Excerpt from A Prisoner in Malta by Phillip DePoy, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

ONE

1583, CAMBRIDGE
Christopher Marlowe stared at the newly mown lawn, and the tower of St. Benet's Church reaching sweetly toward God in morning's light. In the old graveyard, roses were blooming, even though March was cold. The tower was the oldest building in Cambridge, and Marlowe did his best to appreciate the ethos of grandeur and nobility. But the beauty of the day overtook him, and all his thoughts were light. He was nineteen, standing in Cambridge, about to go to class. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. A boot-maker's son was a rarity at any college.

Everywhere students rushed; professors glided in stately manner. The grass, greener than a linnet's wing, collected sunlight against the advent of late frost: "nature's rarest alchemy, the golden bell of heaven's fire."

All in black, Marlowe was nearly invisible in the shade, though his smile was brighter than sunlight. He wore his hair deliberately shorter than the fashion; it was a great source of aggravation for his tutors. Most of that ire was obviated by the fact that Marlowe's mind was the best in his class. His bright demeanor had endeared him to most of his fellow students as well; his eyes existed only to beguile.

Suddenly those eyes were distracted by the flair of a familiar crimson cloak.

"Doctor," Marlowe called out, stepping into the light to greet his old friend.

But just at that moment a voice behind him shouted, "Whore-son!" It was followed by the sound of running footsteps.

Marlowe spun around, and there was Walter Pygott, dagger in hand, face red with ignorant rage. Marlowe had been expecting this encounter for weeks. Pygott had battered or threatened nearly everyone else in the new class at Cambridge, and was widely regarded as a grotesque waste of skin. Worst of all, he behaved with impunity because his father had donated money to restore a window in St. Benet's Church. This had been done not by a doting parent, but by a man who sought to rid himself of his son's revolting company.

Unable to achieve any other sort of notoriety, Pygott quickly turned to picking fights and insulting his fellows. Easily seventeen stone, the bully used his weight more than his wits in every skirmish. He was a ridiculous figure in his ill-fitting green tunic and bright red codpiece, hair slicked down with butter.

"Christopher Marlowe," Pygott sneered, "I've been looking for you, you contemptuous base-born callet!"

"Callet?" Marlowe turned only slightly toward the cur.

Pygott planted his feet. "You heard me."

Marlowe smiled.

"The Scots use the word callet to mean a prostitute," Marlowe explained. "I will tell you plainly: that is not true of me. I never accept money for my favors—though I often deserve it. If, on the other hand, you meant the original French definition—that I am a frivolous person—I will assure you that I am among the more serious persons you will ever meet. Keep your dagger pointed at me and find that out. Or you could ask my friend, the man in the red cape just to your right. Am I correct in saying that I am a serious person, Dr. Lopez?"

"Hello, Chris." Lopez shoved back his cape and smiled.

Lopez had come from the street beyond the library. Black hair, dressed in red, he did not look old enough to be a royal physician, though he was nearly twice Chris's age.

"Dr. Lopez?" Pygott jeered, recognizing the famous name. "The Portuguese Jew bastard what made poisons for Robert Dudley?"

"You've read a pamphlet on the subject," Marlowe said disdainfully. "Surprising. Wouldn't have taken you for a reader."

"That pamphlet?" Lopez added. "Pure libel, I assure you. I was entirely exonerated of any wrongdoing."

Without warning Pygott jumped, crashing into Marlowe with the dull force of a falling boulder. It took Marlowe by surprise, and both men tumbled to the ground. Rolling, Marlowe kicked, but Pygott came out on top, and put his dagger in Marlowe's face.

Excerpted from A Prisoner in Malta by Phillip DePoy. Copyright © 2016 by Phillip DePoy. Excerpted by permission of Minotaur Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.