A Prisoner in Malta (19 page)

“I'm afraid he's right, Kit,” Frances said. “This is all a tangled knot. We ought to follow one thread at a time.”

“I can't agree,” Marlowe said firmly. “All of these events, Pygott's murder, the death of Lopez, the information you gleaned at the Throckmorton estate—it's all one. It's all of a piece.”

“It's all of a knot, she said,” Frizer insisted, “and she's got it right.”

Marlowe took a step closer to Frizer. “What, exactly, did she get right?”

An uneasy silence filled the air, but try as he might, Marlowe could not discern why.

“Kit,” Frances said at length, “sit down.”

Marlowe sat back down on the frame of the bed while Frances spent the better part of ten minutes telling him a story.

*   *   *

Frances Walsingham stood in the private courtyard between her father's offices and the outer orchard at Whitehall. Dressed in leather breeches, knee-high boots, a padded doublet, and a kerchief to tie up her hair, she waited, rapier in hand.

With no warning, a shadow flew from the darkness behind a thick column next to her. She collapsed, as if unconscious, then rolled, came to her feet, kicked dirt into the air in front of her, and thrust her rapier.

“Christ,” a voice in the dust coughed. “Who taught you that?”

“No one.” She grinned. “It's not something that most men would ever think of: surrender in order to achieve a goal.”

“That fainting trick, you mean,” Lopez said, stepping into the clearer air beside her. “It's good. But for a moment you were on the ground. That's bad.”

“I was never still.” She sheathed her rapier. “I rolled and was on my feet in one single move. I kicked up a screen, as you taught me. And I stabbed you. You, finest swordsman in the world.”

Lopez had spent several years with the girl, and had told her many times that she was his finest student.

Her father stepped from the darkness next to his door. His face was grave.

“She's ready,” Lopez said.

“No, she's not,” Walsingham sniffed.

“Yes, I am,” she insisted. “I bested
Lopez.
No one can do that.”

“You did not draw blood,” Walsingham said, “and he is not at his best.”

Lopez nodded. “Your thrust but touched my leg. A bee sting.”

“And he's not at his best,” Walsingham went on, “because of this Marlowe boy.”

Lopez smiled. “He's a remarkable young man.”

“He's a boy,” she complained.

“He's older than you by three years,” her father growled.

Lopez looked away.

“The point is,” Walsingham continued, determined to make his point, “Marlowe is our next objective. You and Dr. Lopez will encounter him, engage him, and observe him. Then you will both report back to me to say if he will do or not.”

“Do what, exactly?” she asked, but she was smiling. She knew what her father meant. She only wanted him to say it out loud.

“To see if he will be our man,” Walsingham snapped impatiently. “To see if he is as good as Lopez tells me that he is. To see, in short, if we may use him to our greater ends, if he will serve his country and his Queen.”

“And just how do you propose that I
encounter
him?” Frances asked.

“Lopez is a friend to the Marlowe family,” Walsingham went on, “as you well know. This is how we knew about the boy at all. Lopez is already hatching a plan that will introduce him to you.”

Frances smiled. “You just called him a boy.”

“When will you start taking this business seriously?” her father demanded nearly at the top of his lungs.

“Just as soon,” she said, kissing him on the cheek, “as it ceases to be so very amusing.”

*   *   *

Marlowe stared at Frances.

“You don't mean to say that your imprisonment on Malta was only a ruse to test me, to observe me?” he stammered.

“Of course not,” she answered immediately. “You were to be assigned as my protection once I came back from the Throckmorton estate. That would have happened at the end of your first term here at Corpus Christi College. But my capture accelerated the plan, and gave it more importance.”

“But Lopez was
observing
me,” Marlowe said to himself, stunned. “He was watching me, testing me—without telling me about it.”

“I'm afraid so, to some extent,” she confirmed.

Marlowe began to wonder if it was possible, just possible, that Frizer's observation about Lopez might be worth examination: that Lopez was a double agent. Clearly he would not work for the Pope, but would he have other loyalties, other motives?

