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Later that evening, I took a candle out by the Thames and read Kit’s play about the corruptible King Edward the Second. From the play’s first lines, I could not stop reading. The words were outstanding and would fall from any actor’s lips with ease. I saw how Kit wanted to write something to match the success of the Poet’s Richard III, but also do something more—something far more daring and dangerous.

The play unashamedly told of King Edward’s love for Gaveston, his beautiful and cunning friend, who caused the King to stray so far from his royal duties. For the first time, I was reading very thinly veiled descriptions of love between two men, the sort I recognized as my own sinful longings. To realize one of the kings of England had invited the love of Sodom and that the greatest poet in England was writing it filled me with elation. For the first time I felt a sense of admiration for a fellow who shared my secret. Of course, the Gaveston character Kit wanted me to play was near a devil in his conniving sway over the king. But still King Edward, in the play’s conclusion, is treated kindly. He is not hated for his passion for a man—merely for his allowing his kingdom to fall into disrepair.

I instantly saw the play’s brilliance but feared it would be impossible to perform before an audience.

Two days later I received a letter asking me to meet Marlowe in his lodgings on Hog Lane in Norton Folgate. His apartments, which he shared with two other young men named Thomas—one being the playwright Thomas Kyd. The other was just some Cambridge friend. The Thomases were not present when Kit answered the door.

“How now!” he greeted me. “Come, come!” He pulled me into his entry way, looking somewhat skittish. As upon our first meeting, he smelled of drink again and his clothes were in disarray, but this time he also had a fresh black eye.

“What happened?” I asked, concerned for him.

“Oh, nothing, nothing. Just some lads having a time.”

He led me into his drawing room, which was in a shambles from whatever previous night’s revels held, and sat me on the divan. The room itself was decorated with deep red curtains like some of the bordellos I had seen. Every surface seemed to include old, partially finished glasses of drink, some on their side, spilt. There was an odd assortment of trinkets on the tables and mantels, including scandalous French porcelain figurines of half-naked satyrs. The walls were hung with Italian paintings of young men bathing, small Clouet portraits of effeminate-looking royals, and at least three paintings of Marlowe himself with that mischievous grin on his handsome face—in one, he appeared to be dressed as the god Dionysius.

Kit removed some books and rumpled clothing from a chair and begged me sit. As I gazed about the room, I held his play reverently in my lap as if it might burst into flames at any moment. I wanted to simultaneously relieve myself of the sinful pages and never let them go.

“Well?” he asked. “Did you read it?”

I nodded. “It’s brilliant.”

“I know.” He smirked.

“But if we were to put it on the stage, I fear we’d be sent to the Tower on the spot.” I’d heard once of another play that was deemed unfit by the Privy Council and the writer sentenced to a year in prison.

Kit brushed his hand in the air, as if my concern had the gravitas of a gnat. “He should have received two years for his substandard choice of verbs. My play, on the contrary, is pure genius.”

“I know, but—”

“Can’t you see how you will shine as Gaveston? The audience will want someone as pretty as you to be virtuous, but they will perceive your evil—utterly befuddled like the king. A toast!” He raised up one of the many half-finished glasses of port lying about the room. “To my brilliance!” He then realized I didn’t have anything to drink. “Let me find you a clean glass—if there are any. Port? Madeira?”

“No thank you,” I said. “In truth, I worry you’ll never get a license. Will had to rewrite Richard III several times before it was approved.”

“Yes, well, that’s Will’s way. He’ll tie himself in knots to please the Crown, even if it means lying and smearing the reputation of a decent king in the process.”

“Decent?” I said, aghast. “But King Richard murdered those boys!”

“Yes,” he acquiesced. “But he was also a decent ruler in his brief time as king. Will never deals with complexities of character. He’ll twist history in the most deceitful—and pandering—way.”

I shook my head in both disbelief and disappointment.

Seeing my reaction, Kit added, “I’m not saying we all don’t have to adjust our stories somewhat with today’s Church politics, but you need to face facts—your beloved Will shall never go down as a martyr for the sake of preserving history.”

I wanted to argue with him, but I couldn’t. All that I knew of England’s history I had learned from performing in the Poet’s plays. To think that they were untrue, that I was somehow complicit in the lies, bothered me greatly. I looked at Kit’s pages still in my hand and asked, “But you believe the Master of the Revels will approve your play, when you portray the king and Gaveston as …” I couldn’t even say it.

Kit stood from his chair and sat next to me on the divan. “You mean this? What we are?”

With the windows wide open, he looked into my eyes, took my hand, and pressed it to his lips. I shivered at his shamelessness and pulled my hand from him. It was not that I didn’t like the kiss, but how different I would have felt if it had been the Poet who had kissed my hand thusly.

“People will see,” I said, moving away from him.

“Let them,” he said. “And no need to worry about anyone going to the Tower—I know how to write in a way that will confuse the ignorant into thinking it’s all a condemnation of buggery. The wise will understand my true meaning. Besides all that, the Master of the Revels is a friend. He and I have an understanding.” He moved closer until our thighs were touching and took my hand. “What do you say, Hughes?” he whispered. “Be my Gaveston? You will be known all over London, and all will adore you … as I do.”

Bees of danger and excitement buzzed in my chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can—”

He suddenly pulled me to him and passionately pressed his lips to mine. There was something about this famous man not caring that anyone outside our window might see which filled me with a careless bravery. While I knew I did not love him, nor he me, I allowed myself to be kissed, merely to feel what it was like not to hide for once.

“Please do my play, Willy,” Kit whispered. “I promise, no harm will come to you. You’ll just be an actor portraying an historical character. But inside here”—he took my hand and placed it over my own heart—“you’ll know you’re finally showing the world that we exist.”