorous,” acknowledged Marlowe, who often used the same props in his plays. “Fortunately, my companions complained that I reeked of wine this whole evening! They’ll suspect nothing.”
    â€œThey’d better not,” said Walsingham as he wrapped Marlowe’s false dagger in a handkerchief. It was not Frizer’s, but a duplicate with its blade broken off. For only twelve pence, such weapons were easy to come by. “And what of your assailant?”
    â€œOh, I’d nearly forgotten!” Marlowe stomped his boot twice. “Will! Take a bow.”
    Right on cue, a dagger slid out from under the bed. It was Frizer’s missing dagger, and Thomas picked it up from the floor.
    â€œAre you sure he’s up to this?” Thomas asked as he smeared the weapon with blood.
    â€œOf course he is!” assured Marlowe as he helped his attacker up from his hiding place. “He keeps his nose out of trouble, this one! Believe me, he’ll be less of an arse-ache than I was.”
    â€œThat’s a relief, but I’m referring to whether he has the stamina for this. He won’t fizzle out on his own, will he?”
    â€œSuch a doubting Thomas!” Marlowe teased as he handed Walsingham the pig’s bladder. “Put your fears to rest for one evening. He’s already rewritten our history! Give this man enough ink, and he’ll rewrite our whole language.” Marlowe clapped his killer on the shoulders while covertly wiping some of the blood off his hands. “He’ll be a worthy replacement. He even scripted this little performance himself!”
    Walsingham raised his eyebrows. “Really?”
    â€œOf course! There’s no way I could have staged my own death. Had I authored this, it would have taken me a fortnight to die!”
    Walsingham nodded. “I don’t doubt that. Now come. We must depart.”
    The comrades tossed a pouch of gold to Dame Bull on their way out the door and raced on foot to Deptford Dockyard, where a boat was waiting to take Christopher Marlowe into the afterlife. As the dead man boarded the barge, Thomas offered his former friend one last handshake. “It seems like only yesterday we were discussing what good you could do for this country.”
    â€œYes, well. What good was it?” Marlowe sighed as he shook Thomas’s hand.
    Walsingham tightened his grip and narrowed his eyes. “Good enough.” The man smiled. “Enjoy your retirement.”
    The poet bowed his head with gratitude for the second life he had been given. Not even England’s own agents would know where Marlowe was going: exile in Italy. It was the best punishment he could have hoped for.
    And then the poet turned to his killer.
    The two fell into each other like brothers and shared a long, silent embrace. Their speechlessness spoke volumes about the times they had shared: every subject they studied, every song and sonnet they swapped, all the ideas they exchanged, and all the hopes they once harbored. All their love’s labors, lost.
    It was the end of a friendship, an apprenticeship, and a partnership for the ages.
    â€œI don’t know where to begin,” choked the dead man.
    His killer smiled. “No matter where you go, I hope you find a happy ending.”
    Marlowe beamed brightly at his successor. “To be continued!” he promised as he danced up the ship’s plank. Without a moment to lose, Thomas signaled the skipper and sent the vessel into the Thames to begin its race against the daybreak. Fortunately, the winds favored the men and their mission, and the ship drifted east until it was swallowed by the glowing horizon. The boat disappeared from all record, taking Christopher Marlowe with it, while Thomas Walsingham and Marlowe’s patient killer observed from the dock.
    â€œYou will receive a stipend,” began Walsingham to the silent assassin. “And the necessary