When I drew my blade, she looked at me as if she knew it was the end. It never gets easier. Maybe I chose the wrong path in life.

When I opened her throat, she let out a cry that aimed its own blade at my heart. Her lifesblood bathed the dirt as her body staggered, then fell limp to the ground. I looked up to the heavens, gazed at the sun, and reminded myself that this was the cycle of life.

I raised her since she was born. I butchered her mother three summers ago and, God permitting, I'll butcher her babes one day as well. The preparation process is mechanical. It's my craft. I am known for my well nurtured animals, their high quality meats, and my expert cuts.

It is necessary to remind myself, while I turn an animal about which I cared -- I could even say “loved” -- into an inanimate product that this work has put a roof over my children’s heads and clothes on their back and water in their bellies. This morning I looked into the eyes of Betsy, but this afternoon I am selling meat.

The market is busy, as usual, and Betsy has fetched a fine pile of coin. I thank her silently, but mostly I try to forget her.

When I look across the market, I see Alberto Ruiz. This is the snake that has tried to poison my lands so that he can take them for himself. He's put on so many faces for the city’s elite that it's a wonder he remembers his real identity. But putting on a show to gain influence and power is nothing new. If Betsy had been asked, perhaps she would have said I should have been a politician and she could still be grazing.

Nevertheless, Alberto was as deserving of a dagger in the gut as any man I have ever met. His ruthless exploitation of the weak and powerless left me longing for justice. In truth, my financial crisis was due to the pressure I was feeling from Alberto. Had it not been for him, Betsy might still be producing milk; she might have skipped the slaughter for very long still.

As this thought passed through my mind, a shadow passed over my head. Was it a bird? No, it was too large. A cloud perhaps? No, it was too quick. A… person? No. It was too quiet. It couldn't have been…

If I had blinked or looked overhead to investigate I might have missed it. As if falling from the sky with invisible wings, a hooded man landed on the shoulders of the largest in Alberto’s entourage. Before I could get a good look at the man, he was gone again. The cloud of red that hung over Alberto grabbed my attention. Could it be?

In a flash of clarity, I realized this assassin must have been the shadow that passed moments earlier. Would he return the same way? I could only hope.

Betsy and I would both thank this hooded man. I reached for the finest cut in my inventory. I had been saving it for a high price. Salted to perfection and exquisitely tender, I did not know who would be deserving of Betsy’s best. I stepped from under my canopy and tossed the cut into the air. Like a hawk, the assassin caught it during his escape. Though heavily bearded, I saw the man’s eyes and I saw that he smiled at me. Then he was gone again.

In the moments that soon passed, only the excited crowd and officers of the crown that gathered around assured me that I had not imagined the experience. I knew he was not angel or even a saint, but I thanked God for him anyway -- the assassin who had avenged Betsy, in his own bloody way.

The True Chronicle History of the Assassin’s Guild in London, and the Tragic Murders that did take place in the Maytime of the 1500th and 93rd Year of our Lord.

Sir John Henry couldn’t sleep. Turning to and fro in his empty double bed, the knight of Gloucester couldn’t shift the nagging paranoia ebbing within him. Staring at the wooden ceiling above, the same thought forced its way into his mind over and over again. Someone had been following him. All day. And now, even in the sanctuary of his London home, he couldn’t shake off his feelings of dread. Realising that he was sweating, he sat up, and then stood. The bedsheets had been itchy anyway. Walking towards the window Sir John whispered soft prayers to himself, hoping to God that his fears were a nonsensical trick of the mind. Perhaps some cruel trick of the stars. His father had always said that those born under the stars he was were prone to unjustified fears. Looking out to the narrow street below, Sir John enjoyed the calm of the moonlight, marvelling at the spectacular glass the house had fitted. His home in Gloucester didn’t have such a luxury, he considered, smiling at what Jane would think. She probably wouldn’t be all that impressed: what good was it really to see out of your own building? Just have shutters like everyone else, she would say. How he longed to return to her and the children; to escape this foul city with its thieving denizens and knavish businessmen. It really was absurd how long this business with the earl was taking. They had said two weeks, and he had now been in London for five! The scandal of it.

  And honestly, what use was he anyway? He had nothing to do with this absurd controversy. So what if Essex was being brought into the Privy Council? That was the Queen’s prerogative, no one else’s. Sir John had thought this many times over the last few weeks, and all he could think to answer was that it was all some matter of protocol. That must be the reason, mustn’t it? That some such opposition to the Earl’s placement was required, before the inevitable decision of the Queen was made? They weren’t serious about actually opposing Essex, were they? And with these thoughts the unwanted stranger came again in his mind, making the outside streets of London bathed in moonlight suddenly less pleasant to look out upon. Was there something incriminating about the papers he was documenting? Shivering at the thought, Sir John turned away from the window and walked into the next room, hoping that a little of the fire was still kindling. Disappointingly, the small fireplace was illuminated only by the pale moonlight, failing to comfort his concerns. Rubbing his hands together, Sir John fell heavily into the chair opposite, rubbing his brow thoughtfully. Maybe if he just took a moment to breathe, allow the humours to settle, he thought. Yes that would be appropriate. It could all have just been pure coincidence anyway. The stranger he’d noticed all day that day may very well have just been travelling about similar parts of London as himself. Yes, yes that was it. It wasn’t like he’d been in shady or suspicious quarters of town. He’d been in Westminster for the most part, which was hardly a bastion of criminality, unless you counted the politicians. Chuckling at his little joke, Sir John decided that there should be no more worrying. He needed sleep to balance himself for the morrow, and sitting about plagued by phantoms would do no good. He stood up and walked back into his bedroom.

