A Prisoner in Malta (28 page)

“If you'll allow me a few more moments with Father Edmund,” Marlowe began.

“No.” The rector interrupted, taking Edmund by the arm. “Father Edmund is an excitable man, and has had enough turmoil today. Go inside, Father.”

“But,” Edmund began.

“This minute,” the rector insisted. His voice sliced the air like a fish knife.

“I hope you will remember what I told you,” Edmund said quickly, looking at Marlowe before he turned and went inside.

“Now then, young man,” the rector said to Marlowe, “you may tell me: who killed those men in my church?”

Marlowe locked eyes with the man. “I wonder why you do not ask what men like that were doing in your church in the first place. They had not come to pray.”

The rector stepped closer, his eyes burning with disdain.

“Do you imagine yourself to be a person who might speak to me in this manner?” he declared haughtily. “I will have your name, young man.”

The rector was close enough by then for Marlowe to recognize the distinct smell of brandy wine. The old man was in his cups.

Marlowe examined the man for the first time. He was short, seventy, skeletal, drunk, and uncomfortable in his own loose skin. He had a slight rash at his neck, and his nose was nearly the color of the roses in the garden.

“I have learned what I can here,” Marlowe said, dismissing the man in his mind.

He turned his back on the rector and moved steadily away.

“What have you learned?” the rector demanded. “Young man!”

For one thing, Marlowe thought as he continued away, I have learned why the Bible needed to be stolen from the church: Father Edmund was holding it ransom, hoping for more money. That's why he chose not to come forward about Pygott's murder. Could Father Edmund have killed Pygott?

 

TWENTY-FOUR

The ride to Coughton Court was pleasant enough. It didn't rain. The fields were beginning to show signs of life: violet, cowslip, pale daffodil, here and there a cherry tree in bloom.

He'd left without telling anyone. Better that way. He could not think of a single person in Cambridge he trusted entirely. Obviously Frizer was a potential enemy, but he couldn't feel certain of Bartholomew, nor even Boyle. Nell and Pinch would do whatever money told them to do. If Zigor and Argi were occupied with their Basque cause, as they wanted Marlowe to believe, then they were not a part of a larger picture. And if they were Spanish agents, they were to be avoided.

He had discovered one very interesting fact, however, which seemed to make no sense. For that very reason, he deemed it significant. On his way out of town he thought to stop at the baker's for a bit of bread.

*   *   *

Just before he left Cambridge, Marlowe strolled into the baker's shop. The man didn't recognize him at first, owing to the fact that Marlowe had abandoned his beard and cassock in preparation for a long ride.

Marlowe bought two loaves of bread and made idle conversation until the baker's face darkened.

“I've seen you,” he said suspiciously.

Marlowe lowered his voice. “I've been in before. To fight with Frizer.”

The baker's head snapped back. “Christ, you can't be in my shop!”

“I'm leaving,” Marlowe agreed, paying the man for the bread.

Then, just as Marlowe neared the door, he had a sudden instinct to ask a foolish question.

“Frizer's not here, by any chance, is he?” Marlowe turned slowly.

The baker shook his head. “Gone. Left town.”

“Ah, that's right,” Marlowe said, as if he'd just remembered. “London.”

“Aye,” the baker confirmed, “they left yesterday.”

Marlowe tried not to register any particular response.

“I thought they left the day before—wait, you might be right. He and—God in Heaven, what's the man's name, the other fellow? Jesus, why can't I remember names?”

“Benjamin Carier.” The baker leaned forward sympathetically. “Another one of those students at the college. Why Frizer packs in with that lot I'll never know.”

“They have their father's money,” Marlowe said, grinning. “They buy the drink.”

The baker laughed. “That may be the reason.”

“I hope they're back soon. You know Frizer. He owes me money.”

The baker shook his head.

“Frizer told me he'd be gone for a while,” he confided, still smiling. “And if you was the only one in Cambridge he owed money to, well, I'd be surprised. You want that money back? You might just have to go to London to fetch it.”

