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doublet and slops, and I could feel the hardness of
her nipple against my arm through the silk shirt she wore, as I jestingly
caught her hand after the sixth oyster.
    “Succubus! I do know the reputation of these things; just what
might you intend?” She laughed, opening another.
    “I intend, my love, that you will not fail in rising to my will!
What else?” I laughed, for I was indeed rising, drawn to her vitality, her
assurance, as helpless as a moth before a candle. She drew the mismatched bed
curtains with quick graceful tugs and enfolded me in her arms. When I woke the
next morning she had gone.

 
Chapter
4
    The weeks passed into months. I wrote, I took my turns prompting
rehearsals at the playhouse, even sometimes treading the boards myself, and
casually bedded a few young men among the players, but more from habit than
desire. I visited Scadbury frequently, but never had opportunity to speak to
Tom away from Frizer’s triumphant presence. More than once I found myself
regretting the prohibition upon his murder that Rózsa had pronounced that
January morning.
    I was an even more frequent visitor to Crosby Place, a guest of
the guests of the Lord Mayor, spending many wonderful evening hours with my
hosts in scholarly pursuits and hours even more wondrous alone with Rózsa in
pursuits of a more earthy nature. Von Poppelau knew and seemed to approve of
our coupling and I did not wish to disturb things with questions and risk losing
all. Often we went out together, Rózsa dressed always as a young man, but only
at night, never before twilight.
    I continued working on Hero and Leander, but it was Tom’s poem
and I found the delight I took in it thoroughly tarnished. About mid-April,
upon returning from one of those unsatisfying visits with Tom I wrote furiously
for a time, then studied my words:
    Love is not full of pity, as men say,
    But deaf and cruel where he means to prey.
    I threw down my pen, spattering the page, and snatched up my cloak.
I took the stairs two at a time and strode into the street, heading for Crosby
Place.
    Not far from my lodgings a shadow stepped from an alley and
tugged at my arm. I jerked away and dropped a hand to the hilt of my sword,
turning to face my assailant.
    “My, my,” the small man said, with a supercilious grin. “Touchy,
aren’t we, Kit?” I recognized Robin Poley, who had taught me the ropes of
spying for Sir Francis Walsingham. I’d heard that he was back in England,
working for Robert Cecil, who had gathered up the fallen reins of power when
Sir Francis had died.
    “I’m rather late for an appointment, Robin,” I told him, backing
away. He followed.
    “Your new friends, is it? Oh, I know that you think you have
done with the game, sweet Kit, but be assured the game has not done with you!”
    “Go away Robin! I’ll have none of it.” I started to walk and he
trotted after.
    “You’d do well to heed me, Marlowe,” he panted. “You think your
fame or your patron or your new friends will save you? Naught can—if your old
friends are forgot! I could drop many a word about how certain names found
their way into Walsingham’s ear! Men have burned because of you and their
friends crave bloody vengeance. Your position is perilous, Kit! You’re a known
atheist, sodomite, blasphemer—”
    “And you’re a known knave! Leave off, Robin!” I walked faster.
As I left him scowling behind me, I recalled how I had gotten involved in what
he had called “the game” several years before.
    It was in London, the streets muddy with the promise of spring.
I had been invited to attend upon Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen’s
Secretary, one of the most powerful men in the country. As I waited in the
anteroom, one of a large number, I gazed out of the window, startled to see a
form that I thought I knew from Cambridge. But surely not: that blackmailing
boy had left when his father died, and what business could he have with the
Secretary? For that matter, what business had I?