  Where a gloved hand clasped around his mouth and a something deadly sharp dug into his lower back like a poker in flame. Unable to cry out, he nonetheless muffled a scream, his teeth biting into the assailant’s hand, but to no avail. The hand only gripped tighter, forcing Sir John to breathe through his nose. Tears escaped his eyes as he mentally prayed to God for a quick conclusion to his doom. It was then that the stranger spoke, speaking with a hard, but not inarticulate voice,

  “Sir John Henry, thou hast a blade between thy ribs. Think carefully on thy next act for it might be thy last. I must speak with thee.” Taking the hint, Sir John nodded quickly. The stranger loosened his grip on his tongue, but the arm remained firm around his throat, pinning him in place between the  hand and knife. Sir John let out a breath and exclaimed,

  “Who art thou, villain, to come into my private chambers, and how didst thou?” The villain chuckled, replying with a sneer,

  “Thou dost not need fear me, Sir John, but know that I am an angel of death. As to how I entered thy lodgings? Through thine window, when thou hadst entered the next room.” Sir John was shocked by what he heard, sweat dripping from his brow at the thought that a murderer was holding him at the throat, and that he had entered his house so silently without his notice. The villain continued, “I understand thy terror Sir John, but know this. Shouldst thou cry murder, and call upon thy servants, thou shalt be slain before they arrive, and I will be gone.” Unable to look behind his shoulder, Sir John relented to his predicament, and asked,

  “I am a good Christian, sirrah. Wherefore art thou hither?” The stranger replied softly,

  “Thy Christian virtues art not in doubt, Sir John, but I requireth of thee information. I have been watching thine activities here, thy affairs in Westminster, and wish to know thy dealings.” Sir John didn’t know whether to relax or tense. He was glad that the man had not appeared with some foul vendetta against him, but at the same time he feared the treason being forced from him. Praying silently to God for forgiveness, he spoke again,   “If I shouldst do this, sirrah, wilt thou promise to leave me be, and keep thy affairs outside of mine own?” At this, the blade nudged very lightly against his back, forcing him to walk forward. Very slowly they manoeuvred around the bed, until their backs were against the wall opposite the window. Now with no door behind them, the assailant’s grip slackened and the dagger disappeared from his back. Falling to his knees in relief, Sir John whispered thanks to Christ that his attacker had released him. When he next looked up, the stranger was stood opposite him, across the bed.

  Seeing his silhouette, Sir John realised in terror that he had indeed been visited by a devil; or some kind of fiendish Fury of Hades. The figure was richly dressed, wearing a dark, close-fitting doublet with silver buttons that shone even against the moonlight, matched with dark breeches and leather boots. Adorning his thick shoulders was a waist-length black cape, and with it, a dark black hood, which fell over his eyes like a falcon’s beak, shading his bearded face. At his side was a long, needle-thin rapier, with a decorated silver guard and curled pommel shielding the grip. Around both wrists he wore moulded leather bracers, and although Sir John could have sworn he had been held against a stiletto dagger of some kind, none was to be seen upon the shadowy knave. Feeling naked in only his bedclothes Sir John cowered at the sight of the assailant as they spoke yet again,

  “I fear I cannot release thee from my schemes as of yet, Sir John. But first, let us hear thy knowledge of the Earl of Essex, the man known as Robert Devereux. My needs must of his own planning. If thou dost not tell me, thou shalt surely die.” Cowering again, Sir John replied,

  “The Earl is to be brought into the Privy Council soon. But there hast been some opposition to the posting. Other knights and myself hath been brought in to forward the proceedings, to bring about the issue’s conclusion. From what I hath seen from papers, it is one Right Honourable Robert Cecil, a member of the Privy Council, who hast led the obstruction…” the cloaked figure interrupted,

  “Any man in London could tell me this. What secrets art thou privy to?” Searching his memory of anything of use, Sir John suddenly hit upon something. In Westminster he had overheard two clerks discussing something, information clearly not for public knowledge. He spoke up,

  “Dost thou recall the statesman named Sir Francis Walsingham?” The cloaked figure started at this, and responded with suspicion,

  “Of course, the Secretary of State. He hath been dead these past three years.”

  “Yes,” Sir John continued, “but didst thou know that he was her Majesty’s master of spies? And that his daughter is now married to Essex” The stranger looked startled again, and bent towards the kneeling Sir John, stroking his chin, more curious than before,

  “We hadst not heard this. How cam’st thou this information?”

  “Secretive clerks, thinking themselves alone, whispered these words to one another within the chambers of Parliament. They told of a wedding held in secret, a wedding that the Queen herself only learned of these past three months. Twas said that Walsingham and Essex spent time together before the Secretary’s death, that Essex learned much statecraft in Sir Francis’s final years. Mayhap he was conferring secrets onto the young Earl, informing him of matters of spying and such? Forsooth I ignored much of this discussion as it twas nothing to do with me, and much knowledge in Parliament is better left unheard; but now I see the intrigue’s relevance, at least to someone like thee.”

  The cloaked man mulled over this new knowledge, then agreed,

  “Yes, tis of interest,” the knave confirmed, “We didst not know of this bond ‘tween Essex and the Secretary. I shalt needs think on it. Thou hast been of much help to us, Sir John; know that my masters and I will remember thy usefulness.” Sir John breathed a sigh of relief,

  “I am free of thy charge, then?” he asked. The cloaked man frowned at this, and turned towards the window,

  “I fear not, Sir John. Thou still hath a part to play in this, and in time we may need thy services again, as an informant within the lower levels of government.”

