“Hero” seemed to feel the depth of my pain and humiliation. She took my hand for a moment, then reached up to run her long fingers through my hair. I trembled as she drew my face close to hers, kissed my eyes, then my mouth, licking my lips with her soft tongue. I was amazed to feel arousal, not the disgust occasioned by my few perfunctory performances with the tavern trulls I’d drunkenly attempted upon dares from my friends. I moaned and thrust my tongue deep into her mouth, my hand falling to her hip. Her hands were busy loosening my doublet, unlacing my points, slipping in beneath my shirt to caress me, then trailing down to the fastenings of my trunk-hose. I gasped as she slid her hand between my thighs, then up to my groin. “Stop!” I groaned and she chuckled.
“Is your fire all for poetry now and none left for the flesh? Do you really desire that I stop?”
“Yes. No! But I do not even know your name,” I said lamely and cursed my faltering speech: the great poet at a drunken loss for words. She chuckled again, pulled her hands from my clothing, and poured more wine.
“I am Rózsa Treska Guadalupe de Salinas y Miklos, but I am called Rózsa la Loba,” she said softly, handing me the glass. I drained it and she filled it again
“Spanish?” I was both surprised and interested.
“Spanish and Hungarian,” she replied. “My godfather and guardian, Nicolas von Poppelau, is Bohemian, a friend of my mother’s family. My parents were killed and I have lived with him ever since.” She smiled and anticipated my next question. “They were murdered by the Inquisition. Nicolas spirited me out of Spain, back to my mother’s family in Hungary. They did not want me either: ‘la Loba’ is another name for ‘half-breed’, you know.”
“I thought it meant ‘she-wolf ’,” I said feeling dizzy from more than just the wine—how was she doing this to me?
“That as well,” she smiled and kissed me deeply before helping me out of my clothing. She stood for a second, slipped off her gown and let it pool around her ankles. I watched the firelight play over her body. She was slender, almost, as the boy I had thought her, with small underdeveloped breasts, slim hips, and flat stomach. She knelt beside me, pushing me back on the pillows, her hair caressing my chest as she kissed my nipples. “You smell of lavender and roses,” she murmured. The effort involved in actually forcing my landlady to provide the weekly bath we’d agreed upon was prodigious, but I was happy that at least this time I had persevered. I hated bedding an unwashed lover myself—Rózsa realized that my thoughts were wandering and nipped me sharply, then trailed her tongue lightly down my body. She took my manhood into her mouth for a moment, then continued stroking me with her hand as she slowly moved her lips to my inner thigh. I shuddered, gasped at a sudden sharp pain as she bit me, then surrendered to the most intense carnal ecstasy I had ever felt. It was pure pleasure; all that I thought of as myself, all thought itself, vanished in wave after wave of bliss.
As the feeling receded I felt thoroughly enervated, almost drained, unable to tell how much time had passed. She rose from me then, licked her lips and smiled as she fetched a basin and ewer that sat nearby. “I wonder that it’s not dripping from the ceiling,” I mumbled as she washed my spilled seed off me. Try as I would, I could not stay awake. I mumbled an apology, which was genially accepted, then gave myself over to sleep.
Before dawn she woke me with a kiss. I reached for her, but she laughed and eluded me, thrusting my clothing into my seeking hands. I sat up and began to dress, feeling oddly giddy and light headed, as if I had been bled. Rózsa, having already donned her gown, awaited me by the door.
Only a few gamblers were still at the tables, their sodden heads upon their arms Frizer among them. Seething with sudden uncontrolled rage and humiliation at the memory of his words to Tom upon our parting, I drew my dagger and stepped towards the drunken man. I did not truly know if I intended to follow my impulse and cut the villain’s throat or to settle for merely frightening him into soiling himself. A light touch on my arm swung me face to face with Rózsa and all thought of vengeance fled. “Do not spill blood in this house,” she said quietly and drew me out the door.
Dusk that evening found me, for once, sitting at home. I had slept heavily until late afternoon, then dressed to go out, but had turned instead to moping about my chamber thinking of Rózsa. I had never before been attracted to any woman, never so much as found even one of them in the least interesting. Why had she such an unaccountable effect upon me?
My friend and fellow playwright, Watson, had once taxed me with being a sodomite for spite, saying that if it were made the common practice and marriage forbidden, then Marlowe would surely wed a woman within a fortnight. Had he after all been correct? Was it more a matter of perversity than perversion? I did not like to think so, but then, Rózsa. Oh, Rózsa.
The winter daylight, limp and dingy as old linen, brightened neither my chamber nor my mood. Twice I sat down to work, but found myself merely thumbing through my pages with growing dissatisfaction. I was thinking I’d not go out at all, but send out for a meal, when there was a light tap on the door. I answered it and saw my pretty boy of two nights before, in doublet and trunkhose of crimson velvet, shirt and hose of white silk, and a falling band of fine Italian lace. He wore riding boots and had his heavy cloak thrown over his arm, his hair braided into the elaborate lovelocks some of the more fashionable courtiers were beginning to wear.
