A Prisoner in Malta (11 page)

“I mean,” Lopez demanded with a fuller voice, “who is this woman and what have you done with the prisoner?”

“That woman
is
the prisoner,” Marlowe answered, as if he were explaining some holy miracle.

Lopez allowed his eyes to drift toward the tub. “No.”

“I'm afraid he's right,” the woman said languidly. “But I won't make it back to England if I don't eat something soon.”

Marlowe took two steps, grabbed the wooden bowl of food from Lopez, and strode toward the tub. The woman rose slightly out of the water and stretched out a long pale arm.

“What do we have?” She grabbed the bowl and sat back into the water. “Beef, biscuit, lentils—is that honey?”

“It is,” Lopez confirmed hesitantly. “You're—how did you—who are you?”

As if she hadn't heard Lopez, the young woman attacked her food, apparently attempting to put the entire contents of the bowl into her mouth in one gulp. Crumbs and bits of meat fell into the water, but she retrieved them and popped them into her mouth as well. The bowl was empty in seconds.

“More,” she gasped, her mouth still full.

She held out the bowl, eyes closed.

Marlowe only hesitated for a second before taking it from her and returning to Lopez.

“You heard her,” he told the doctor. “More.”

“I—yes—well.” And with that, Lopez was off.

Marlowe turned about.

“I believe we have a few things to discuss,” Marlowe said, straining to remain calm, sitting down on the bed.

“I'm really not going to talk about anything until we're back on English soil,” she answered. “I don't know who you are.”

“I'm the man who pulled you out of that stinking hole in Malta,” Marlowe responded softly. “I'm the man who killed someone to save your life. I'm the man whom Sir Francis Walsingham, the Queen's spymaster, sent to rescue you.”

She turned to look at him. “I don't remember much about the last few days.”

“Will you tell me your name?”

“Will you tell me yours?” she countered.

“I am Christopher Marlowe,” he answered immediately.

“You're Kit Marlowe?”

“What?
Kit?
Why would you call me that? My name is Christopher. And why do you say it as if you've heard the name before?”

“Because I have,” she answered simply, sinking low into the water.

“No. But, I mean—Oh, God! It just occurred to me: we've rescued the wrong man!”

“What?” she asked languidly.

“I pulled the wrong person out of that prison!” His voice sounded hollow.

The woman remained in a state of water-borne well-being. “Not from my point of view. And you should probably remember that I knew the countersign.”

“That's right. But how did you know it? Walsingham's countersign?”

“House martin? Because that's what he told me to say. It makes sense, too. You can see how he would get from Throckmorton to house martin.”

“What?” Marlowe swallowed.

“For one thing, they sound alike. But I refer to the legend that a house martin will capture a house sparrow by closing the entrance of the nest. And house martins will gather
en masse
to kill a sparrow. And the sparrow, as you surely know, was, to the Greeks, Aphrodite's kindred. Aphrodite is the queen of love, is she not?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Throckmorton's plot is an attempt to trap our Queen in her own nest, and amass an army to kill her. I have the details of his plan. If I can manage to return to England alive, the Queen will be saved.”

She glanced his way. Marlowe held his breath.

“Set your mind to rest,” she continued persuasively, if somewhat giddily. “You have plucked the proper posy.”

“This is no time for easy alliteration,” Marlowe warned her. “And how do you know to call me
Kit
?”

“It's a nickname your father gave you when you were little,” she said softly. “It was told to me so that you would believe what I say.”

“Told to you by whom?” Marlowe stammered.

“Let me revive myself,” she sighed, “and I will tell you everything. But rest assured that you have done as you were told to do. You have rescued Her Majesty's spy.”

With that she slipped further into the water until her head was entirely under.

Lopez chose that moment to return with another bowl of food. He was breathing heavily. He'd run.

After taking the briefest of moments to survey the room, holding out the bowl in his left hand, Lopez glared at Marlowe.

“Now what have you done with her?” he demanded, setting the bowl on the bed. “Where is she?”