  “But I am but a lowly knight!” cried Sir John, forcing the hooded man to turn towards him and hush him for quiet. He spoke again, in a muted but persistent tone, “I am meant for Gloucester days from now.” The hooded man interrupted again,

  “We know this, but we also know that promotion is due thee soon, to a clerk’s position in the Star Chamber of Westminster. Take this as information traded” Sir John was struck silent by this shocking surprise, feeling caged like a baited bear, constantly hit with advancing dogs. Eventually he was able to splutter out,

  “How? Wherefore?” Smiling at Sir John’s bemusement, the stranger answered,

  “We have people within the government, Sir John. Men in places of influence, but not great enough ears. Their faces art too well known. And after an unfortunate mishap, we need someone in a secretarial position, someone who can read papers of office and hear parliamentary rumour and talk. Thou art new to this city. Thou shalt not be suspected. Thou can help us.” Sir John mustered his courage to question the mocking figure,

  “And what, pray, was this mishap, that befell thy last informant?”

  “Plague, Sir John,” the hooded man replied humourlessly, “And I wouldst recommend thou cleanse thyself more regularly while in the city. The humours are unbalanced here.” Defiant, Sir John stood up,

  “And if I shouldst refuse this position? Of spy and agent of misery?” The hooded man straightened up, standing an imposing foot higher than Sir John. Placing his hand on his sword hilt, he growled with malicious honesty,

  “Thou lov’st thy wife and children, dost thou not?”

  Fresh sweat dripped from Sir John’s already sweated brow, as he whispered a timid, “Yes.”

  “If thou lov’st them, then thou shalt do as we command. Welcome to the Brotherhood, Sir John. We hope thou shalt be of great assistance to our cause.” Sir John fell to his knees again, defeated, arms and head slumped into the bed. The hooded man turned to the window again, but Sir John mustered up the strength to ask one last thing,

  “Who art thou, sirrah?” As he opened the window, the hooded figure half-turned around, and quietly responded,

  “We are the angels of death. We are they that work in the dark, to protect the light. Farewell, Sir John.”

  When Sir John next looked up, the hooded man was gone, but the window was still open. It was not all a horrid nightmare, he thought, walking around the bed to the window. Looking out into the early morning mist, Sir John wondered at the strange, demonic being he had just encountered. He wondered if perhaps he should call for his servants, and tell them of this phantom, but then he remembered his children. No, he thought. Let things lie as they are, and await this promotion the man had spoken of. This alone was all he could do now. After closing the window, Sir John collapsed onto his bed, exhausted, falling into an immediate deep and troubled sleep.

  Outside, crouched upon the central wooden beam of Sir John’s house, was the hooded man. His name was Richard Grey, though few actually knew this. If people did know of him, they knew him only as the Black Angel, a notorious murderer identified only as a ghostly silhouette in the event of tragedy. He was rather proud of the name. It confirmed his abilities as a master of his craft, and he took pride in the career. Sat there, with the starry sky of the Heavens above, and the misty cloud of north London below, he considered the new information he had gathered. Everyone knew about the Earl of Essex of course. He was one of the most popular men in the country: the young, handsome soldier, favourite of the Queen and infamous for his misbehaviour. But this news of his connection with Walsingham was concerning. Walsingham was a Templar of course, one of the sworn enemies of the Assassin’s Order. Together the organisations had fought a feud for control of humanity’s destiny that had lasted centuries, defined by the two groups’ opposing ideologies. The Assassins demanded personal liberty, while the Templars demanded autocracy. Neither was ever going to find a common ground with beliefs like that. Frustratingly in England, the Assassins were losing the battle. For far too long the Brotherhood leaders had been lazy, growing fat from the riches of the Order, and caring more for their own hedonism than their duty. It was because of them that there was now such a lapse in the gathering of vital information (like Essex’s marriage to Walsingham’s daughter, Richard thought bitterly). He had decided that even to see these old fools was to despise them and hate them. So over the last three years he had created his own splinter group, both outside, and a part, of the Assassin’s Brotherhood; leading the real fight against the Templar’s control of the nation. But it had been a difficult struggle rebuilding the organisation from the ground up, with much of the information gathering done by himself alone, as had been done this night. Still, he had gathered enough followers now, with a network of informants and assassins ever expanding, so he hoped to someday run the useless Brotherhood leaders into the sea and that his new Order could save England from the Templar’s tyranny. He could only hope that they hadn’t dug their claws into England’s body politic too much during the Assassin’s negligence. Richard sighed, thinking about how much better things were in the Mediterranean. They had real Assassins there.

  Surveying the connected, triangular buildings around him, he looked south-east towards his next destination. Briskly sliding down the tiled roof towards the edge viewing the street, he grabbed the roof opposite and swung his body around onto the wall, pulling himself up the wooden beam supporting it and the roof above him. Finding a foothold on the lintel of the window below, he balanced himself on top of it, then looked down to see another wooden beam under the windowsill. Swiftly and silently like a cat, he allowed himself to fall onto the next beam, now positioned looking through the glass window, but thankfully there was no candle lit inside. Looking down, he could see that he was above the jetty; the second storey overhanging the ground floor. Making sure that there was no one about on the street, he turned his body around on the wooden frame and leapt off, landing solidly feet-first as a bird does onto the wooden planks below (the streets being covered with supported planks to avoid the muck and refuse below). Now firmly on the ground, he lowered his hood, revealing his handsome, though slightly pockmarked face and curly brown hair. Because of his combed beard and trimmed moustache, he looked older than he was, though he was only in his mid-twenties. Sometimes it was necessary to cross London via rooftop, to avoid guards and witnesses during missions, but on nights like this, it was always better to just walk as a regular man. The traditional assassin’s hood brought too much suspicion in a city where hats and wigs were the norm, and the white hood of the Assassins was an even worse idea in a country where very few men wore white, so he’d had to settle for black, and wore it only nocturnally. Like all modern men, you had to move with the times. He began a direct walk towards the river Thames, to finally rest after a long day of shadowing Sir John.

