Fic: Had I as many souls as there be stars
I've been working on this story for a long time - writing a draft, putting it away, rewriting it, getting someone to look at it, reworking it... Finally, it's done. I hope you enjoy reading it.
It's a Tyrian and Benedict story. Diverges wildly from canon - in this story, they have an ongoing relationship. (Don't we all want them to?) The third major character in this is Kit Marlowe, the English playwright. There's plenty of historical evidence to suggest Marlowe worked for the secret service before being killed at a young age. If he'd lived a longer life, he would have made a much larger impression on the English theatre than he did - and he certainly left a significant mark as it was. An extraordinary man. I've done him a disservice in this story - he's come out of it as a much less likeable character than I'd hoped. I guess Benedict brings out the worst in him.
Livejournal keeps telling me to make my posts smaller, so I've had to cut this up into shortish chunks. Please forgive the long chain of posts it will take to get this published.
Huge gratitude to the people who've helped me with this: Cassie Ingaben, who liked the story and encouraged me to keep the swashbuckling tone, and Anne-Li, who has been a strict critic and generous encourager. And Vix, for a final read-through with fresh eyes.
HAD I AS MANY SOULS AS THERE BE STARS
Part One: 1588 - Vlissingen, a seaport in the Netherlands
~ In 1588, the seaport of Vlissingen was a town looking over its shoulder. Encircled by the Spanish Netherlands, Vlissingen was occupied and governed by the English, a concession won for Elizabeth I in the Treaty of Nonsuch in return for supporting the Dutch rebels against Spanish rule. The port had strategic military importance, and the town provided a useful listening post on the continent. As the threat of war between England and Spain intensified, agents of Her Majesty’s secret service travelled to and from Vlissingen gathering intelligence to aid in the defence of the Realm. ~
Kit Marlowe had come to think that life in Vlissingen was dull beyond measure. Idling in a dockside tavern, lingering over a late breakfast of ale and herring, he watched the town going about its business. Spain and England stood ready to attack each other, and yet here in this odd outpost of English influence on the edge of the Spanish empire, life carried on much as usual.
When Sir Francis Walsingham had recruited him to work for the Queen’s secret service, he’d seized the offer wholeheartedly. Excitement, intrigue, and money had seemed an attractive offer, and the chance to get away from the University from time to time made a welcome break for a Divinity student who didn’t particularly believe in the Divine.
The money had certainly been welcome. Knowing that he didn’t have to live within the constraints of his scholarship made life bearable. The expected excitement and intrigue, however, were sometimes more elusive.
He’d lived in Vlissingen on and off for the last two years. Nominally, he was a cloth trader, buying textiles and shipping them off to England. His real purpose in the Low Countries was to keep his eyes and ears open for news that could be passed back to England of Catholic plots and Spanish politicking. He would stay in Vlissingen for weeks at a time, and then go back to England, to his College, to placate his tutors and mend the gaps in his study. He knew he was out of favour with most of the University fellows for neglecting his studies, but Walsingham had assured him it would be all right: he would be given his Master of Arts degree in due course.
Listlessly, Marlowe picked at his food, watching the dockside parade pass by. Seaports were full of travellers from all corners of the world. What they knew and what they saw - what they were willing to whisper into the ear of a comely young man like Marlowe - could sometimes be valuable. Much of what he had heard lately was useless. Flattery and lies from the lips of know-nothings who wanted to talk their way into his bed.
He was to return to England in three weeks. If he returned without information he would be out of favour with Walsingham as well as with his University.
He hardly bothered to glance up when a rowdy group of sailors came in. A new ship must have arrived in the harbour. Swaggering and laughing, the sailors were joking with the serving girl in a patchwork of accents from half a dozen lands. Amongst them, there was an English accent.
Idly, Marlowe turned to see whose voice it was. The English accent belonged to a lad of about sixteen. He had grey eyes and dark blond hair, and he moved with a coltish grace that would disappear as he got older. Marlowe looked at him speculatively. He had been feeling lethargic all morning; he could do with something to stir up his senses without having to work too hard. The boy looked fairly clean. Prettier than Marlowe would have preferred - he liked more masculine fare - but attractive enough, and probably not as innocent as he looked.
Marlowe caught his eye and smiled.
“Join me?” he invited, speaking English, and gesturing at the empty bench across from his place at the table.
The lad hesitated only long enough to survey the room and conclude that Marlowe looked more harmless than most of the other patrons. He sat down opposite. Marlowe signalled to the pot-boy.
