License to Quill (23 page)

As this fiery carousel closed in on Marlowe, the poet was pulled into the inferno by a slender, unseen hand. “Christopher Marlowe?” a woman whispered in a faraway accent.

The poet turned to have his mask pushed off his face by a pillowy mound of soft, scented skin. Marlowe bent like an old bow and strained to catch the woman leaping into his arms while at the same time trying to hold on to his mask and hat. The poet saved the beret, but his Zanni shattered against the floor and was trampled under the high heels of more than two hundred dancers. With his full face exposed, a wild-eyed Marlowe took his first look at the mysterious woman who, for some reason, knew his real name.

The young dancer was wearing an emerald-green gown that shined vividly against her fair skin and long red hair. Her rich ornaments suggested a courtesan—or a highly accomplished jewelry thief—save for one necklace of simple leather bearing a pendant of three interwoven silver spirals. This modest charm stood out to Marlowe among all her gemstones and gold if only because it appeared Celtic; not exactly the type of jewelry one could purchase in Venice. Out of all her ornaments, this triskele was bound closest to her neck.

Marlowe followed her neck to find two green eyes staring back at him, and nothing more. The woman was wearing a jet-black
moretta
: a round, strapless mask meant to be held in place at the mouth. The
moretta
's only openings were two circular eyeholes, and aside from its slight bump for the nose, the mask completely robbed its wearer of all features. It was a vast departure from other Carnevale masks, which were embellished with intricate details and bright colors. The
moretta
, on the other hand, was so simple that it almost looked like no mask at all, especially in the evening. Up close, the poet's mysterious dancer appeared to be nothing more than two eyes floating in an enormous hole in her head.

Marlowe was surprised that his mystery lady chose to meet him wearing a mask designed to render its wearer mute. The poet knew she had plenty to talk about. Namely, himself. “How do you know that name?” he whispered.

“Because you're the only one left,” she replied in English.

Marlowe stared into the dancer's jade eyes in disbelief, and not because she somehow spoke without removing her
moretta
. Her English had an unusual accent to it; a slight hint of Gaelic that Marlowe could not pinpoint. After looking again at her pendant, the poet asked: “Where are you from? And how did you—”

The woman grabbed Marlowe and silenced him with a kiss so violent that, even with her mask on, the poet began to taste blood on his lips. The two were so close that their eyelashes touched. Neither Marlowe nor his dance partner blinked. This was no longer La Volta, he realized. This was something more primal, more carnal. With his eyes wide open, the poet glanced over to some of the other dancers. Quite a few men had taken their masks off as well, but whenever they tried to unmask their partners, the ladies grabbed their hands and pressed them onto their bodies.

The poet's pulse raced. Every single woman was wearing the same haunting mask.

Suddenly, Marlowe realized something that made him groan in despair. One after another, he began to recognize nearly all the unmasked men around him. One was Jacopo Manucci, an informant who once worked for the legendary Sir Francis Walsingham. Another was Antony Standen, an ex-operative who worked in Florence under the alias Pompeo Pellegrini. Although the poet did not know it, both Standen and Manucci were still on Thomas Walsingham's payroll. Marlowe had no idea that either man was in Venice, and he just as quickly hid his face to keep them from recognizing him. Nearly everyone the poet knew was in that circle: friends, drinking partners, fellow ghosts, gamblers, smugglers, and countless assassins. To Marlowe's surprise, even the doge's nephew was there.

Why were so many of the Venetian walking dead together? Why were they unmasked? And armed? And why were they surrounding Christopher Marlowe?

The poet turned away from the shades and looked back at the masked lady. “My friend says you are interested in an assassination. Is that true?”

The leather woman did not reply, but her unblinking green eyes said “yes.”

“Who is the target?” he demanded. “And why must I be involved?”

Once more, the poet's expressionless partner remained mute.

Marlowe ran a finger up the woman's chin to unmask her, but her black
moretta
did not budge. Instead, the woman took his hand and pressed it to her breast. Angered, the poet pulled his hand free and grabbed her head. He tried to yank the mask off, but the woman winced and slapped him back. As Marlowe raised his hand to his cheek, he noticed spots of blood on his fingers. Shocked, the poet looked once more to the anonymous dancer glaring at him.