“Come in! What are you doing here and why do you dress so?” I questioned Rózsa, laughing as I pulled her into a room made suddenly bright.
“I came to invite you to dine with us tonight and I dress so because it is both safer and more desirable in this world to be a man, or even a boy, than a woman,” she grinned at me and I felt a tingle in the pit of my stomach. I held her against the door, crushing my body’s length against hers, turning her face up to kiss. She held back for a second, then her body flowed against me, one hand tangling in my hair, the other dropping to stroke my rising desire. I broke off with a gasp and she pushed me firmly away. “Anon, anon! We must go now. Do you put on your boots and bring your cloak. I have brought a horse for you; no, ’tis no great distance,” she forestalled my protest,” but the streets are mired knee-deep from today’s thaw.” Numbly I followed her. What was this woman, that she had such an effect on me, could order me about, and have me obey like the veriest slave? As we passed a common-room downstairs voices floated out.
“Oh, tell me another! What use would that stinkin’ sodomite Marlowe behavin’ for a wench?” I felt my blood turn to ice then rush burning hot to my face as I recognized the voice—Nicholas Skeres, a crony of my great enemy, Frizer. He was lurking here for no other reason than to taunt and torment me, I was certain. A red haze clouded my sight as I shook off Rózsa’s restraining hand and slipped into the room. “He’s far more interested in a boy’s backside,” the coarse voice continued over a chorus of guffaws.
“Or either side of pretty Thomas Walsingham, eh Skeres?” another voice gibed.
“Oh, aye, I’d bet he bends over right enough for our Tommy!” I was standing behind the drunken Skeres; close enough to watch the progress of a louse through his thinning, filthy hair. As he reached his right hand up to scratch, I grasped it, twisting it up behind his back as I tugged his dagger from its sheath. The big man started to push himself up off his stool, his left hand flat upon the table. I promptly leaned over and plunged the knife through his hand and a good inch into the oak beneath. I then stood racked with vicious laughter at his frantic efforts to free himself.
“I cry you mercy, Nick, but I mistook it for a rat,” I cried, almost choking between rage and glee. Only one of his companions was sober enough to stumble from his seat and charge me—he ran into the heel of my hand and crumpled to the floor, spattering the rushes with blood from his broken nose. I landed two solid kicks to the fallen man’s ribs before Rózsa stopped me. She paused to glance scornfully at the bedlam and toss a couple of gold coins into the blood pooling on the table top, then pulled me from the smoky
room. The roars of outrage and pain followed us into the yard where two horses stood, one innocent white, and the other black as sin, held by a starveling street boy. I found myself still shaking with rage and unable to look at Rózsa. I had never learned to curb my violent impulses, rather the opposite, brawling for sport. Though I had been warned often enough my temper would bring me disgrace, this was the first time that I felt ashamed. She waited until I heaved myself onto the white horse’s back then swung lightly onto the black. “You are impetuous, Kit,” was all she said.
Chapter 2
A small shadow, a child-sized man, slipped from the alley to follow the man and boy, pausing for a moment to listen to the howls still coming from within. It was not difficult to keep his quarry insight as the riders let the horses pick their own way through the muddy, mucky streets of Norton Folgate. They entered the City, where they soon reached Crosby Place, handed the reins to a waiting groom, and vanished indoors. He sidled up to the serving-man, showing a coin and asking a few hurried questions. The answers seemed to satisfy him. He pressed the coin and its brother into the waiting hand before scurrying away into the dark.
The little man made his way quickly to Aldgate, to one of the many cottages that subdivided what had once been Northumberland House. He stumbled to the little brazier that served to heat the room, and finally managed to calm his breathing enough to blow the embers into life and light a candle.
“Doctor Montague,” a colorless voice spoke from the shadows, startling the little man so that he almost dropped the light. The candle flickered wildly for a moment and the little man set it hastily on the dirty table.
“My lord earl,” he said, in a voice as shaky as his hands. “You startled me.”
“You told me that you held the secret of immortality in your hand, Doctor. Was that an idle boast?”
“I may say that it is within my grasp, my lord. Have you heard of the undead? The vampire?” His voice sank into a whisper and the two heads, one sandy and one dark, almost touched as the nobleman leaned close to catch the commoner’s words.
Chapter 3
I followed Rózsa into a small study off the main hall where her guardian awaited us. A table had been placed before the fire and spread with a sumptuous meal, but laid only for one. The heavyset man stood upon our entry and took my hand in both of his. “I am Nicolas von Poppelau, and I am so pleased to meet you,” he said, “so very pleased! Rózsa has talked of nothing but Marlowe for days! You have made her very happy.” I felt as if the floor had given a sudden lurch. What did these people want? Did he know of last night’s debauch? Did he expect me to marry her? I could barely support myself, let alone a wife, even if I’d wanted one, and anyway, they were obviously quality . . . I shook my head to clear it and von Poppelau laughed. “Your thoughts flicker across your face as plain as print, my boy! No, pardon me for laughing, it was not at you; sit and eat and I will try to answer some of your questions.”
“But do you not dine?” I asked, indicating the solitary place.