“You’re English?” he asked.
A nod.
“So am I. I’m called Kit Marlowe,” he said, smiling easily. “I’m a cloth trader. And your name is…?”
“Nicholas Jade.”
The pot-boy arrived at their table, setting down tankards of ale. Marlowe held out a handful of coins without looking at him.
“Where has your ship come from?”
“From-”
“Nicholas!” The boy jumped when he heard his name called out across the room. He looked around, wide eyed. Marlowe looked up too, displeased at the interruption.
A commanding figure stood in the doorway: tall and broad shouldered, with strong, handsome features. The man was dressed in dark clothes of expensive cut, wearing a plumed hat that must have cost a pretty penny. The hilt of his sword gleamed. His eyes glinted more brightly still - green as emeralds.
“Nicholas - you’re wanted back on the ship.”
“Yes, Captain!” Standing up hastily, the lad barely glanced at Marlowe as he headed for the door. The tall man - the Captain, Nicholas had called him - walked over and sat down at Marlowe’s table.
“My cabin boy is young and impressionable,” the man said. “It’s best if he’s protected from licentious company.”
“I should take offence at that,” Marlowe remarked mildly.
They regarded each other for a few moments: curious, evaluating.
“So, will you take offence?” The ghost of a smile passed across the Captain’s face. “Nicholas is too bland a dish for you. I think you need more of a challenge.”
Before Marlowe could speak, one of the sailors approached, and addressed the Captain in Spanish. A rapid exchange followed in that language, and the sailor left the tavern. Tuning his ear to the conversations on the other side of the room, Marlowe realised that the sailors were all speaking in the Spanish language. He understood little of what they were saying, but he recognised Spanish when he heard it. And yet, the Captain had spoken English like an Englishman, with an accent that suggested a prosperous upbringing and a good education.
“I thought you were English,” Marlowe said, his curiosity piqued.
“Did you?” The Captain lifted the pot of ale that had been put on the table for Nicholas, and drank. “Ships and seaports are populated by wanderers. You should never be surprised by the origins of men on ships.” He drained the ale and stood up. “I have business in the town. Come with me if you like - I could do with some company.”
Marlowe was aware that he should be looking to his duties and seeking information, not pleasure. But he was tired of Vlissingen, tired of being at Walsingham’s beck and call, and this handsome arrogant stranger stirred his blood. He followed the Captain out of the tavern.
Two weeks later, on a clear cold morning, a ship approached Vlissingen sailing under the English flag.
The Captain of the Prometheus stood on the bridge, surveying the harbour through his telescope. Fishing vessels, coastal traders, merchantmen - and at the far end of the harbour, a sleek warship. The Captain smiled. He would recognise that ship anywhere by its silhouette alone. El Halcon. One Spanish ship - that particular Spanish ship - would pose no danger. He gave the order to put in to harbour.
The Prometheus docked that afternoon. She sat low in the water, heavy with a precious cargo destined for England. The crew went ashore seeking food, drink, and a taste of ease and comfort. The Captain went ashore seeking information.
Captain Tyrian Persimmon had taken a room in a quiet street, away from the harbour and the town square lined with taverns. He had paid the landlady extra to ensure that his peace and quiet would not be disturbed. His instructions were clear: she was to let no-one in that he did not bring there himself. The only person he brought there was Marlowe.
That evening, as they retired to his chamber after supper, they heard raised voices at the foot of the stairs. The landlady sounded flustered. “I’m sorry, sir, but Captain Persimmon does not wish to see anyone!”
“He will see me.” An Englishman. Confident.
“Sir, I beg of you!” Her voice was shriller, panicking. “The Captain does not wish to be disturbed!”
Boots on the stairs. The door-latch being lifted.
Marlowe, still half-dressed, sat up hastily as the door opened.
Captain Benedict Red leaned against the doorpost, gazing disdainfully at the scene before him.
“Well, now, what have we here? Captain, you seem to have chosen beneath you. An English cloth dealer? That is what you claim to be, is it not, Master Marlowe?”
A vitriolic retort rose to Marlowe’s lips, but Tyrian silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.
“You should be more wary, Captain,” Benedict continued. “This cloth dealer is an agent of the English Crown. Have no doubt: your business will have been well-reported. You’re getting careless, Tyrian, taking a spy into your bed.”
