if justice runs its usual tardy course, we may have to steal his body away tomorrow night. I have set plans in motion for various contingencies and there is nothing more that we may do. Morning nears—we can but seek our beds and wait.” She nodded and the tears that had filled her eyes overflowed, running down her smooth skin like liquid opals in the firelight.
“Will—will you hold me tonight?” she whispered. He nodded and put his arm around her shoulders to lead her to his bed.
When they woke, Nicolas’ servant Matthieu stood at the foot of the bed, shifting from foot to foot in his excitement.
“I’ve got him, master,” he said, breathlessly. “The inquest ended and the judges decreed that he should be buried at once with no witnesses, and I had bribed the sexton, as you told me. Master Marlowe waits here in the chapel, sir.” He beamed, until he remembered the funereal nature of his news and schooled his expression to match. Nicolas leapt to his feet, thankful that they had rested that day fully clothed. Rózsa scrambled after him, but he stopped her.
“No, my child, he died so violently—let us see to him first.”
“No! I must know, do you not see? I must!” Nicolas gave way and allowed her to follow him to the chapel. The corpse lay on a hastily constructed bier before the altar and Nicolas bent to view the broken body of his friend. His gentle fingers touched the clotted blood that matted the fine hair of the shattered skull. He noted the heavy bruising on the man’s wrists where he had been held immobile against his struggles, and on his chest, where it seemed as if a great weight had been placed.
“What was the verdict?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“Self defense, master,” Matthieu answered. “That man Frizer had two small cuts on his scalp. Had they been on his chin, he might have got them shaving,” he added scornfully, but Nicolas was no longer listening. He turned the dead man’s head and Rózsa cried out when she caught sight of the ravaged face with its ruined right eye.
“I would have spared thee,” Nicolas said softly, but she shook her head, tears falling freely. “You think of George, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” she confessed, “but of poor Kit, too! How could they, how could they do—that—to him!” Nicolas just shook his head. He knew that she, of all people, needed no answer. Soon they had the corpse cleaned and dressed, and Rózsa sat with it while Nicolas returned to the study to write in his journal, as he did every night. He returned just before dawn.
“Has he—” he began, but Rózsa shook her head and Nicolas composed himself to wait. It was not long before the body before them convulsed with a shattering cry. Before either could reach him, he collapsed, lying as limply as if he had but newly died upon the bier. Matthieu pressed the veins of his right wrist to the man’s lips, but to no avail. Rózsa stood with dagger in hand and Matthieu let her open a vein. When he pressed the bleeding wound against the slack lips, they closed upon it and the undead man fed eagerly for a short time, then fell back into his catalepsy. Nicolas cleared his throat.
“I will send word to Geoffrey to expect us in Brittany soon. Matthieu, see to the traveling arrangements. We must get him out of the country as soon as possible.” Marlowe was transferred to the lightless room prepared for him and the others set about their various tasks.
The journey across the channel was not as difficult as it might have been. The winds were fair, but the sailors muttered about the sick man in the hold, telling tales of plague and derelict ships sailing eternally on the chartless seas of hell. They thankfully crossed themselves when the passengers debarked in the gathering dusk and watched with relief as the stricken man was placed in the waiting litter and carried away into the night.
At last the cortège came to an old manor house, tucked away in a hidden valley between two rocky headlands. Geoffrey was not in residence, but the servants said that he was expected back before the end of the summer. Orders were swiftly given and Marlowe was put to bed. At Nicolas’ insistence Rózsa went to stay with friends in Paris, though she protested bitterly. The very extent of the injuries the poet had sustained and