“London.” Marlowe nodded. “Good suggestion.”

*   *   *

An hour later, the sun on new fields, small brooks roiling with the last of winter's melted snow, Marlowe longed to speak with Lopez.

He had not given himself time to grieve the loss of his friend. It was all the more keenly felt because Marlowe knew just how few people in the world were worthy of trust. He tried, and failed, dozens of times to imagine what Lopez might advise as he rode to Coughton.

As the sun set, he was delighted to find himself nearing Northampton, where he might have food and lodging. Ale, a big meal, a good night's sleep, those were the things he needed to take him out of himself, to clear his head.

An hour later he was snug in a small, quiet public house. He'd followed the smell of food and stumbled into the place. Its low beams and flickering lamps were instantly comforting. Several men were playing cards at one table, another man sat back from his plate, his head nodding, almost asleep. The thin, sad-eyed man at the bar attended to him with a minimum of talk, and an old, slow Irish wolfhound came to Marlowe's table, blinked, and lay down at his feet in obvious contentment.

Boiled beef and onions, three large tankards of ale, and a plateful of manchet bread sated his stomach. The fire made him drowsy. The relative quiet of the place soothed the pounding in his brain, and he suddenly realized how long it had been since he'd felt safe.

Before another hour had passed, Marlowe was asleep in his room upstairs at the nameless inn, reveling in dreamless slumber.

*   *   *

Without warning he was awakened from his corpselike exhaustion by noises below in the public house. A table grated across the floor; someone had nudged it suddenly. Low voices exchanged urgent commands.

Marlowe rolled out of bed, taking his dagger in his hand. Footsteps came up the stairs. Marlowe tightened his grip on the dagger as he lay on the floor, the bed between himself and the door. The windowless room was small, ten by ten feet, barely room for the bed and a washbasin. Not much space for a fight.

The footsteps were closer, and he heard the rustle of clothing. There were at least three men, maybe more.

Marlowe took hold of the bedcover. He moved just enough to get his legs in a position to pounce, and held his breath.

The door burst open, and lamplight sprayed the room.

There was a moment of confusion when the men at the door saw an empty bed. Marlowe used that moment to strike. He leapt over his bed, flared the bedcover like a sail, whipped it forward, and engulfed the two men standing inside his room.

Without hesitation he drew his rapier and stabbed several times through the cover, finding flesh every time. The men cried out and did their best to rid themselves of the cover, but Marlowe moved to one side, arced his dagger in the direction of the cries, and killed one man. The lifeless body fell to the floor with a thud, taking the cover with him. The other man in the doorway was wounded, confused, and desperate. He was dressed in the same vague uniform as the men in St. Benet's Church: blue doublet, thick black gloves, desert headdress.

Turning quickly, Marlowe jumped on the dead body at his feet. It made a sickening sound, ribs cracking, dead air exploding from the lungs. The other man in the doorway heard it and gasped.

That was the second Marlowe wanted. He swung his dagger arm wide in a backhanded motion, cleanly cutting the man's throat.

Several other uniformed men were out in the hall, he couldn't tell how many. They would have a difficult time coming in, scrambling over two corpses. Marlowe jumped backward, rapier straight, dagger at the ready.

Just then a musket exploded somewhere out in the hall. Marlowe only had time to fall back against the wall before he realized that the shot had not come from his attackers.

“I've got two more muskets here,” a thin, sneering voice warned, “and I'm happy to kill the next man that moves!”

The men at the door turned in the direction of the voice.

Marlowe squinted, took his dagger by the point, and threw it directly at the arm of the man holding the lamp. The blade sliced, did not stick, but forced the man to drop his lantern.

“Right!” the thin voice snapped.

Another musket blast ripped the air, and the man who'd held the lamp grunted, dropped, and began to bleed to death.

The lamp rolled over Marlowe's two dead bodies and threatened to catch them on fire. He dropped low and grabbed the candle.

“Who's out there?” Marlowe called.

“Who's asking?” was the answer.