Marlowe bristled. He was not keen to have his dual identity discussed - he hadn’t told Tyrian what his real purpose was in Vlissingen, and he certainly didn’t want it to become common knowledge. How did this newcomer know who he was? Marlowe didn’t recognise him, but his familiar manner suggested that he knew Tyrian Persimmon well. His manner also suggested there would be no getting rid of him.
To Hell with this.
Marlowe stood up, shaking Tyrian’s hand off his shoulder, and picked up his shirt.
“I will take my leave,” he said pettishly. “I may see you in the town in the next few days.” Pulling his shirt on, he shouldered his way past Benedict, whose mouth twitched with snide amusement.
Standing against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, Tyrian glared. “If you’ve frightened off my pretty cloth merchant, I shall be most annoyed.”
Benedict snorted scornfully. “I doubt that I’m fearsome enough to frighten him away from you altogether, much as I would like to. Should I be jealous?”
“He’s of no importance,” Tyrian said dismissively.
“Important enough to take to your bed.”
“A whim.”
“A whim that you have indulged many times these past weeks, if my information is correct.”
Tyrian pushed away from the wall and advanced slowly on Benedict. “What do you want, Pirate?”
“Your company. Now that your pretty cloth merchant has left to nurse his resentment, perhaps you’re in need of other diversion.” Benedict flopped onto the bed, his boots up on the covers. Tyrian glowered. Benedict smirked, and made no move to shift his feet.
“I should have my gunners open fire on your ship, Pirate,” snarled Tyrian.
“And send all that hard-won Spanish gold to the bottom?” Benedict seemed amused. “Firing on a ship in port is not advisable, Captain. It might be seen as an act of war.”
Glaring angrily, Tyrian knelt on the bed, his knees astride Benedict’s hips. He resisted the urge to slap the Englishman, to wipe that mocking smile off his face. Instead, he tangled his hands in Benedict’s hair, and kissed him hard. With a soft, throaty growl, Benedict pulled Tyrian down onto the bed next to him. Their tongues twined.
Surfacing from their kiss, Tyrian asked, “How do you know who Master Marlowe is?”
“I like to keep well informed,” Benedict replied coolly. “The ports along this coast are full of spies from every country in the world. It would be foolish of me to disregard the fact, in my profession. I like to know who they are.” He cast an appraising glance at Tyrian. “You knew he was a spy.”
“Of course. But he’s bored with the life here, and easily persuaded to court danger.”
“That’s what you like about him, then - his taste for danger.” Benedict rolled over, pinning Tyrian to the mattress. “You have an appetite for danger equal to none.”
“That’s why I like you,” growled Tyrian. “You’re dangerous.”
He seized a handful of Benedict’s golden curls and pulled him over onto his back. Without letting go of the hair, he began to unfasten Benedict’s clothing. Benedict joined in the endeavour, and soon the two were naked, grappling with bruising intensity. Each struggled for dominance, strength pitted against agility, neither willing to concede control to the other. At last, Tyrian thrust a knee between Benedict’s thighs, shoving them apart roughly, as the Englishman snarled and writhed underneath him. Their joining was fast and savage, Tyrian’s black silken hair swinging around his shoulders as he thrust ferociously into Benedict’s tight heat.
Afterward, the two lay still and silent for some time, sated.
Tyrian stirred first, pushing himself up onto one elbow. “Why are you here in Vlissingen?”
“Seeking you.”
“The truth, Pirate. Why?”
Benedict turned onto his side. “I’m here to provision my ship. Then we sail to England, where we’ll be relieved of our cargo. The English Crown is hungry for gold. War preparations cost money. Spanish gold to pay for a war against Spain: there’s a symmetry about it, don’t you think?”
“The corruption of the English knows no bounds,” Tyrian sneered.
Benedict sat up, suddenly serious. “Tyrian, war is coming to England, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. I know the Spanish are poised to invade. When we’ve unloaded our spoils, we sail west. Come with us - follow us. The Channel is still open. Follow me to the Caribbean. Let Spain and England have their war.”
“Run from battle?” Tyrian snorted. “Where’s the valour in that? I will sail with the Armada - for Spain’s glory and my own.”
“Always glory! When the Prometheus engages the enemy, we do so for a better purpose: gold. War disrupts commerce, Tyrian. We’re going where the prospects are better. When England and Spain have finished brawling, we’ll return with our holds full.”
He stretched lazily, lamplight gilding his body. Tyrian watched him with lust-darkened eyes. Delicately, he brushed the Englishman’s tangled hair away from his face. With callused hands, he smoothed his lover’s sun-browned shoulders. Benedict wrapped his arms around Tyrian, pulling him close.