Her leather mask was stitched onto her face.

The Torre dell'Orologio chimed even though it was not the top of the hour. Several smoke bombs were thrown into the circle, blanketing the dancers in a misty veil. Marlowe stared agape at the woman as she lunged back into his arms. She pressed her hips into his and guided him for one last dance.

Outside the circle, the dragoman looked up to his stately raven. The watchful bird was quiet.

Then, a strange sound filled the piazza.

Marlowe reached for the hands embracing him only to feel a sharp pain on his fingers. He yelped and kicked the dancer away. Her hidden blade had only found the nape of Marlowe's neck. Furious, the woman unleashed a Celtic war scream and charged at the poet with her dagger unsheathed.

After years of disuse, Marlowe's defensive training kicked into action. He blocked the woman's arm with his own and wrapped her hand up in his cloak. He then drew his parrying dagger and buried it up to its hilt in her corset. The woman's eyes bulged, but the injury did not kill her, nor did it cause her to drop her weapon. Instead, a feral spell fell over her that seemed to carry her generations away. Tears watered her emerald eyes and they closed. They then reopened with a renewed vengeance; an ancient hate. The cunning woman, fueling on the anger of her ancestors, sliced herself free from Marlowe's cape and made a final lunge for his heart.

This time, Marlowe let go of his dagger and knocked his attacker with both arms, bending her elbow back until her knife was pointing at her. The poet rammed into her with all his weight and shoved her own dagger into her body. The blade buried itself in her throat, severing her necklace and causing its silver pendant to fall to the crimsoned floor.

The woman let out a breathless gasp and fell backward, but Marlowe caught her. “I am sorry!” he cried. “Please tell me what's happening! Where do you come from? Why are you doing this? And … why me!”

The woman stared back at the Englishman and tried to curse him in Old Brythonic, but she had no breath left.

Desperate for answers, Marlowe pressed his fingers against her
moretta
. The openings around her eyes were not stitched, so he extracted his dagger and cut away at the leather without touching her skin. As the clouds around the two cleared, the poet cast aside the woman's veil and looked down. He was speechless. The woman in his arms was spellbindingly beautiful; a
leannán sídhe
in the flesh.

And then she became death.

As Marlowe backed away from her lifeless body, a loud cry filled the air. A raven swooped down and began circling the unmasked villainess, screaming madly.

“MARLOWE!” a voice cried.

The exhausted ex-spy turned his head. The dragoman was charging straight toward him with his sword drawn and his guards from the Fontego branding their
yatağan
blades.

Suddenly, another body fell down next to Marlowe. And then another. And another. And then they fell dead by the dozens.

The poet looked around and discovered that every single man who had been in the dance circle with him was slain. Every one of their throats had been sliced during their last
volta
, and their fallen bodies now wreathed the bonfire in a circle of death and blood. Not even the doge's nephew was spared. They were all murdered.

Except Marlowe.

The cunning ladies turned their black masks onto the last man standing. They saw that one of their sisters had fallen and that her killer was still looming above her. They realized that she had been unmasked. And lastly, they heard the raven shrieking just like so many of their sisters had warned. Prepared for this, the women hid their blades and pointed at the blood-covered poet.
“Assassino,”
they cried.
“Assassino!”

Marlowe jumped backward with his bloodied blade still in his hand. “No!” he pleaded. “This is not what it looks like!”

“Assassino!”
the women screamed, whipping their thousands of stunned spectators into a frenzy. “Killer! Murderer! Demon!”

Marlowe cowered beneath his red cap and looked to his friend. “I err'd!”

The dragoman surrounded the poet with his two guards. “We need to flee! Follow me!”

The swordsmen flashed their weapons and sprinted to the Torre dell'Orologio so that they could take the Merceria all the way back to the Fontego. However, while the panicking Venetians watching them backed away, the women assassins threw themselves against the men to deny them their escape.

“Drago! Help me!”