Lost in thought, he was the last to hear the door handle turn. Frizer had already produced an ugly knife from his boot, and Frances had drawn her rapier. They all watched as the door handle moved slowly, as if in a dream, and the door cracked open.

In the next second a demon exploded into the room, a rapier in each hand, dressed in gray costume from head to foot—including the boots—with a headpiece that obscured all but the eyes.

At once, with a single winglike move, the figure disarmed Frizer and then kicked his legs out from under him. Frizer's knife went flying, and he landed hard on his back with a thud and a grunt.

In two more strides the figure was in the center of the room, arms wide. One rapier point was drawing a thin trickle of blood from Marlowe's throat, and the other was pressed against Frances's bosom, between two ribs, aimed at the heart.

All four stayed frozen in that tableau until the figure spoke.

“Hello, Ingram,” the girl's voice said.

“What?” Frizer managed to growl, still flat on his back.

“And Richard,” the girl continued, staring at Frances.

Another single heartbeat of silence ticked by in motionless stupor.

Then, in a blur, Marlowe's gloved hand grabbed the rapier at his throat and pushed it back toward its owner.

The girl in gray lost her balance and Marlowe took advantage of her twisted posture. He slid off the bed, raking his back on the frame, and kicked the girl's shin as hard as he could.

She let out a yelp and her rapier came away in Marlowe's hand. He rolled over Frizer and was on his feet with the girl's own weapon in his hand. Without another thought, he thrust, and stabbed the fleshy part of the girl's forearm, the arm that held the other rapier at Frances's breast. That rapier clattered to the floor at once.

Frances produced her dagger and leapt. She held the point of it against the girl's cheek, just under her eye.

“Don't move,” Frances said, “or the eye is gone.”

“Wait,” Frizer called out, doing his best to sit up. “Hang on. Don't go sticking that girl no more, the two of you.”

He grabbed on to the bed and hoisted himself up. He brushed the rapier in Marlowe's hand aside, and elbowed Frances backward. He examined the girl's wounded forearm. Blood had already soaked her sleeve. Then he pushed back her headpiece, exposing dirty blond hair and a fearless face. He kissed her on the cheek.

“Hello, Tin,” he said lovingly. “What brings you to Cambridge?”

“Tin?” Marlowe gasped. “This is the girl who's been sending the messages?”

Frances pulled back her cowl and gazed into Tin's eyes.

“You are responsible for saving my life,” she said to Tin. “If not for you, no one would have known I was in Malta. I'm sorry I did not recognize you. I am in your debt.”

“Richard,” was all the poor girl said.

“Yes.” Frances looked down. “I am heartily sorry for that particular deception, but you must understand—”

“I understand,” Tin said quickly. “I may understand this better than you do.”

“Tin?” Marlowe repeated, only a heartbeat behind the rest in his thinking.

“What are you doing in Cambridge, girl?” Frizer insisted.

“I've been following you for a day and a half,” she answered boldly. “I watched you at the baker's, and came here with you, only a dozen steps behind. And as to my reasons for doing it, here are three.”

Tin reached into a pouch attached to her belt and produced a packet of letters.

“More letters from Mendoza?” Frances guessed.

Tin nodded.

“But why bring them here?” Frizer snapped.

Tin looked at Marlowe.

“I know these other two, sir,” she said to him softly, “but yours is not a face I recognize.”

“My name is Robert Greene,” he answered at once, “late of Corpus Christi College here in Cambridge, now of London, returned for the purposes of researching my latest play,
Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay
.”

“Friar Bungay?” she asked.

“It is a comedy.”

“Then what, may I ask, are you doing in a room where a student was found murdered,” Tin went on, “the room of one Christopher Marley, who killed that student?”

“That's
Marlowe,
” he corrected before he thought better of it. “And Mr. Marlowe is, himself, a budding playwright. He was helping me with my play. I came calling, found these two miscreants in his room, and was about to summon the beadles when you made your overly dramatic entrance. Just stand there, and I'll have all three of you arrested.”