  Amidst the Deptford Dockyards on the southern side of the river stood a lone public house, surrounded by the huge shipwrights and constant activity of the shipyards and dry-docks. The three-storey building, impressive with its double tiered jetty construction and black and white wood panelling, was known as the Old Earl’s Inn: the most popular of lodgings for its sleeping quarters and services of food and drink. Although it was far from the chaos of London, outside of the city walls and jurisdiction; the inn was always busy, frequented by merchants, shipbuilders and supervisors. But unbeknownst to the general clientele, the inn served a secret purpose, its third floor acting as a secret safe house for Richard Grey’s Assassin’s Guild. The inn was run by Eleanor Bull, a respectable but sharp-tongued widow whose husband had been slain by the Templars three years before. Since then, she had agreed to work alongside Grey in his quest to eradicate the Templars in London, believing as he did that her husband’s death would never have occurred if not for the previous Assassin Brotherhood’s incompetence. In her forties, she had a wily and controlled appearance: wearing her hair short and tied in a bun under a white gable hood, a dark blue, square-necked kirtle dress and an apron to match the hood. Men often joked that she ran a tighter ship than any of the shipwrights, but in her mind she knew that this was no joke. Few could be trusted in the building, especially any who thought they could slip upstairs for a quick look-around. Every servant and cook who worked at the inn was a trusted member of the Order, each one acting as her eyes and ears. At the moment though, things were quiet. Most of the residents had gone to bed, and now it was just herself and two trusted Assassins, one of whom had had a rough few weeks, so she had decided that they should all have a quiet drink to help him forget his troubles. They sat at the central table of the room, between the front door of the building and the bar opposite, next to the hallway door leading to the stairs. A large fireplace lay adjacent to the corridor, and candles flickered in the night time darkness. Sadly, for Eleanor Bull, the drink she had suggested had now lasted four hours, the time moving ever further past midnight. As her increasingly bleary eyes attested, once Christopher Marlowe had started talking, he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon.

  “And then the bastards wouldst not even see me! Canst thou believe it?” Marlowe cried, now on his fifth goblet of sherris sack, “The nerve of these people!”

  With his round face red from drink and self-pity and his long parted bronze hair in a mess, Marlowe was a state to behold, standing once again, drink in hand and daring a fight against the world. Alongside him sat his old university friend, Robert Poley, who at this stage was surprisingly sober. Poley was a fellow Assassin who had worked as a double agent under Sir Francis Walsingham, gathering valuable information about the English Templars at a time when the organisation had been falling apart. For his part, he sat there grimly, watching his old friend. Eleanor sat on the chair next to him, falling asleep. Marlowe continued,

  “Kyd is the problem! The fool got himself caught, and now I am punished for his folly! A plague! A plague on him!” Poley, in defence of Thomas Kyd, another Assassin who had recently been arrested and tortured by government agents (leading to Marlowe’s own arrest and questioning) shouted back,

  “Thou is unkind, Kit!” (“Kit” being the nickname Marlowe’s friends addressed him with), “It is not Thomas’s fault that he was captured. It surprised us all when the arrests occurred! We all hadst little time to prepare!” Kit spat, irritated by the logic of Poley’s words,

  “He shouldst not hath had Order papers in his own lodgings. That’s what this damned sanctuary is for! The stupidity of actually keeping a copy of the Creed. Forsooth it wouldst be mistaken for blasphemy by base imbeciles! He shouldst hath memorised it, like I did!”

  “We canst all hath memories like thyself, Kit. Thou art a poet, a player of words!”

  “And so is he, confound it!” though still in a drunken rage, Kit was correct in this, as both Kyd and he were playwrights by profession, famous for their plays put on at the theatres in Southwark. Poley stood up and put his arm around Kit’s shoulder. Surprisingly, Kit calmed down a little, and allowed himself to be reseated. As they sat down, Poley reasoned,

  “But he didst not have thine schooling, Kit. Unlike us he didst not study Latin and Greek.” Kit sighed, and downed another drink of sack,

  “Tis true, I suppose. Bonum est iniurias oblivisci. But while I may forget, I cannot forgive. The fool actually named names.” Poley continued his defence,

  “He was set upon the rack, Kit. All men will speak after such torment.” Kit looked at his goblet, and mumbled to himself,   “Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib’d in one self place, for where we are is Hell. And where Hell is there must we ever be. He shames our order with his petty weakness and endangers us all!”

  “Think not on it, Kit. Yea, these last days hath been harsh. The privy council hath been a nuisance and thou hath been almost imprisoned in the gaol. But thou art free now, and they shouldst hopefully now leave thee alone. There are men in government we can rely on.” Poley thought for a moment, then exclaimed, “Wherefore dost thou not think on thy plays instead? There must be some new work thou art working on.” But Kit only looked more miserable,

  “Oh, don’t remind me, Robert. These last months hath been an inferno for both poets and Assassins. The theatres are closed for plague, and the company are gadding about the country somewhere, probably butchering my works without my presence, with me left alone here to be accosted by spies and yeomanry.”

  His further rants were cut short by the now stirring Eleanor Bull, who had dozed off during their heated discussion. Raising her head from the table where she’d been resting, she stretched her arms and said,

  “Oh zounds, i’faith! Hadn’t realised I’d fallen under Morpheus’s wing. Is it the morrow, good gentlemen?” Kit shook his head and answered,

  “Nay, good Mistress. Glorious Phoebus is yet to present himself.” Eleanor relaxed at this, and stood up, saying,

  “Very well. I shall make for my bed, then. Hath thou both settled thy disputes?” This time Poley spoke in reply,   “Of course, sweet gentle-lady. Soon we shall be off to rest ourselves.” Eleanor relaxed and said,

  “I am glad to hear of it. Tis never good to stay up all the night, despite what Master Richard seems to think. Has the Master arrived back as of yet?” Kit chuckled,

  “Forsooth he has not deigned to present himself. Thou knoweth his habits. Thou may find him already asleep in bed, having climbed through yonder window.” Eleanor frowned knowingly,

  “Yea, good sir, I really wish he would stop doing that. I shall endeavour to check his quarters before I sleep. Oh, and please make sure to lock the front doors,” as both nodded, she smiled, “Well then, I bid thee both good night, honest gentlemen.”

