literature

SEQUENCE 00, Memory 1 (Prologue): The Fourth Man

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30 MAY, 1593 - DEPTFORD, KENT

    The widow Bull listened to the four men having a happy conversation in one of her tavern’s rooms downstairs. As they laughed, drank and shared stories, she couldn’t help but chuckle while listening to their exaggerated, drunken tones muffled by the walls. They should have known that a loose tongue was a government agent’s worst enemy.
   Toning out their slurring for a moment, she sat at her desk in her personal bedchamber, twirling a single envelope in her fingers, sealed with the mark of the late master of spies himself. The messenger hadn’t told her of its contents in detail; only that its role was crucial in the hours to come. Anxious but patient, Eleanor Bull counted on the four men in that dining room; for they would ensure the letter’s intended purpose. The assurance could not arrive a moment too soon…
   
   A few minutes earlier, the most youthful looking man at the table with dark brown eyes and fluffy brown hair excused himself to the privy. Once certain none of his mates were looking, he instead continued further into a smaller, unoccupied bedroom that the widow rented to less wealthy visitors. The space had a singular window on the wall opposite the door, and once his privacy was secured, the man gently knocked on the pane three times. A pair of hands entered into view and opened the window from the outside. The man stepped back and let the expected visitor enter. He wore brown trousers, ankle-high boots and a black waistcoat. His cloak was a deep red and his cavalier hat mahogany brown, with a large white feather blooming from the left fold.
   The first man couldn’t help but sneer sarcastically. “Of course…” he said to the red-cloaked man, “they would send you. So what is it this time, Bijoux?”
   The visitor wasted no time explaining, with a faded French accent on his tongue, “Catesby’s delivered a forged document accusing an innocent man of atheism. The woman who owns this ale-bush, she’ll be relaying the letter first thing in the morning; I need you to lure her out of her quarters so I can dispose of it.”
   A quirked grin appeared on the young man’s face as he placed his hands delicately on the table between him and Bijoux. “Why the need for a distraction, why not just slit her throat? You know her affiliation. What do you need me for?”
   Bijoux shook his head lightly. “She takes her orders out of ignorance and fear; she knows nothing.”
   The young man sighed heavily before shrugging his shoulders. “Well… at least the location is convenient,” he said, and then suddenly not seeming so optimistic, he added “and I thought I was going to have a pleasant, unobtrusive evening.”
   Bijoux slowly blinked. “Convenience is not a luxury we can afford, Marlowe. You know this.”
   After a short pause, Christopher Marlowe sighed in a frustrating way, and threw his hands upward in defeat. “Fine, fine:” he agreed. “And this ‘innocent man’ is…?”
   “Un dramaturge  (A dramatist). You may know him: a mister Thomas Kyd.”
   “Bugger, Cyril …!” Marlowe exclaimed to his friend under his breath. “…And the papers they found in our home -?”
   “- Likely forged as well. You noticed that that Dutch Church Libel was signed by 'Tamburlaine'?"
   Marlowe closed his eyes and let out a breath of realization. “God damn the man…” he uttered. “But why Thomas?” Bijoux only had to stand quietly, and allow Marlowe to put the pieces together himself. “They want me, don't they?”
   “Your alliance with the Privy Council would prove very useful.”
   Marlowe snorted in disgust at the actions of their enemy. “God… damn the man!” He repeated more forcefully, pushing himself away from the table. Bijoux waited calmly for Marlowe to regain his composure. “I suppose Thomas will now be released then, with these documents disproven?”
   Bijoux held up a hand, “Provided you help me destroy the widow’s letter.”
   “Yes… yes,” Marlowe thought aloud, “and if the widow gets that letter sent off, there’ll be no stopping the events that follow. Except…” he shrugged, “I suppose short of killing every messenger boy in London.”
   “Exactly,” Cyril confirmed, “which is why I’ll need you to get her away from the documents long enough for me to destroy them. A minute at most; that is all I need.”
   Marlowe nodded, and flicked his eyes up to meet Cyril’s. “I think I have something in mind.”
   “Trés bien (all right), but wait for my signal,” Cyril urged. “Watch the leftmost window for me; I will be as quick as I can.”
   The meeting concluded, and Marlowe approached the door to leave. Before exiting, he turned to his acquaintance with a furrowed brow. “You know, I still haven’t the slightest clue what all that French jabber means?”
   Cyril smirked, “And I can say the same about your writings.”
   Marlowe gave a final guffaw, wished his friend luck, and then left to return to his colleagues. As soon as the door was closed, Cyril turned and leapt back out the window. He knew getting to Bull's chambers from the inside would be aimless; he would have to find a way up via the exterior. He circled around, past the front entrance and around the left side until he crossed paths with a wagon filled with large crates, and noticed a lantern attached to the estate within jumping distance of the cart. Ignoring the wagon owner’s barks to get away from his merchandise, Cyril hopped up onto the tallest stack of containers and leapt toward the brick surface, clasping his fingers around the neck of the lantern with both hands. The wagon owner, in utter confusion, watched him disappear around the corner before shaking his head and returning to his drudgery.
   Cyril traversed the walls of Dame Bull’s house along the window ledges and other light fixtures, his red cloak blundering in unison with his every action, until he reached the large window that offered a view into the room that Christopher Marlowe and his dinner mates had rented. He peered past the curtain and waited for Marlowe to check in his direction. Once he did, Cyril gave a nod, and continued higher up the side of the house.
   