“Under the water,” Marlowe whispered.

“What a blunder!”

“No, we—apparently we've done exactly as we were told.” Marlowe stepped closer to Lopez. “She knew the countersign. She says she has Walsingham's information, enough to hang Throckmorton and save the Queen.”

“But—” Lopez squeezed his eyes shut. “She's a woman. Not even a woman. A girl.”

Marlowe gazed at the tub. “She's a girl who withstood the tortures of the Inquisition and the hell of that prison. She may be the bravest person I have ever met.”

At that her head popped up from the surface of the steaming water and she shouted, “God in
Heaven,
is there anything better in life than a hot bath?”

Lopez nodded. “So. Brave, then, but still a girl.”

Marlowe could only stare at her profile.

“I wouldn't stay in that water any longer,” Lopez called out. “Bathing is very unhealthy.”

“Right,” she said, not looking at them, “I'm going to get out of the tub now and eat more, and drink more, so I hope that there are clothes for me somewhere.”

Marlowe took a step in her direction.

“Clothes for a man,” he said. “The informal uniform of the crew, a pair of black boots, these loose-fitting pants, and a blue shirt. Laid out on the bed, beside your next bowl of food.”

“I feel it would be better for all concerned if everyone, most especially the crew, were to continue thinking of me as a man,” she said firmly. “Agreed?”

“Most assuredly,” Lopez assented quickly.

“Then, gentlemen, if you would avert your eyes for but a moment, I shall quickly repair to my former identity: a frail boy named Richard.”

Lopez instantly turned his back. Marlowe only lowered his eyes.

The spy slowly climbed out of the tub. Marlowe did his best not to look, but his best proved none too good. While she turned to dress, Marlowe could not help but observe that this spy might, like the sparrow, also be kin to Aphrodite.

When she was dressed, her hair tied up in a kerchief, her body concealed by ill-fitting clothing, she cleared her throat.

“Quickly now,” she admonished. “We have much to discuss. I want to know what ship I'm on, how you got me out, what day and month it is—so many things.”

She sat on the bed, scooped up the bowl, and began, once more, to eat like a sailor.

Lopez and Marlowe stood as her brief tale unfolded through mouthfuls of food.

Disguised as Richard, the sickly son of a lower courtier, she gained an invitation to the Throckmorton country estate under a pretense of health. London's continuing troubles with plague enjoined many a wealthier citizen to retreat to the countryside.

Once there, “Richard” charmed the lady of the house, and the servants, sufficiently to be privy to all gossip. The gossip led to discoveries, discoveries led to schemes. Richard was returning to London with a head full of information when someone alerted Throckmorton:
Richard
was a spy.

Alone on horseback and bound for London, Richard was taken by highwaymen, drugged, shipped, and fed to the Catholic forces on Malta, the Pope's most secure prison stronghold.

“But,” an astonished Lopez gasped, “how did you survive?”

She was lying back on the bed, the empty bowl resting on her belly.

“The character I played was devised by my superiors just so,” she answered. “Already sickly, pale, and a bit dull-witted, Richard frequently babbled, passed out, pissed himself, cried, and generally acquiesced to any question long before any severe torture was proffered. I was lucky in that my inquisitor was only after information, not entertainment, as so many of those pigs are. When it became obvious to him that Richard would tell all if it were but suggested that he might be slapped, very little else was done to persuade him to give out his secrets.”

“But you didn't actually give out your secrets,” Marlowe said.

“That, also, was the brilliance of my tutors,” she admitted. “I had memorized an entire script of parallel information, some of it even true, though harmless, that I could spout under duress. It all sounded entirely plausible, and, when bits of it were verified, the inquisitor was convinced that he was teasing out the truth. But lack of food and water, and the general hellish conditions of the prison, were beginning to take a toll. If you had been delayed by two weeks, I would have been dead.”

With that she sat up, placed the bowl on the floor, and looked both men up and down.