This time, they were more gentle with each other.
It's a Tyrian and Benedict story. Diverges wildly from canon - in this story, they have an ongoing relationship. (Don't we all want them to?) The third major character in this is Kit Marlowe, the English playwright. There's plenty of historical evidence to suggest Marlowe worked for the secret service before being killed at a young age. If he'd lived a longer life, he would have made a much larger impression on the English theatre than he did - and he certainly left a significant mark as it was. An extraordinary man. I've done him a disservice in this story - he's come out of it as a much less likeable character than I'd hoped. I guess Benedict brings out the worst in him.
Livejournal keeps telling me to make my posts smaller, so I've had to cut this up into shortish chunks. Please forgive the long chain of posts it will take to get this published.
Huge gratitude to the people who've helped me with this: Cassie Ingaben, who liked the story and encouraged me to keep the swashbuckling tone, and Anne-Li, who has been a strict critic and generous encourager. And Vix, for a final read-through with fresh eyes.
HAD I AS MANY SOULS AS THERE BE STARS
Part One: 1588 - Vlissingen, a seaport in the Netherlands
~ In 1588, the seaport of Vlissingen was a town looking over its shoulder. Encircled by the Spanish Netherlands, Vlissingen was occupied and governed by the English, a concession won for Elizabeth I in the Treaty of Nonsuch in return for supporting the Dutch rebels against Spanish rule. The port had strategic military importance, and the town provided a useful listening post on the continent. As the threat of war between England and Spain intensified, agents of Her Majesty’s secret service travelled to and from Vlissingen gathering intelligence to aid in the defence of the Realm. ~
Kit Marlowe had come to think that life in Vlissingen was dull beyond measure. Idling in a dockside tavern, lingering over a late breakfast of ale and herring, he watched the town going about its business. Spain and England stood ready to attack each other, and yet here in this odd outpost of English influence on the edge of the Spanish empire, life carried on much as usual.
When Sir Francis Walsingham had recruited him to work for the Queen’s secret service, he’d seized the offer wholeheartedly. Excitement, intrigue, and money had seemed an attractive offer, and the chance to get away from the University from time to time made a welcome break for a Divinity student who didn’t particularly believe in the Divine.
The money had certainly been welcome. Knowing that he didn’t have to live within the constraints of his scholarship made life bearable. The expected excitement and intrigue, however, were sometimes more elusive.
He’d lived in Vlissingen on and off for the last two years. Nominally, he was a cloth trader, buying textiles and shipping them off to England. His real purpose in the Low Countries was to keep his eyes and ears open for news that could be passed back to England of Catholic plots and Spanish politicking. He would stay in Vlissingen for weeks at a time, and then go back to England, to his College, to placate his tutors and mend the gaps in his study. He knew he was out of favour with most of the University fellows for neglecting his studies, but Walsingham had assured him it would be all right: he would be given his Master of Arts degree in due course.
Listlessly, Marlowe picked at his food, watching the dockside parade pass by. Seaports were full of travellers from all corners of the world. What they knew and what they saw - what they were willing to whisper into the ear of a comely young man like Marlowe - could sometimes be valuable. Much of what he had heard lately was useless. Flattery and lies from the lips of know-nothings who wanted to talk their way into his bed.
He was to return to England in three weeks. If he returned without information he would be out of favour with Walsingham as well as with his University.
He hardly bothered to glance up when a rowdy group of sailors came in. A new ship must have arrived in the harbour. Swaggering and laughing, the sailors were joking with the serving girl in a patchwork of accents from half a dozen lands. Amongst them, there was an English accent.
Idly, Marlowe turned to see whose voice it was. The English accent belonged to a lad of about sixteen. He had grey eyes and dark blond hair, and he moved with a coltish grace that would disappear as he got older. Marlowe looked at him speculatively. He had been feeling lethargic all morning; he could do with something to stir up his senses without having to work too hard. The boy looked fairly clean. Prettier than Marlowe would have preferred - he liked more masculine fare - but attractive enough, and probably not as innocent as he looked.
Marlowe caught his eye and smiled.
“Join me?” he invited, speaking English, and gesturing at the empty bench across from his place at the table.
The lad hesitated only long enough to survey the room and conclude that Marlowe looked more harmless than most of the other patrons. He sat down opposite. Marlowe signalled to the pot-boy.
“You’re English?” he asked.
A nod.