   The four reminded one another to take it easy on the ale, while they tipped their own glasses high above their chins. Marlowe joined his three compatriots in the drinking, but kept his own lips tightly sealed, and his eyes toward the window in front of him. He felt something dark in his gut… something that only seemed to strengthen when he caught his first glance of the feather-hatted Assassin he’d met only moments before peeking beyond the drapes at him. Marlowe kept a close eye for a few seconds, until he saw the signal - a small dip of the head - and then watched him disappear.
   Marlowe stood from the dining table, “Well my friends, I think we’ve had our fill for a day, would you concur?”
   The other three mumbled in agreement, their tankards still in hand.
   “Very well,” Marlowe continued, uttering a few well-placed slurs, “let us get the Bull woman down here for the reckoning, yes?”
   One of the men, Robert, gave a dirty snicker. “I vote we save our lowre and make our hours here today even more worth her while!”
   The other two nobleman erupted in intoxicated laughter, and Marlowe chuckled along. “Nay, my good sir, have some respect for the aging widow.”
   “Ack!” spattered the second man, Nicholas, hawking a gob of phlegm onto the floor. “Get that potboy in here to clear all this up!”
   The third guest sitting at the table, having stopped snickering, lifted a hand to compose his friends. “Now men, we…” he paused to belch quietly, “we are gentlemen of the Crown! Let us keep acting like them.”
   “Obliged, Ingram,” Marlowe thanked him. “But we’ve still indulged greatly tonight. The query remains: who shall pay for it all?”
   The four took turns eyeing one another, hoping someone would speak up and offer their coin. Everyone instead remained mute, and Ingram, one of Marlowe’s closer associates, was growing impatient.

   The sun was starting to rise behind the Assassin, so he had to move quickly. Cyril Bijoux approached the window of Eleanor Bull’s bedchamber. He could faintly hear the voices of Marlowe and his associates beginning to rise in volume, and hostility. Cyril had worked with Marlowe on more occasions than any other member of his Brotherhood, and because of that, he knew of Marlowe’s reckless disregard for danger. A habit he’d picked up from his encounters in the Privy Council, no doubt, but Cyril couldn’t help but be concerned for his theatrical cohort.
   The commotion Marlowe was causing had caught the attention of Eleanor Bull, and she checked her door a number of times before rising from her desk to investigate, leaving the envelope on the maple surface unattended. As soon as she disappeared around the corner, Cyril took the opportunity and hoisted himself through the aperture into her empty room, hardly making a sound as he landed. The men below were now shouting angrily at full degree, and it sounded like furniture was being tossed around as well. Once again, Marlowe had bitten off more than he could chew. Returning to his objective, Cyril snatched the incriminating letter that bore a seal marked with a wax 'W', and tossed it into Bull’s ignited hearth.
   With the false evidence now smoldering in flames, Cyril left the chamber the same way he'd come, and started retracing his steps toward the ground. He was almost halfway through his descent when he heard the faint but unmistakable sound of steel breaking skin and bone. Cyril hastened, and took greater leaps between sills to arrive at the window of Marlowe’s room, just in time to see the body of his friend crumble to the floor, a bloody perforation in his forehead, and the red blade visibly held by one of his dinner mates who, out of breath, grasped at his own throat for air.
   “Mon Dieu... (My God)” Cyril whispered in shock, his eyes fixed on the fresh cadaver propped against the far wall the way it had fallen. It seemed Marlowe’s careless ways had finally caught up to him.
   However, the three remaining gentlemen appeared calm, calculated, and definitely no longer drunk. The one who had killed Marlowe sheathed his knife and uttered something to the others, though the specific words were unintelligible beyond the walls of the estate. They abandoned Marlowe’s corpse and made for the exit. As Cyril promptly followed along the building’s exterior, he could hear Eleanor Bull’s shrill wails as she undoubtedly discovered the body of the murdered playwright.
   Cyril planted his feet back on the streets of Deptford just as the killer and the two witnesses exited the widow’s home and hastily headed west, toward the fading moon. Cyril was tempted to slay them where they stood, but was hellbent on discovering, for certain, if Marlowe’s murder had been plotted. However, he already possessed serious doubts.
   
