Had I as many souls as there be stars, Chapter 2.1
The following day, Benedict made his own enquiries, and every one of his informers told the same story: the English spy who called himself a cloth dealer had been asking about Captain Red and his ship.
He’s persistent, I’ll grant him that, Benedict thought grimly; but perhaps he can be persuaded to dampen his curiosity.
In the early evening, Benedict took two of his sailors with him and set out to look for Marlowe. For an hour they wended their way through the cobbled streets, combing the taverns and brothels without finding the man they sought. As twilight began to gather, they arrived at a crowded drinking house called the Green Mermaid. This tavern stood in the poorer part of the town, where the houses were smaller and the streets narrower, and gutters running with muck flowed down the middle of each lane.
As soon as they saw the heavily armed Captain and his henchmen arrive, many of the customers in the Green Mermaid decided it was time to leave. Benedict scanned the thinning crowd, and spotted the man he had come looking for. He nodded at his men to stay outside.
Marlowe knew at first glance that Benedict’s arrival boded no good. He glanced about the tavern. There was only one way out, and he would have to get past Benedict and his two ruffians to get there. He decided to brazen it out.
With the slow, deadly sureness of a predator, Benedict crossed the taproom. Marlowe held his ground, and sat looking up defiantly. He felt far from comfortable as the other man advanced on him, and was glad of the table standing between them.
Benedict eyed Marlowe as a bird of prey might eye a mouse. “You’ve spent a lot of time down on the docks prowling around my ship. What did you think you were doing?”
Marlowe ignored the question. “You’re taking on more supplies than you need to cross the Channel. I’d say you were planning to take the coward’s way out and run for distant parts, abandoning your Queen and country to the invaders.”
“I sail under letters of marque from Her Majesty,” Benedict said coldly. “Of course I’m sailing for distant parts - pursuing the Spaniards.”
Marlowe smirked maliciously. “Pursuing Spaniards seems to be what you like to do best.”
Benedict’s boot connected with the edge of the table and heaved it aside, end over end. With a loud crash, it settled on the floor upside down. The few drinkers who had remained in the tavern hastily headed for the door. Benedict took a step closer to his prey and stood towering over him.
“Listen to me, you whore’s brat. Don’t presume to pry into my affairs. If you want to stay in one piece, keep away from my ship and my men. Don’t bother trying to trap them into telling you tales you can twist into accusations.”
Marlowe lounged back in his seat, feigning confidence he did not feel. “You’ve schooled your men well, Captain: they tell me you’re the Queen’s faithful servant. Others in this port tell a different tale: defrauding Her Majesty of her rightful income, associating with enemies of the Realm-”
“Do your masters know how you do your work here - bribing drunken wastrels for dockside gossip?”
“-Her Majesty’s ministers are sensitive about men’s loyalties. Loyal servants of the Queen don’t spend their time pursuing Spaniards in the bedrooms of Vlissingen.”
“You’ve spent enough time doing that yourself, you slut.”
Throwing back his head, Marlowe laughed derisively. “And when you’ve sailed away to cower in foreign waters with your tail between your legs, your Spanish Captain will be looking for other harbours to drop his anchor in. You may have pushed me out of his bed for a few days, but once you’re gone-“
In a heartbeat, Benedict seized Marlowe and slammed him against the wall, one hand holding his throat in a vice-like grip. Gasping for breath, Marlowe struggled to throw the other man off, but when he felt the prick of a blade at his neck, he stilled.
Tightening his grip on his opponent’s throat, Benedict pressed the point of the dagger more firmly against Marlowe’s skin, relishing the fear flickering in the man’s eyes. “You pestilent maggot, I should gut you - but the landlord would be displeased to have such a mess on his floor.”
“Nothing but a thug at heart,” Marlowe ground out between clenched teeth.
“Shut your mouth, you pox-ridden parasite! You will keep away from my ship and my men, and you will keep away from Captain Persimmon. Interfere in my business, and I will kill you. Insinuate yourself into Captain Persimmon’s bed again, and I will kill you. Do I make myself plain?”
Short of breath but still defiant, Marlowe retorted, “I have no need to insinuate myself. He’ll beg me to return to him.”
“If he did, I would kill you both!” With a flick of his wrist, Benedict slashed a two-inch long gash across Marlowe’s jaw, and shoved the man away from him.
Blood welled up, beading against the pale skin. Marlowe’s hand went to the wound; he hissed at the stinging pain.
“Get out of my sight,” Benedict growled.
Marlowe lurched toward the doorway and staggered out into the lane beside the tavern, where he leaned against the wall labouring to get his breath back. He groped blindly for his dagger: he would have the advantage of surprise when Benedict came out of the tavern-
Before he could finish the thought, Marlowe was struck from behind. Winded, he fell to his knees, and was set upon by the two sailors who had been waiting outside. As kicks and blows rained down on him, he gave up any attempt to fight back.
Marlowe had no idea how long he lay in the lane beside the Green Mermaid. For a while he drifted in and out of consciousness. People passing down the street in front of the tavern ignored him. A body lying in the lane was not unusual in this part of the town.
At last, he found he could sit up. His body was stiff and bruised. Blood from a cut above his left eye had formed a crusty trail across his face and neck. The cut on his jaw stung, but felt insignificant beside his other injuries. Carefully testing his limbs and ribs, he decided nothing was broken. He seemed to have all his teeth in place. His head ached, but he could still see. He staggered to his feet, and made his unsteady way across the street to a horse trough, where he tried to wash the worst of the blood off his face and out of his hair. Exhausted by the effort, he sat on the edge of the trough holding his head in his hands.
He couldn’t stay out in the street. His own rooms were some distance away - but Tyrian’s lodgings were nearby and he thought he could get there if he went slowly and carefully. It took longer than he thought it would, and by the time he got to the front door of the house he was exhausted again. He could barely raise the strength to knock on the door before he collapsed on the step, panting for breath, his head spinning.
The next thing he remembered clearly was Tyrian leaning over him, and the landlady hovering in the background.
He looked up muzzily. Tyrian’s expression was unreadable.
“What happened to you? Who did this?”
“Your English sea captain,” he mumbled bitterly. His mouth hurt; his tongue felt thick and swollen.
As Marlowe told it, Benedict had attacked him unprovoked in the tavern, and then set his thugs on him outside. Tyrian allowed himself to be sceptical: he knew very well that both men were hot tempered and neither would have any qualms about causing damage to the other. Whoever had initiated the incident, Marlowe had clearly come off worst.
“You should be careful of him, too,” Marlowe warned. “He won’t hesitate to harm you as well.”
Tyrian frowned scornfully.
“He said if he found me with you again he would kill us both,” Marlowe insisted. “He went looking for me; he’ll come looking for you too.”
Tyrian did not reply. Instead he turned to the landlady and said in a low voice, “Bring me something to clean him up, and I’ll get rid of him.”
Dismayed, Marlowe realised Tyrian was not entirely pleased to see him.
The landlady brought a bowl of water and a cloth; Tyrian sat Marlowe on the stairs to clean his wounds. The injuries all seemed superficial. He would be sore for a few days, but that was all.
“Can you walk? Are you able to get home?”
Marlowe tried to stand; the world shifted around him and his legs threatened to give way.
Tyrian cursed under his breath. “Come on, then; perhaps a few hours’ sleep will do you good.” He hauled Marlowe upright and helped him up the stairs into his bedroom.