“So am I. I’m called Kit Marlowe,” he said, smiling easily. “I’m a cloth trader. And your name is…?”
“Nicholas Jade.”
The pot-boy arrived at their table, setting down tankards of ale. Marlowe held out a handful of coins without looking at him.
“Where has your ship come from?”
“From-”
“Nicholas!” The boy jumped when he heard his name called out across the room. He looked around, wide eyed. Marlowe looked up too, displeased at the interruption.
A commanding figure stood in the doorway: tall and broad shouldered, with strong, handsome features. The man was dressed in dark clothes of expensive cut, wearing a plumed hat that must have cost a pretty penny. The hilt of his sword gleamed. His eyes glinted more brightly still - green as emeralds.
“Nicholas - you’re wanted back on the ship.”
“Yes, Captain!” Standing up hastily, the lad barely glanced at Marlowe as he headed for the door. The tall man - the Captain, Nicholas had called him - walked over and sat down at Marlowe’s table.
“My cabin boy is young and impressionable,” the man said. “It’s best if he’s protected from licentious company.”
“I should take offence at that,” Marlowe remarked mildly.
They regarded each other for a few moments: curious, evaluating.
“So, will you take offence?” The ghost of a smile passed across the Captain’s face. “Nicholas is too bland a dish for you. I think you need more of a challenge.”
Before Marlowe could speak, one of the sailors approached, and addressed the Captain in Spanish. A rapid exchange followed in that language, and the sailor left the tavern. Tuning his ear to the conversations on the other side of the room, Marlowe realised that the sailors were all speaking in the Spanish language. He understood little of what they were saying, but he recognised Spanish when he heard it. And yet, the Captain had spoken English like an Englishman, with an accent that suggested a prosperous upbringing and a good education.
“I thought you were English,” Marlowe said, his curiosity piqued.
“Did you?” The Captain lifted the pot of ale that had been put on the table for Nicholas, and drank. “Ships and seaports are populated by wanderers. You should never be surprised by the origins of men on ships.” He drained the ale and stood up. “I have business in the town. Come with me if you like - I could do with some company.”
Marlowe was aware that he should be looking to his duties and seeking information, not pleasure. But he was tired of Vlissingen, tired of being at Walsingham’s beck and call, and this handsome arrogant stranger stirred his blood. He followed the Captain out of the tavern.
Two weeks later, on a clear cold morning, a ship approached Vlissingen sailing under the English flag.
The Captain of the Prometheus stood on the bridge, surveying the harbour through his telescope. Fishing vessels, coastal traders, merchantmen - and at the far end of the harbour, a sleek warship. The Captain smiled. He would recognise that ship anywhere by its silhouette alone. El Halcon. One Spanish ship - that particular Spanish ship - would pose no danger. He gave the order to put in to harbour.
The Prometheus docked that afternoon. She sat low in the water, heavy with a precious cargo destined for England. The crew went ashore seeking food, drink, and a taste of ease and comfort. The Captain went ashore seeking information.
Captain Tyrian Persimmon had taken a room in a quiet street, away from the harbour and the town square lined with taverns. He had paid the landlady extra to ensure that his peace and quiet would not be disturbed. His instructions were clear: she was to let no-one in that he did not bring there himself. The only person he brought there was Marlowe.
That evening, as they retired to his chamber after supper, they heard raised voices at the foot of the stairs. The landlady sounded flustered. “I’m sorry, sir, but Captain Persimmon does not wish to see anyone!”
“He will see me.” An Englishman. Confident.
“Sir, I beg of you!” Her voice was shriller, panicking. “The Captain does not wish to be disturbed!”
Boots on the stairs. The door-latch being lifted.
Marlowe, still half-dressed, sat up hastily as the door opened.
Captain Benedict Red leaned against the doorpost, gazing disdainfully at the scene before him.
“Well, now, what have we here? Captain, you seem to have chosen beneath you. An English cloth dealer? That is what you claim to be, is it not, Master Marlowe?”
A vitriolic retort rose to Marlowe’s lips, but Tyrian silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.
“You should be more wary, Captain,” Benedict continued. “This cloth dealer is an agent of the English Crown. Have no doubt: your business will have been well-reported. You’re getting careless, Tyrian, taking a spy into your bed.”
Marlowe bristled. He was not keen to have his dual identity discussed - he hadn’t told Tyrian what his real purpose was in Vlissingen, and he certainly didn’t want it to become common knowledge. How did this newcomer know who he was? Marlowe didn’t recognise him, but his familiar manner suggested that he knew Tyrian Persimmon well. His manner also suggested there would be no getting rid of him.