  Kissing her hand and bidding her goodbye, Kit said, “Adieu, good Eleanor. Thou art forever too good for such vagabonds as ourselves.” Looking at him with a sarcastic smile, Eleanor turned her eyes towards Poley,

  “Make sure he behaves himself, Robert. Kit hath had far too much this eve, and thou knowest how he is in such a temperament.”

  “Of course good madame.” And with that final bidding, Eleanor stumbled into the hallway and walked up the stairs to her quarters, the sound of her feet against the wooden floor the only noise in the house. Kit and Poley sat there quietly contemplating. Once Eleanor’s door shut, Kit yawned. Standing up he said,

  “Well, Robert. It hath been a long Maytime eve, but now I must too, bid thee adieu, and find some rest for the morrow. The Muses tell me today is not the end of my troubles.” But before he could make it to the hallway door, Poley called to him, saying,

  “Canst thou help me with the door beforehand? Thou knowest how heavy these mischievous bolts are.” Kit looked at him with a look of ironic disdain, mocking his friend’s apparent weakness, but relented with a smile,

  “Of course, old friend. The damned things can stick sometimes,” looking over at the two metal bolts against the front door, he continued, “Why the good Mrs Bull spent so much money on them rather than just using an old wooden plank is anyone’s guess.”

  But as Kit found his way to the door, staggering about against a few tables and chairs in his slightly unbalanced state, Poley backed away from the door. Kit turned around and looked at him questioningly, but before he could remark on Poley’s strange behaviour, the door suddenly slammed open, hitting him with such force that he was knocked to the ground like a felled bird.

  Sprawled heavily on the drink-splattered wooden floor, Kit managed to turn his head round to see a group of cloaked, hooded men march into the room. By the time he had slowly crawled back up onto his feet, there were seven new men gathered around the room. Kit’s vision was blurred, shocked by the impact of the door, to the point that he could barely focus. Leaning against the table, he saw the man between him and the front door remove his hood. Though dazed, Kit recognised the man immediately, slurring his words as he shouted,

  “Ingram Frizer? W-what art thou doing hither?”

  Smiling a crooked and malevolent grin, the red fire glowing in his eyes, Frizer pulled out from his coat pocket a necklace, and dangled it before Kit. At the end of its chain hung a simple metal cross, glinting in the red light, its edges broadening out at the perimeters. It was clear to Kit that this was a Templar cross, an item he had hoped never to see within the sanctuary’s walls.

  Though still winded, Kit quickly straightened himself, and spread his arms outwards, hidden blades sliding out from his arms like a cat’s claws. Pointing the sleek straight-edged talons towards the enemy encircling him, he bared his teeth he spat,

  “Thou shouldst hath come alone, Templar dog. Thou would hath saved thy companions their lives.” But infuriatingly, the men responded to his threat with laughter, each drawing daggers out from under their cloaks. Putting away the cross, Ingram Frizer drew his long stick-thin rapier and held it before him, just feet away from Kit. Kit turned angrily towards Poley, who was standing sullen in the corner of the room, and shouted,

  “Art thou going to let them insult me like this? Help me send them to the depths of Tartarus, brother!” But Poley only backed away further, and when he finally looked up, Kit immediately understood the truth. Eyes widened with drink and hatred, Kit screamed at the world, “Thou treacherous coward! We have worked so hard, sacrificed so much, and thou wouldst still betray us? Thou art the worst of them all! Thou hast ta’en thy soul and cast it in with the devils. Dost thou not realise that the reward of sin is death, thou spineless cur!”

  And with that insult, Kit rushed towards his old companion in a blinded tumble of rage, wrists raised above his chest, blades aimed towards Poley’s throat. But Kit, head swimming and body stumbling, was no match for the sober-headed and determined traitor. Side-stepping to the left of of his old friend, Poley knocked his arms down with his own, then pushed the Assassin back with the entire length of his right arm, spinning Kit backwards towards the circle of Templars. Winded and struggling for breath, Kit turned to confront the traitor again, but Poley was already stood before him. With two hidden blades of his own, Poley stabbed Kit in the chest and gut, holding the blades in place for a moment. Staring into Christopher Marlowe’s shocked, tear-wetted eyes, he whispered both menacingly and morosely,  

       “Where we are is hell, Kit. And where hell is, there must thou ever be.”

  As tears dripped from Kit’s eyes hearing his own words spun against him, Poley tore the hidden blades from Kit’s body, slashing them across his flesh so that the blood splashed forth from the Assassin’s exposed body onto both himself and those around him. Unable to breathe, Kit’s face took on a look of contorted terror, eyes widened and mouth agape, his arm jerking towards his gut as if to close it, while the other searched sporadically for a handhold for balance. Within moments red blood began to gasp out from his open mouth, bloodying his trimmed beard and nose and cutting off his breathing completely. Just as he was about to topple to the floor, a hooded Templar grabbed his shoulder, spun him round to face him, and forced his own dagger into Kit’s gut.

  And with this second strike a brutal and ritualistic assault on Kit’s body began, as each Templar stepped forward to thrust their knife into the Assassin, forcing him to stand like a grim, cadaverous marionette as they held him firmly rooted to the spot. Blood oozed into the wooden floorboards and Kit’s eyes began to dim, the agonising pain of each blow steadily replaced by a strange sense of unfeeling, as though he was no longer a part of his own mutilated body. In those final moments, Kit wondered that perhaps there was a God after all, and hoped that He would be merciful to this self-destructive, atheistic sinner.