It was a bold performance, and Frances stifled a smile.

Frizer nodded.

“True enough,” he said to Tin, “this gentleman found us here. But we was just about to explain to him the nature of our business.”

“Something,” Marlowe sniffed, “about saving the Queen. A fantastical elaboration.”

“Oh, but it's nonetheless true, sir,” Tin reported enthusiastically. “Our Queen is in danger from the Catholic devils, and these two, most especially this girl—they're working for Lord Walsingham. Lord Walsingham
himself.
”

“Is this true?” Marlowe demanded in mock surprise.

“It is,” Frances said, straining to keep a straight face.

“Let me see those letters, then, girl,” Marlowe demanded.

Tin looked to Frances. Frances nodded. Tin handed over the pages.

Marlowe sat back down on the bare frame of the bed and read the letters quickly. They confirmed what he and Frances had discovered or guessed.

“These are indeed from Mendoza,” he said absently as he finished the second letter. “And the Duke of Guise is to lead an invading army, supported by Spain, to attack our nation within the month.”

“What?” Tin exploded. “It doesn't say that!”

“Ah.” Marlowe looked up. “You've read these, have you?”

She nodded.

“But you've only read the surface of the letters,” Marlowe went on, “the words as they are written. You've failed to discern the Spanish code.”

“Spanish code?” Tin asked, a bit more subdued.

“It's simple, really,” Marlowe said lazily. “Spanish is very much closer to Latin than is English. The code takes advantage of the relatively few Latinate words in our language, uses them to say things in Spanish when the letter, on its surface, seems to be in English, and fairly straightforward. This sentence here, for example, says, ‘I am anxious that you should try our newest liqueur, my friend, so I will send you a keg of Eudisse, which comes from Bilbao but is like the port which is popular in your own city of Portsmouth.' Do you see it?”

“See what?” Tin said weakly, blushing.

“Our word
anxious
is derived from the Latin
angrere,
which means ‘to cause pain' or ‘to choke,' and
keg of Eudisse
is an all-too-obvious anagram of the words ‘Duke of Guise.' Taken together with the syntax of the sentence, we arrive at the very certain message that the Duke of Guise intends to sail from Bilbao to Portsmouth, choke off all other port activity there, and ascend toward London, to cause our country the greatest pain.”

Tin looked to Frances. “Does it really say that?”

Frances nodded. “If he says it does. He's very clever.”

“We've got to get this information to Walsingham at once,” Frizer said urgently.

“Agreed,” said Marlowe, jumping up. “You must take these letters to him.”

“Me?” Frizer said. “Not likely.”

“Has to be you, Ingram,” Frances admonished.

“Just tell him what I've said here,” Marlowe added, “and that these letters are in the
first
Spanish code.”

“Why don't you do it?” Frizer asked. “I hate London and I have continuing business here.”

“No,” Frances explained, “he has to stay here to find Pygott's murderer.”

“Shouldn't be too difficult,” Marlowe added, “now that I know who did it.”

“What?” Tin looked about wildly. “Do you mean Walter Pygott?”

“It's all right, he can't harm you now,” Frances said soothingly. “He was murdered here. But thanks to you we know that Pygott was the one who betrayed me to the Pope's men.”

“And thanks to my brief investigation here in this room,” Marlowe continued, “I surmise that the murderer was a Spanish or Basque man called Aldano Zigor. I have only to find him.”

“Who?” Tin asked.

“A compatriot of mine,” Frizer confessed. “But I've already told you he did not do the killing.”

“I disagree,” Marlowe said simply.

“You believe that he is the murderer because of something you found in this room?” Tin continued.

“Several things,” Marlowe answered. “A bloody bootprint and a bit of cloth encouraged me to believe that Frizer and his crew were responsible.”

“Bit of cloth?” Frizer asked.

Marlowe produced the torn bit of fabric he'd found in the room. It was an exact match for the missing patch from Frizer's dirty brown overshirt.

“But when I learned,” Marlowe went on, “that Frizer is, in fact—wait, how much should I tell her?”