“I am the tenant of this room,” Marlowe said, a little softer.

“And I am the landlord,” the voice said. “Tell your friends it's too late for visitors. This is a decent house.”

Marlowe reached over to retrieve his knife, stood, and held the candle high, rapier at the ready in his other hand.

One of the two remaining men at his door turned his way, distracted by the light. Marlowe caught his eye. There was the same terrifying look he had seen in the men at St. Benet's: the aspect of a man only partly alive.

“Do you speak English?” Marlowe asked the man.

“Do you speak any sort of Arabic?” the man responded with barely a trace of any accent.

Marlowe raised his eyebrows, even proffered a slight smile.

“Well,” he admitted, “not as well as you speak English. So you understood the landlord. He'd rather you were gone.”

“I would imagine,” the heavy-lidded man said softly, “that you feel the same way.”

“I do, indeed,” Marlowe told him, with a hint of reluctance, “but I would know your reason for waking me from the first sound sleep I've had in a while.”

“Reason?” The man shrugged. “Money.”

“Enough talking!” the landlord interrupted. “Leave or be shot! I have another loaded musket!”

The assassin in the doorway made as to leave. He might easily have killed the landlord, and then gone for Marlowe, but for some reason he and the other man chose to leave.

“Who pays you?” Marlowe asked quickly.

The man hesitated.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked.

Marlowe chose his words carefully.

“So that I can take my revenge on him after I've killed you.” It was a variation of the bravado Lopez had taught him: assure your opponent that he will lose before the actual fight has begun.

The man almost smiled, but did not respond.

“If John Pygott hired you,” Marlowe confirmed, “I must tell you: you're after the wrong man. I did not kill his son.”

The man was already headed toward the landlord, and the stairs.

“I know nothing about that,” he said. “We were paid to kill Christopher Marlowe. You are Christopher Marlowe.”

Marlowe stepped over the bodies and into the hallway. He gave a single glance in the direction of the landlord, who was dressed in a brown nightshirt. A spent musket lay at his feet, and he clutched a loaded one in his trembling hands.

“How did you know I was here?” Marlowe demanded of the assassin.

The man shrugged. “We followed you. From Cambridge.”

“Right.” Marlowe held his breath. “Why were you and your companions at St. Benet's Church?”

He knew that the assassins were waiting for someone else in the church. But here were some of the same men at a tiny unmarked inn, trying to kill him. The question was necessary.

The man exhaled. “You ask a great many questions for a corpse.”

“I'm not quite dead yet,” Marlowe snapped. “Answer me.”

“Another part of the job,” the man intoned. “We were there to clean up loose ends.”

“Your English is very good,” Marlowe said mockingly.

The man shook his head. “Enough. We will meet again when you will not have luck on your side.”

He turned away and began his descent down the narrow stairway, utterly ignoring the landlord.

“What about your friends, here?” Marlowe called after the assassin.

“They are not my friends,” he said. “I don't even know their names, and they did not know mine. Dispose of them as you will.”

But he spoke reluctantly.

“Hang on,” the landlord said, emboldened by the apparent retreat of the troublemakers. “Why should we have to take out your trash?”

The assassin paused on the stairs. Marlowe tensed. The assassin turned slightly and was about to speak.

“I'll see to it,” Marlowe suggested in the next breath. “They'll be bathed and shrouded, and I will offer
Salat al-Janazah
before they are buried.”

The assassin looked Marlowe in the eye then, and it was not the lifeless stare that Marlowe expected.

“You assume they are Muslims,” the man said slowly.

“Despite your odd uniforms,” Marlowe said, “you are Bedouin, so identified by your headdress, your
kufiya
.”

The man stared. “And what do you know of
salat
?”

“Nothing save what I have learned in researching a play I would write, odd as that may sound to you,” Marlowe confessed. “It's about Timur, who called himself the ‘sword of Islam' more than a hundred years ago.”

“A play about Timur the Lame?” The assassin shook his head. “England is a strange place.”

“Very,” Marlowe agreed.