Arthur Gregory glanced over his shoulder. The corridor was deserted, all the dormitory doors closed, as he’d expected. He hadn’t chosen this hour for nothing. Five in the morning, when the students of Corpus Christi weren’t expected at morning services until six. Gregory’s hand hovered a moment, a hair away from knocking, before he lowered it again and shook his head. Somehow, he hoped the boy would be expecting him. That he’d be watching the door, alert and waiting, having sensed Gregory’s presence from some slight noise in the corridor. If these young university wits needed warning to know someone was coming, they weren’t the sort of people Whitehall wanted, no matter how dearly Walsingham needed more men.
He entered the room without a sound.
Ah, by the devil’s fiery cock. This was worse than he’d feared.
The young man sprawled on his stomach across the bed, both arms wrapped around the pillow. He might have been dead, if not for the gentle undulation of his breathing under the blankets. One leg dangled off the mattress, his bare foot brushing the floor. At this rate, it would take the opening of the seventh seal to wake him.
He’s young and inexperienced, Walsingham had said, before he and Gregory left London for Cambridge. But the master of the college speaks highly of his potential. I think you’ll find him useful.
Gregory leaned against the closed door and scowled. Useful. If England’s universities could produce no better than this, Her Majesty should shut them down like her father had the monasteries. So much for the glorious superiority of the learned. Drunk men slept like this in half the public houses of London.
Well, he thought, make do with the useless shit the Lord provides.
Gregory coughed. The boy shifted and mumbled something but didn’t wake. A dozen sheets of crumpled paper littered the floor, cast aside in frustration sometime during the night. Gregory stooped down, picked one up, and pitched it hard at the sleeping boy’s head.
His aim was excellent.
The boy jerked upright with a gasp, the blanket fluttering down to his hips. Horror replaced confusion as he realized he sat in bed, naked to the waist, in the presence of a total stranger. He seized the blanket and yanked it back up, scanning the dim room for his clothes.
Walsingham paid Gregory well, but not nearly well enough for this.
“Good morning, Marlowe,” he said.
Marlowe located his shirt, balled up on the floor, and pulled it over his head. “What time is it?”
“Is that really the question you want answered?”
He could see the laborious process Marlowe underwent to string a thought together—not a morning person, it seemed. Marlowe combed his fingers through his hair in a doomed effort to salvage his first impression. “Who are you?” he tried again.
“Arthur Gregory,” he said. “Here at Walsingham’s request.”
This was the nudge Marlowe’s brain had needed. He rose from bed and stepped into his boots. To Gregory’s profound relief, he had slept in breeches. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Gregory turned toward the door. He could sense Marlowe’s hesitation, trying to screw up the courage to follow. If there was one thing Gregory didn’t have patience for—though truth be told there were several—it was hesitation. “Come on,” he said. “Unless you want to explain me to the rest of Cambridge when they wake.”
The boy might be a disappointment, but at least he could follow orders. With Marlowe on his heels, Gregory left the room.
God’s blood, Walsingham, he thought. I hope you know what you’re doing.