I recognized as my clothing and my weapons. I was left in my shirt, breeches, and stockings. A pad had been thoughtfully placed between my head and the bench beneath me, keeping contact with the wood from exacerbating the wound. The wall at my feet was almost entirely made of glass, and I supposed that the door was behind me. It was not long after I woke that I heard a key turn in a heavy lock and someone entered. I struggled to see who was behind me, but it was useless. The wood of my fetters galled me, blistering my undead flesh when I pulled against it, and preventing me from exercising my full strength. I stopped moving and waited. The man walked slowly around the bed, stepping carefully over the taut chain, and held the candle up that I might see him. My stomach knotted inside me as I recognized him: Northumberland, the so-called Wizard Earl. His clothing stank of smoke.
“I trust you are comfortable, Master Marlowe?” he asked tauntingly.
“Tolerably, given the situation, and my name is Kryštof. You may call me ‘your highness’, or ‘your grace’. If ransom is your purpose, I’m afraid you’ve chosen poorly. My brother is not very likely to spare much coin for me,” I told him, assuming a composure that I was far from feeling.
“You must be wondering why you have been brought here,” the earl continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “I have had some very interesting conversations with an old friend and patron of yours, that served to spur my own research,” he fell silent, but his cold eyes, the greasy grey-green of pond ice, continued to roam my captive body. It seemed hours, but can really only have been a few minutes before he recalled himself and turned to me. As he moved I smelled the smoke again, and it recalled memories of nights at Ralegh’s manor, Durham House, memories of the several futile attempts made to conjure demons. There had been only one success claimed, though I had not seen it myself, and that had been Northumberland’s endeavor. The earl moved to my side, and I, looking at the window, shuddered. When the morning came . . . I tried to jerk my head away as the earl leaned over me, but the collar bit into my throat, choking me.” If you were not who I believe you to be, the jewel would not have fetched you, and you would not have mistaken my groom for the one who sold it to me. But who you are is of no consequence; it is what you are that interests me, and that I know very well.” He stood smiling, gazing at the windows.
“Do you remember how you would mock me, kind Kit? I do,” he said softly, and turned his smile on me. My gut knotted at that smile, and I knew that he meant to kill me. After a time he continued. “I have spent weary years searching in vain for the philosopher’s stone, not for vain gold, but for immortality, and now you, a baseborn little cobbler’s son, you have the immortality I’ve squandered my life to gain. I mean to have it and you will give it to me.” I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. “No matter,” the earl laughed without humor. “I have the knowledge and the wherewithal to take it, Marlowe, Marley, Merlin.” He was prodding me as he ever had, upon my commoner’s name, and that I had, for time in the pride-filled way of youth, assumed the name of the great wizard. He left the room then, his laughter trailing behind him as dry and lifeless as November leaves.
The window faced north, and while the diffused daylight did me no direct damage, it broke my rest, tormenting me, causing me to toss and strain against the manacles that held me. Seven such days and nights passed without so much as footsteps on the other side of the door. I thought I should go mad from the pain of my cramping limbs, the shackle-galls, and my rising hunger, my thoughts forever whirling around Northumberland’s words. An old friend and patron, he had said, and that could only be Thomas Walsingham. Had Tommy bartered my life away once more? On the seventh night Northumberland returned, and such was my state that I was almost glad to see him. He viewed my tortured body with satisfaction, and motioned to those behind him