To Hell with this.
Marlowe stood up, shaking Tyrian’s hand off his shoulder, and picked up his shirt.
“I will take my leave,” he said pettishly. “I may see you in the town in the next few days.” Pulling his shirt on, he shouldered his way past Benedict, whose mouth twitched with snide amusement.
Standing against the far wall, his arms crossed over his chest, Tyrian glared. “If you’ve frightened off my pretty cloth merchant, I shall be most annoyed.”
Benedict snorted scornfully. “I doubt that I’m fearsome enough to frighten him away from you altogether, much as I would like to. Should I be jealous?”
“He’s of no importance,” Tyrian said dismissively.
“Important enough to take to your bed.”
“A whim.”
“A whim that you have indulged many times these past weeks, if my information is correct.”
Tyrian pushed away from the wall and advanced slowly on Benedict. “What do you want, Pirate?”
“Your company. Now that your pretty cloth merchant has left to nurse his resentment, perhaps you’re in need of other diversion.” Benedict flopped onto the bed, his boots up on the covers. Tyrian glowered. Benedict smirked, and made no move to shift his feet.
“I should have my gunners open fire on your ship, Pirate,” snarled Tyrian.
“And send all that hard-won Spanish gold to the bottom?” Benedict seemed amused. “Firing on a ship in port is not advisable, Captain. It might be seen as an act of war.”
Glaring angrily, Tyrian knelt on the bed, his knees astride Benedict’s hips. He resisted the urge to slap the Englishman, to wipe that mocking smile off his face. Instead, he tangled his hands in Benedict’s hair, and kissed him hard. With a soft, throaty growl, Benedict pulled Tyrian down onto the bed next to him. Their tongues twined.
Surfacing from their kiss, Tyrian asked, “How do you know who Master Marlowe is?”
“I like to keep well informed,” Benedict replied coolly. “The ports along this coast are full of spies from every country in the world. It would be foolish of me to disregard the fact, in my profession. I like to know who they are.” He cast an appraising glance at Tyrian. “You knew he was a spy.”
“Of course. But he’s bored with the life here, and easily persuaded to court danger.”
“That’s what you like about him, then - his taste for danger.” Benedict rolled over, pinning Tyrian to the mattress. “You have an appetite for danger equal to none.”
“That’s why I like you,” growled Tyrian. “You’re dangerous.”
He seized a handful of Benedict’s golden curls and pulled him over onto his back. Without letting go of the hair, he began to unfasten Benedict’s clothing. Benedict joined in the endeavour, and soon the two were naked, grappling with bruising intensity. Each struggled for dominance, strength pitted against agility, neither willing to concede control to the other. At last, Tyrian thrust a knee between Benedict’s thighs, shoving them apart roughly, as the Englishman snarled and writhed underneath him. Their joining was fast and savage, Tyrian’s black silken hair swinging around his shoulders as he thrust ferociously into Benedict’s tight heat.
Afterward, the two lay still and silent for some time, sated.
Tyrian stirred first, pushing himself up onto one elbow. “Why are you here in Vlissingen?”
“Seeking you.”
“The truth, Pirate. Why?”
Benedict turned onto his side. “I’m here to provision my ship. Then we sail to England, where we’ll be relieved of our cargo. The English Crown is hungry for gold. War preparations cost money. Spanish gold to pay for a war against Spain: there’s a symmetry about it, don’t you think?”
“The corruption of the English knows no bounds,” Tyrian sneered.
Benedict sat up, suddenly serious. “Tyrian, war is coming to England, as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow. I know the Spanish are poised to invade. When we’ve unloaded our spoils, we sail west. Come with us - follow us. The Channel is still open. Follow me to the Caribbean. Let Spain and England have their war.”
“Run from battle?” Tyrian snorted. “Where’s the valour in that? I will sail with the Armada - for Spain’s glory and my own.”
“Always glory! When the Prometheus engages the enemy, we do so for a better purpose: gold. War disrupts commerce, Tyrian. We’re going where the prospects are better. When England and Spain have finished brawling, we’ll return with our holds full.”
He stretched lazily, lamplight gilding his body. Tyrian watched him with lust-darkened eyes. Delicately, he brushed the Englishman’s tangled hair away from his face. With callused hands, he smoothed his lover’s sun-browned shoulders. Benedict wrapped his arms around Tyrian, pulling him close.
This time, they were more gentle with each other.