“No, no. It is our habit never to take solid food after sunset,” von Poppelau answered. “But we will join you in some wine.” Ashe poured; I studied my host’s face. It was broad and pleasant, the eyes deep-set and shrewd, the mouth wide and friendly, set under a prominent nose and over a firm chin. I found myself liking the fair-haired man and started to relax a little. The meat and wine were exceptional and the conversation excellent. The man had a penetrating grasp of political affairs and was most widely read, as was Rózsa, much to my wonderment and delight. My sisters, though sharp enough in the mathematics of money, had never shown the slightest interest in learning to read, and indeed had teased me unmercifully about my own studies.
Rózsa showed me the translations of Catullus she was working on and I promised to bring her my own translations of Ovid’s Elegies. As I reached for the sheaf of papers she extended, she started and caught my hand, turning it to examine the palm. She gave a short exclamation and said something in a language incomprehensible to me. That caused Nicolas to lean over and also stare at my captive palm for a few seconds. He spoke to Rózsa in the same language and she smiled ruefully at me, then put the papers into my hands with an apology for the rudeness.
“But what was that about?” I pressed them, laying the papers aside. Rózsa, obviously discomfited, looked to Nicolas, who considered a moment then spoke.
“You know of the theories of physiognomy? That a man’s character may be read in his face? Yes, well, there is a like school of thought that the lines in the hand will reveal much about a person.” He took my hand, turning the palm to the light. “You see here, this line indicates your emotions: you area person who loves greatly, passionately, but you are prideful and given to jealousy. This line shows that you are creative, but rash and reckless, withal. This cross here below your little finger is the mark of the writer, and here, this circle just below the ring finger, that foretells a brilliant success. Just something we have been studying, you see.” Rózsa began to speak then, but Nicolas gave a slight shake of his head and she fell silent.
They kept my cup filled and we talked for hours discussing astronomy, philosophy, and religions. “What is any church, save a business?” I found myself saying emphatically. “The priests call themselves shepherds, do they not? Well then, what is a shepherd’s business, but to fleece the flock in order to increase the wealth and importance of his masters? And here is Rome, the greatest wolf in shepherd’s array that the suffering world has ever seen, gobbling up the globe like a pig at trough, and for what? To save the savage souls? Hah! They’d not have nearly the interest in those souls if the bodies containing them came less often clothed in gold!”
“Do you find the Protestant church superior?” Nicolas asked with interest.
“I do not!” I said emphatically. “Old King Hal let Rome go, but not far enough! What, in the name of reason, can you expect from enforced celibacy, but secret vice?” I found myself telling them what I had told no one in all these years, of my own experience with the church, and with “celibate” churchmen.
I had been a sociable child by nature, but my father’s little house, with its shop on the ground floor, had become increasingly crowded with women as the years passed and my sisters were born. They meant no ill, I knew, but there were so infernally many of them and only one of me. I’d long since given up any hope that the next birth would bring a boy, and even if it did, by this time the child would be rather more a burden than a boon. I had to escape sometimes and the great cathedral had been my haven. I had spent my time therewith the choirboys, noting with smug tolerance the relationships between some of the other boys and their “gentlemen”. Though I had had offers, I had kept myself aloof, feeling that I was destined for greater things than these tawdry and winked at affairs. My friendships dwindled when I began to attend the King’s school as a paying student, easily outdistancing other boys who had been there longer, to their great resentment.
My special sanctuary I had discovered by a combination of accident and boredom during one interminable service at the cathedral. A space behind a pillar, lost in shadow, had proved not the shallow nook it seemed, but deep enough to hide some builder’s creaky and forgotten ladder, leading up into a small scaffold space above. There, in a quiet loft tucked under the roof and in among the vaulting, floored with a few planks and all but invisible from below, I would beguile the hours dreaming of futures that held no shadows of cobbler’s shops or unruly hordes of shrill females—futures that became less and less likely as time passed and I was not offered the scholarship that would lead to Oxford or Cambridge. I desperately wanted the university degrees that would allow me the title and rank of Gentleman, instead of the hated and lowly Yeoman, which even at the age of fourteen I felt to be beneath both my dignity and my worth. My feckless father and ambitious mother had stretched their resources to the limits just to send me to the King’s school; the university was out of the question without a scholarship.
One hot after
noon I had stretched out in my sanctuary to dream, fondly believing myself unwatched and unseen. I laid upon a rough sack that I had purloined to pad my hideaway, stuffed with straw smuggled up bit by bit in my jerkin. The heat under the leads was pleasant and I stripped down to shirt and hose, wadding my jerkin and venetians into a pillow for my head, dozing in the incense scented stillness. I awoke with a startled realization that I was not alone, that the pleasurable sensations in my loins were produced by the large hand busied there, that attached to the hand was a man, kneeling over me, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
“Pretty, pretty boy,” the hoarse voice droned, while I panicked and tried to struggle free from the huge hands that held me down. Soft hands, but strong and conquering hands that swept all resistance before them. Later, still facedown in my violated sanctuary, I had wept for my loss of innocence, a loss the more poignant because I knew the man would come for me again, that I would be awaiting him, and not entirely unwilling.
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