   Robert Poley, Ingram Frizer, and Nicholas Skeres took large steps down the cobble streets from the Dame Bull’s ale-bush. Ingram kept his hand on the hilt of his stained blade, and Poley and Skeres walked on opposite sides of him.
   “Are you sure he’ll be awaiting us there?” Skeres asked Poley.
   Poley’s voice was composed. “He said as much himself, therefore I've no doubts.” He then directed his gaze at Ingram, whom walked on his right side. “A fine job you did, Frizer,” he commended the murderer. “I’m sure that the message will be delivered successfully.”
   Ingram gave a nod of thanks, but remained quiet.
   Skeres spoke up a second time. “It almost seemed too easy…” he said. “It’s all gone as planned, yes, but only so far; too many things could go wrong. I would hope that we have solid means of preventing that?”
   Poley rolled his eyes. “You worry too much, Nicholas. We aren't as unsystematic as you've – unfortunately – been led to believe. It's a work of art, one more elaborate than anything dear Christopher could hope to conjure: the exchange between four drunken men began with a dispute over the day’s costs, the quarrel became violent, Marlowe attacked first, and you -" he pointed at Ingram "- retaliated in self-defense. All the while, the coroner will be confirming our every claim. I assure you, Skeres: the kill may have been messy, but our concoctions are of the exact opposite nature.”
   “If you say so, sir,” Skeres concluded as he twiddled the cuff of his shirt uneasily. Ingram Frizer’s fingers, though, never left the short blade in the back of his belt, and kept his silence for the remainder of their journey.
   
   Cyril was boiling over. He’d recognized the spoken names from the times he and Marlowe had found a chance to chat; these men were government agents just like he had been, and they would not easily be branded as liars solely on the words of one man; Assassin, nobleman, or otherwise. Cyril never had any control over the night’s events; Marlowe was never leaving that house alive.
   The hidden vambrace mechanism on Cyril's left wrist felt awfully tempting as his hands wrapped themselves into fists, but he resisted his urge for violence. He would need more than one blade to abolish this conspiracy. As the three agents grew suspicious of their discussion's privacy, Cyril was forced to watch the men who took the life of his friend escape unharmed. He turned around to begin his trek back to London, and report the loss of one of the Brotherhood’s most loyal contacts.
Constructive criticism is more than welcome!
Been holding on to this for a long time, debating on whether or not to post it... but lately I've been wanting to improve my writing style, and what better way to do that than share work with my wonderful fellow fans! :)

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
© 2014 - 2024 imajanaeshun
Comments6
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PandaNotes's avatar

Well, firstly I must say that I am glad you posted this! I know it can be a little scary to publish work, but you really had no need to worry, this was brilliant! I enjoyed the general banter between characters, and the unspoken history between some of them, it all felt very unforced, some stories with original characters do not pull that of well, but you really did, everything felt enjoyable to read. The light amounts of humour was too pleasant.


And when the story took a darker turn it was unexpected and saddening, well written too, really helped to grab and hold attention!


Overall this was just flawless work, you did wonderful. :clap: I look forward to reading the other uploaded memory's in the future, though due to moving house soon it may take me a little time to get the chance.