The masked guardian turned around and found Marlowe being pulled back by his cape. After he cut the poet free with his sword, the mob descended upon the dragoman as well.
“Assassino!”
they screamed while seething “Kill them!” in dead tongues.

But then, the unthinkable happened. Amidst the melee, one of the women managed to knock off the dragoman's face mask
and
his hat.

The spectators gasped. A large, shining
P
had been branded on the dragoman's forehead.

The guardian's eyes bulged with horror.

“Pirata!”
the mob shouted with renewed energy. Now the Venetians joined the fighting, quickly overpowering the dragoman's guards. “Pirates!” the people cried. “PIRATES!”

Out of options, the dragoman pointed his rapier into the air and pulled on its hidden trigger. A large explosion shook the piazza, forcing the frenzied crowd to back away.

“Mago!”
they shouted. “Sorcerer!
Stregone!
Magician!”

The dragoman's life was now in more danger than Marlowe's. Fortunately, this was precisely what he was aiming for. “Follow me!” he shouted, and the two men ran westward.

“Why are they trying to kill us?” Marlowe cried as they hustled toward the church of San Geminiano. When they passed the bonfire, the dragoman took a handful of playing cards from his robe and threw them into the flames. The clubs exploded in rapid bursts, forcing their Venetian pursuers to flee.

The cunning assassins, however, were undeterred by such illusions.

Once the duo reached San Geminiano, the dragoman pulled the pin from his pocket watch and lobbed it straight into the screaming killers. He pulled Marlowe behind a pillar and the bomb exploded, knocking nearly every one of the cunning folk down.

“We need to get to Cannaregio,” said the expert. “You should—”

“DRAGO!” Marlowe screamed.

The doge's guards joined the fighting by shooting two flaming arrows into the dragoman's back, bringing the guardian to his knees. As Marlowe watched his friend fall in horror, other arrows began flying in his direction as well. Terrified, the poet rushed to San Geminiano's doors and, finding them locked, threw himself through one of the church's stained-glass windows. “Drago, this way!” he pleaded.

The dragoman removed his robe to smother the flaming arrows. However, once he was back on his feet, he looked at Marlowe and shook his head. “You're on your own. Get to the
ghèto
!” he thundered. “Find—”

“Behind you!” Marlowe shouted.

The dragoman turned his head directly into a dagger belonging to one of the cunning women. Half the lady's mask had been blown off, exposing her bloodied face underneath. With her injury returned on the dragoman's eye, she raised her long knife for the kill. But then Marlowe heard a screech and looked upward. The dragoman's raven swooped down on the woman and ripped off the other half of her false face. The assassin dropped her blade and screamed madly while the dragoman staggered back onto his feet and fired the last bullet in his rapier at her chest. “Go!” he shouted over his shoulder. Marlowe nodded and disappeared into the church while the dragoman removed a tiny brass cylinder from his belt. He threw the shiny object in the air, and his raven swooped over it. The bird caught the canister in its beak and flew off, leaving the dragoman on his own against what was coming.

A multitude of Venetian soldiers descended upon him.

The tall figure threw down his sword, fell to his knees, and bent forward in prayer.

Marlowe could not see his friend once he reached the top of San Geminiano. The doge's guards were on the scene with their weapons drawn, trying to prevent the evening from escalating into an uprising. Nearly all the masked assassins were dead, and those who were not had no trouble disappearing into the evening.

Assuming the worst, Marlowe wept into the red cap his fallen friend had so recently given him. But then two flaming arrows whizzed past his face. The poet turned his head, and the manhunt resumed across the moonlit rooftops of Venice.

Far away from it all, the dragoman's lone raven carried word of the Carnevale of 1605 back to London.

The message arrived on March 1, 1604, just in time for the coming storm.

 

Intermission

 

Chapter XXV

The Cunning Wind

It took the bard more than two weeks to ride back to London on account of the fierce thunderstorms besieging Britain. Although it was neither the worst storm in a century nor the first the Isles saw of thundersnow, the tempest seemed perfectly timed to cause as much damage to the English government as possible—which it did.