“Yes,” she went on, speaking directly to Marlowe, “I can see why you were sent on this foolhardy mission.”

“Why would you know the reason I was sent on this mission?” Marlowe snapped.

“But”—she turned her attention to the other man—“are you not Dr. Lopez?”

Lopez did his best not to register surprise. “How on earth would you know that? Who are you?”

“Will you tell us your name, at least?” Marlowe asked, only a little more gently.

She smiled.

“You'll know soon enough, so I may as well tell you.”

She stood and held out her hand.

“Gentlemen, I am Frances Walsingham, only daughter of Sir Francis, lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth, and her finest spy. But please, for the time being, call me Richard. Oh, and by the by, thank you both for saving my life.”

 

TEN

Before Marlowe or Lopez could even comprehend what they'd just been told, let alone respond, the door to the cabin burst open and the captain of the vessel filled the doorframe.

He was a large man, all in blue. Even his beard had a slightly azure tint. His eyes were ablaze and there was a pistol in his right hand.

“Which one of you is Christopher Marlowe?” he boomed.

Before Marlowe could answer, Lopez stepped quickly to the captain, looked up at him, and murmured calmly, “Why do you ask?”

“I've just been given to understand,” the captain seethed, “that this Marlowe is wanted for murder! I'll have no such man on my ship when we're about the Queen's business.”

Marlowe reached out and took Lopez by the elbow, locking eyes with the captain.

“I am that man,” he said, “but I am no murderer. I have been falsely accused. The doctor here is my witness, and his testimony is unimpeachable, as is his character. As soon as we're back in London, he'll testify and that will be an end to it. Also, Captain, I have been about the Queen's business saving this young man, who is Lord Walsingham's prize possession at the moment. I have done more of the Queen's work in the past seven days than you have in a lifetime as a ferry boatman. So use that pistol or put it away, but I'll not desert this post.”

“I should point out that if you decide to use the pistol,” Lopez added, “it will, most assuredly, be the last thing you do in this life.”

To make his point, Lopez glanced down at the dagger in his hand. It was lodged against the captain's gut.

The captain only hesitated for an instant, but it was enough for Marlowe.

“Now,” Marlowe said reasonably, “how is it that you've come into this sordid and completely false bit of information about me?”

“What do you mean?” the captain asked, clearly muddled.

“Seeing how you feel, you wouldn't have let me on board if you'd known this information before we set sail,” Marlowe reasoned, “so I must assume that someone onboard has just told you about me. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Someone is using this ridiculous murder accusation,” Marlowe went on, “to disrupt my duties for the Queen.”

“Please lower your pistol, Captain,” Sir Walsingham's daughter entreated in a deliberately low voice. “It's a bumpy sea, and I fear an accident.”

Marlowe could not prevent a brief smile.

The captain, as if he had just remembered that there was a gun in his hand, lowered the offending weapon.

“Who told you?” Lopez insisted. “Who gave you this information?”

“New crewman,” the captain grunted. “Picked him up in Malta. Just in from Lisbon, he said. A Basque. I should have thought about this.”

“A Basque?” Marlowe snapped.

“Why did you take on a new crewman,” Lopez asked, “knowing that this was a secret mission?”

“Lost three on the voyage here,” the captain answered gravely. “Had a run-in with a warship. Brief, but it cost three lives and all the spare timber we had aboard.”

“But this mission—” Lopez began.

“Do you know anything about the Basque people?” the captain growled. “They hate the Spanish. They hate the Portuguese. They hate the French. They've been living in those mountains for thousands of years, speaking their own language, and they don't ever complain. I calls that a perfect crewman: no affiliation, don't talk, and this one's a great marksman.”

Lopez and Marlowe looked at each other.

“Argi,” they said at the same time.

“Where is he now?” Lopez demanded. “We have to speak with him.”

“On deck.”

Marlowe lowered his head. “Doctor, would you please stay with our guest? I'm going to speak to my accuser.”

The captain hesitated, but after a moment stepped aside. Marlowe stormed out.