  In one last grand gesture to end the unholy ceremony, Ingram Frizer stepped forward with his razor-thin sword. With two Templars holding Kit in place to face the man he had once known only for being a notorious conman, Frizer raised his sword to Kit’s throat, where he leisurely and with surgeon-like precision inserted the blade into Kit’s gullet. Smiling his devilish grin, he quietly but firmly uttered three words to the dying Kit,

  “Essex’s regards, Assassin.” Cruelly yanking the sword out of Kit’s throat like a needle out of yarn Ingram laughed as a thin spray of blood gushed out of the playwright’s neck. Closing his eyes, Kit at last allowed death to take him, falling to the floor with a woeful, heavy thud. Blood streamed from his mouth and neck as his one last, final breath escaped him.

  Wiping the blood from his blade with a handkerchief, Ingram turned towards Robert Poley. With an eloquent and controlled speech he proclaimed,

  “Thou art to be congratulated, Master Robert. Finding this new Assassin sanctuary would hath been nigh impossible without thy assistance,” holding out a heavy clinking pouch, he wryly smirked, “Here is thy reward.” Taking it solemnly, Poley looked down at the pool of blood they stood in, then at the already clotting body of Kit, clothes in tatters and face slumped against the scarlet floor. Tying the pouch to his belt, his voice noticeably welled up as he mumbled,

  “I hath done as thou directed. Now may I leave?” Ingram grinned, his teeth bared like a mad dog, and curtly professed,

  “Not just yet, Master Robert. There is still work to be done, although thou art not required for this next undertaking.” Poley looked again at Kit’s body on the floor and glimpsed his own hands  before it, covered in Kit’s blood. Biting his lip and glancing at the fireplace, he focussed on the dying flames. Now ignoring Poley, Ingram gathered his men together and declared, “Thou all know thy orders. Find and kill Richard Grey. If he is not yet here we shall wait on him, but I want to make sure that there is not one Assassin left in this building. Understood?” The seven Templars nodded affirmatively with enthusiasm, and began their search of the inn.

  But unbeknownst to the Templars, was that the walls had eyes. For behind the wall by the fireplace was a small crawlspace that connected to a series of tunnels, ladders and trapdoors between the walls and under the floorboards of the building, designed specifically for such emergency events. For the young servant girl Eliza Barton had been woken up by the noisy stamping of boots downstairs. Dressed only in her nightgown and carrying nothing but a lone candle for light in the dark corridor, she had initially walked towards the stairs to make sure Kit hadn’t started another violent fight, or possibly passed out and collapsed on the floor. But by the time she had arrived at the top of the stairs, she heard the drawing of swords down below, and gauged that something far more sinister was occurring. Eleanor Bull had vetted her servants well, for Eliza, understanding the importance of caution, silently tiptoed away from the stairs towards a concealed waist-high door across the corridor. Quietly opening it by pushing the exact pressure points on the corner to allow her entrance, Eliza watched in fascination as the strange invisible door opened into a dark crawlspace. Within was a ladder leading downstairs to the behind-the-wall passage, which led to an escape route within the shipwright company opposite the inn. Gripping the candle close to her face, she creakingly clambered down the wooden ladder, and painfully turned her body around at the bottom so she could crouch into the crawlspace. She was a relatively thin girl, and small for someone sixteen years of age, but even then it was difficult manoeuvring her body in the claustrophobic tunnel. But once inside, she was able to quickly crawl towards the bar room. It was cold and draughty, her candle abruptly extinguished by the deep maw of the tunnel ahead, leaving Eliza in total darkness. Swallowing to calm her fears in this cold Tartarus, Eliza knew that if she didn’t do this, everyone in the house could be in danger. Richard Grey had always lectured everyone on the importance of caution and suspicion, to make sure always to fear the unexpected. Though this was the first time she’d had to rely on his advice, she was glad of it now, especially when she realised what was happening by the fireplace.

  Painfully forcing her head down to look through two tiny floor level holes in the wall, Eliza witnessed the Templars set upon the surrounded Marlowe, with Poley stood to the side. She almost screamed when she saw Kit’s blood-soiled body, but knowing they’d find her if she did, she forced her mouth shut. Refusing to watch anymore, she tremblingly backed away from the murder scene, and agonisingly crawled backwards towards the ladder. By the time she had manoeuvred once again to begin her climb up, tears had now completely daubed her soft, innocent face. She had always liked Kit. Though she had only known him for a short time, she had always enjoyed his charismatic and eloquent ways. He had always been polite to her, even in his drunken episodes, and had always told her fantastic stories, both of legends and goings on at the playhouse (a place her mother had always forbid her from entering). She couldn’t accept that he was dead. But she also knew that if she didn’t warn the rest of the household, other friends would perish.

  By the time she was back in the upstairs corridor, the Templars had begun to move. Terrified for her own life, Eliza scampered down the corridor towards the doors adjacent to the staircase, the first being into Eleanor Bull’s room. No longer caring about whether she had been heard or not, she burst through the door and ran over to Eleanor’s bed. Eleanor lay there snoring and completely oblivious. Conscious of the men below she shook the widow and cried,

  “Murder! Ms Bull, murder!” At this sudden noise and commotion Eleanor instantly awoke, confused and bewildered by this sudden hysterics. She snapped at Eliza,

  “Foolish girl. Tis but a dream thou hast had I’m sure…” but Eliza yelled back at her with complete seriousness,

  “No, ’twas not a dream! Kit’s been murdered down below, and now men are coming up the stairs as we speak!” Before Eleanor could contest her claim again, Eliza dragged the widow out of her bed with all the strength she could muster and pulled her arm towards the door, causing the older woman to collapse onto the floor. Having known Eliza to be a generally untroubled and unassuming girl, Eleanor inferred from this sudden mad behaviour that something must indeed be wrong. Her fears were confirmed when she saw, through the open door, the light of a torch moving steadily up the stairwell like the sun at dawn. Briskly picking herself up, she pulled the girl away from the corridor and whispered with command,

  “Not that way. There’s a secret cubby hole behind my bed. Follow me.” Pulling the girl around the bed and crouching at the secret door, she hoped that the initial darkness of the room would protect them for a time. As the escape route gradually opened, the noise of the trudging, marching footsteps increased.

