the Lord's Prayer quietly.
The door creaked open a notch and then stopped. Light flickered through the gap, not torchlight or candlelight, but with some troubling quality that Mayhew could not identify, but which reminded him of moonlight on the Downs. The music was louder now, and he too could hear the voices.
A sound at his back disrupted his thoughts. The prisoner's hands were on the bars of the grille and he had removed his hood for the first time that Mayhew could recall. In the ethereal light, there was an echo of the moon within the cell. The prisoner's head was encompassed by a silver skull of the finest workmanship, gleaming so brightly Mayhew could barely look at it. Etched on it with almost invisible black filigree were ritual marks and symbols. Through the silver orbits, the prisoner's eyes hung heavily upon Mayhew, steady and unblinking, the whites marred by a tracing of burst capillaries.
The door opened.
CHAPTER 1
ven four hours of soft skin and full lips could not take away her face. Empty wine bottles rattling on the bare boards did not drown out her voice, nor did the creak of the bed and the gasps of pleasure. She was with him always.
'They say you single-handedly defeated ten of Spain's finest swordsmen on board a sinking ship in the middle of a storm,' the redheaded woman breathed in his ear as she ran her hand gently along his naked thigh.
'True.'
'And you broke into the Doge's palace in disguise and romanced the most beautiful woman in all of Venice,' the blonde woman whispered into his other ear, stroking his lower belly.
'Yes, all true.'
'And you wrestled a bear and killed it with your bare hands,' the redhead added.
He paused thoughtfully, then replied, 'Actually, that one is not true, but I think I will appropriate it nonetheless.'
The women both laughed. He didn't know their names, didn't really care. They would be amply rewarded, and have tales to tell of their night with the great Will Swyfte, and he would have passed a few hours in the kind of abandon that always promised more than it actually delivered.
'Your hair is so black,' the blonde one said, twirling a finger in his curls.
'Yes, like my heart.'
They both laughed at that, though he wasn't particularly joking. Nathaniel would have laughed too, although with more of a sardonic edge.
The redhead reached out a lazy hand to examine his clothes hanging over the back of the chair. 'You must cut a dashing figure at court, with these finest and most expensive fashions.' Reaching a long leg from the bed, she traced her toes across the shiny surface of his boots.
'I heard you were a poet.' The blonde rubbed her groin gently against his hip. 'Will you compose a sonnet to us?'
'I was a poet. And a scholar. But that part of my life is far behind me.'
'You have exchanged it for a life of adventure,' she said, impressed. 'A fair exchange, for it has brought you riches and fame.'
Will did not respond.
The blonde examined his bare torso, which bore the tales of the last few years in each pink slash of a rapier scar or ragged weal of torture, stories that had filtered into the consciousness of every inhabitant of the land, from Carlisle to Kent to Cornwall.
As she swung her leg over him to begin another bout of lovemaking, they were interrupted by an insistent knocking at the door.
'Go away,' Will shouted.
The knocking continued. 'I know you are deep in doxie and sack, Master Swyfte,' came a curt, familiar voice, 'but duty calls.'
'Nat. Go away.'
The door swung open to reveal Nathaniel Colt, shorter than Will and slim, but with eyes that revealed a quick wit. He studiedly ignored the naked, rounded bodies and focused his attention directly on Will.
'A fine place to find a hero of the realm,' he said with sarcasm. 'A tawdry room atop a stew, stinking of coitus and spilled wine.'
'In these harsh times, every man deserves his pleasures, Nat.'
'This is England's greatest spy,' the redhead challenged. 'He has earned his comforts.'
'Yes, England's greatest spy,' Nathaniel replied acidly. 'Though I remain unconvinced of the value of a spy whose name and face are recognised by all and sundry.'
'England needs its heroes, Nat. Do not deny the people the chance to celebrate the successes of God's own nation.' He eased the women off the bed with gentle hands. 'We will continue our relaxation at another time,' he said warmly, 'for I fear my friend is determined to enforce chastity.'
His eyes communicated more than his words. The women responded with coquettish giggles as they scooped up their dresses to cover them as they skipped out of the room.
Kicking the door shut after them, Nathaniel said, 'You will catch the pox if you continue these sinful ways with the Winchester Geese.'
'The pox is not God's judgment, or all the aristocracy of England would be rotting in their breeches as they dance at court.'
'And 'twould be best if you did not let any but me hear your views on our betters.'
'Besides,' Will continued, 'Liz Longshanks' is a fine establishment. Does it not bear the mark of the Cardinal's Hat? Is this land on which this stew rests not in the blessed ownership of the bishop of Winchester? Everything has two faces, Nat, neither good nor bad, just there. That is the way of the world, and if there is a Lord, it is His way.'
Ignoring Nathaniel's snort, Will stretched the kinks from his limbs and lazily eased out of the bed to dress, absently kicking the empty bottles against the chamber pot. 'And,' he added, 'I am in good company. That master of theatre, Philip Henslowe, and his son-in-law Edward Alleyn are entertaining Liz's girls in the room below.'
'Alleyn the actor?'
'Whoring and acting go together by tradition, as does every profession that entails holding one face to the world and another in the privacy of your room. When you cannot be yourself, it creates certain tensions that must be released.'
'You will be releasing more tensions if you do not hurry. Your Lord Walsingham is on his way to Bankside, and if he finds his favoured tool deep in whores, or in his cups, he will be less than pleased.' Nathaniel threw Will his shirt to end his frustrated searching.
'What trouble now, then? More Spanish spies plotting against our queen? You know they fall over their own swords.'
'I am pleased to hear you take the threats against us so lightly. England is on the brink of war with Spain, the nation is torn by fears of the enemy landing on our shores at every moment, we lack adequate defences, our navy is in disarray, we are short of gunpowder, and the great Catholic powers of Europe are all eager to see us crushed and returned to the old faith, but the great Will Swyfte thinks it is just a trifling. I can rest easily now.'
'One day you will cut yourself with that tongue, Nat.'
'There is some trouble at the White Tower, though I am too lowly a worm to be given any important details. No, I am only capable of dragging my master out of brothels and hostelries and keeping him one step out of the Clink,' he added tartly.