  “But what of the other residents?” asked Eliza, terrified that she was now experiencing one of the horrendous murders akin to the crimes Marlowe would speak of. Eleanor looked at her sadly and responded with,

  “There’s no way to get to them now. We have to pray to God that they too heard the noises below, and can find their own escape, or mayhap fight their way out. Now get in, get in!” Fresh tears rolling down her cheeks, Eliza crawled into the tunnel and stared once again into the dark Plutonian mouth. Once Eleanor had crawled in behind her and closed the door shut; the two women were plunged into absolute blackness, imprisoning them in a totally Godless world. Scared, Eliza asked where the passage led, with Eleanor replying that the tunnels, designed by both herself and her husband (Heaven bless him) led past the other guest rooms and servant’s quarters to several forks which each led to different rooms and corridors about the inn, spanning the entire building and connecting to further exits and escape routes. This specific one led directly to an entrance into the Assassin’s Sanctuary on the third floor. Hearing this as they crawled through, Eliza thought upon an idea. If these passages connected all throughout the house, then there was a chance that they could alarm everyone to the invaders’ presence. She would be inaudible if she spoke, but what if…? As the two women rapidly scurried through the tunnel in a now almost total silence, Eliza suddenly screamed as loud and high as she could, creating a terrifying banshee shriek that echoed around the passageway and throughout the entire building’s catacombs.

  The silence broken completely without warning, Eleanor almost screamed herself, so shocked by this new ungodly noise, that she thought there indeed some foul spirit now haunting her inn. Only once she had recollected her senses did she identify the source of the scream, yelling at the still screaming Eliza to quiet, “What art thou doing? They will find us!” but Eliza couldn’t hear her, quickly shuffling through the tunnel and screaming as she went. As the screams bounced and reverberated around the walls, Eleanor heard yells and cries and the clambering of bare feet on wooden floorboards in the rooms they passed. Realising what it was Eliza was doing, she could have kissed the clever girl. The others may not escape with their lives, but at least they now had a chance not to be cruelly slain in their beds.

  Eliza stopped screaming once they reached the end of the tunnel, which ended with a ladder into the Assassin’s Sanctuary above. She was disappointed that there wasn’t a way down into the street, or under the street, but at least they were safer than being in the rooms or hallways. Once at the top of the ladder she could see the hinges of the trapdoor, which she forcefully began to push as much as she could. But before she had even tried at a second push, the trapdoor unexpectedly flew open, flipping noisily onto the floor opposite. Raising her head, Eliza shrieked as a sword instantly appeared before her eyes. Ducking her head like a rabbit digging swiftly into its burrow, she knew that she was now trapped between the sword above and Eleanor below, sealing her doom with utter cruelty. Shutting her eyes and whispering final prayers to herself, she couldn’t believe that she had made it this far only to be murdered so monstrously, praying to God that there would be little pain. But no blow came. Still bowing her head with her eyes shut, she could hear Eleanor now complaining at her to get a move on. Looking up, she saw that the sword had been replaced with a hand, patiently offering assistance out of the hatch. Gratefully accepting it, she stood in awe at the tall, imposing figure of Richard Grey himself, dressed in his fine black and hooded garments. Though he smiled at her, she could see the grim feeling in his eyes, mixed with concern and a terrifying hint of fury. Once Eleanor had also climbed out, Richard spoke,

  “The nightwatchman is dead. Slain with a bolt to the neck. Someone must have told them his position.  Dost thou know anything?” Eliza nodded quickly and breathlessly. She answered,  

“Twas Poley. I saw him with the Templars. They hath killed Kit!” Before Richard could respond to this grave news, Eleanor butted in,

  “Eliza hath done what she could in saving myself and maybe others, but others still shall surely die if thou dost not help them! We can mourn Marlowe later. But now is a time of action!”

  Fired by his anger at the morbid news, and agreeing with the woman’s speech, Richard nodded to both her and Eliza and affirmed commandingly,

  “Eliza, sound the bells. We must make use of any means necessary to protect the people in this house, even if it should expose this sanctuary to the authorities. A massacre would destroy us. Mrs Bull, destroy any and all documents pertaining to the Order in here. There is knowledge within this place that could have us all hanged, even if we do survive the night. Now, I shall deal with the vermin.” Eleanor nodded, and pushed him towards the exit of the sanctuary, shouting to, “Go! Go!”

  Lightly but rapidly stepping down the hidden stairs that led from the sanctuary to the inn, Richard positioned himself behind the hidden door leading into the second floor corridor to gauge the activity beyond. The building was now a pandemonium of noise, with shouts and heavy movements crashing through the night. The sounds of metal on metal clashed behind the door, but there was no way of knowing where friend or foe were. He would have to risk a blind attack. Throwing the door open, he flashed out his hidden blades and raised them to throat level, cape sweeping as the Angel of Death in all his dark glory seemingly appeared out of no where.

  The effect of this nightmarish gesture was not lost on the solitary Templar in the corridor, who, just having turned around from slaying a combative young man in his bedclothes, now stared ashen faced at this towering demon punisher that had somehow materialised out of the moonlight. Shaking in terror, his last acts in life before the Black Angel forced two blades into the centre of his throat, was to drop his sword, and relieve himself. Slashing the blades through the sides of the Templar’s neck, Richard watched the headless body crumple to the floor like a turret-less tower, and spat in disgust. To think that this was the kind of man the Templars used. No one had came to help their fallen colleague, so after glancing expeditiously into the different rooms throughout the corridor, Richard decided to move on. Looking sadly at the corpse of the slain young man, cut down by this worthless coward, Richard whispered both to them and himself,

“I’m sorry I could not save thee.” Striding towards the stairs with new determination, Richard promised that there would be no more failures. As he descended towards the tumultuous chaos below, the bells began to ring.

  Ingram Frizer frowned. Things were not turning out as he had hoped. While Marlowe was dead, the massacre wasn’t going the simple operation he had hoped it would be. The terrifying scream had spooked everyone, sounding around the walls as though the inn itself were crying out in pain. And of course that had woken up a good deal of the residents, when before the stealth of the mission had been encouraged. Swords clashed upstairs, and for all he knew his men were being slaughtered up there. None of them were particularly worthy fighters. Just local imbeciles he had either blackmailed into working for him or local thugs he’d hired out. For some, murdering Christopher Marlowe didn’t take all that much convincing. Standing alone in the room with Poley still staring at the fire, Ingram was tempted to remove the traitor’s head. The idiot had clearly failed to tell them everything about the damned place, with the men now completely exposed to any amount of Assassin trickery. Poley had just sat there after Marlowe’s murder, reacting only to the ungodly scream which seemed only to upset him all the more. Making a decision, Ingram raised his sword to swing at Poley’s bowed head when the unwelcomely loud noise of the bells began to ring. Terrified by this horrible new surprise, Ingram screamed at the traitor who was now rising from the chair,

  “What is this?! What’s going on?!”

  “The warning bells,” Poley announced, “The yeomanry will be here soon…” Ingram cursed in mad frustration,

  “Imbecile! This was supposed to be a raid, not a shipwreck! Ugh!” Spitting into the fireplace, Ingram began marching towards the exit. By the time the yeomanry arrived, he would not be there. But just as his hand was at the door, a Templar dagger slammed without warning into the wooden wall right beside his head, a gurgled scream heard behind him. Looking back, Ingram saw one of his men standing at the hallway door in a strange, dazed position, one of his legs slightly lopsided. Within seconds, thick, red blood began to stream out of his mouth. Within seconds, the man’s body collapsed heavily to the floor, another Templar dagger firmly protruding in the back of his neck. Behind him stood a black-cloaked figure, richly adorned in a grey and black simar robe and tunic, with a thick hawk-shaped black hood covering the top half of his trim-bearded face. His hands dripped crimson. Walking into the room, the air now silenced with Poley and Ingram opposite, the grim-faced Black Angel positioned himself. Hidden blades sliding out of their slots with lightning-speed, the Angel spoke in a harsh, angered growl,

  “Thy men are dead, Templar. Thou hath lost this night. Make peace with thy God, if thou still believ’st in Him.” But to both Poley and Richard’s surprise, Ingram laughed back in mocking defiance, spitting out his words,

  “Twas hardly a failure! Thy companion is dead, and thy sanctuary compromised. This shall not be the last thou seest of us, Assassin!” hissing the final word like an insult. Sensing that the Templar was up to something he could not know, Richard drew his sword, and cautiously approached the opposing figure, very aware that Ingram did not raise his own sword to defend himself. But just as Richard was close enough to strike, the Templar raised a small, shining object towards his face. Richard saw that it was some kind of crucifix when his vision unexpectedly began to blur. Startled, he swung his sword at the the Templar, but his movements now felt sluggish, as though his arm were encased in iron. Stumbling forwards, he saw Ingram’s scorning grin declare something, though he was sure he could not hear any words said vocally. It was as though they entered into his mind through a satanic force,

  “We have God on our side, Assassin. Know that the power of the Ancients is with us.” With these final words, a piercing, painful light cut into Richard’s brain, disorientating his thoughts and forcing him to grasp at his scalp in agony. Aware of his own vulnerability, he attempted lashing forward with his hidden blades, but there was now nothing around him. Nothing but a painful, excruciating white. Collapsing to the floor, breathless and empty, Richard felt a a cruel, new sense of loneliness invade his thoughts, driving him into despair. Now blind and unfeeling, he struggled to assemble any coherent thoughts. He wished for death, anything to end the pain when…

  Everything abruptly rushed back. He was lying on the wooden floor in a foetal position, his head clear of the nightmare he had just experienced. Blood coated his body, seeping into the floorboards. For a terrifying few seconds, Richard thought he had indeed been mortally wounded, but he quietly saw the bleeding body of Marlowe beside him, and understood that he himself was unharmed. Quietly standing up, Richard looked around for the Templar. But he and Poley had disappeared. Questions raced through Richard’s mind: What had just happened? How had they escaped? What was that black magic Ingram had used? And more concerningly, why hadn’t they killed him there and then, when there had been plenty of chances to do so? If the yeomanry had not arrived at that very moment, bursting through the door with swords and crossbows in hand, Richard may have attempted to give chase to the Templars. But as he was now standing over two corpses with both himself and the room covered in blood, hidden blades bared against his wrists and looking exactly how the Black Angel was reported to look like, he understood that neither negotiation nor investigation were worthy pursuits at this time.

  As he ran through the back door of the Old Earl’s Inn and into the early light of the London dockyards, yeoman guard charging headlong behind him, Richard couldn’t help thinking back to that crucifix the Templar had used, and those last words he had spoken. What did it all mean?"