“What the hell?” Darling began.
“Next!” Leonora called out.
“What?” Darling muttered.
“Too easy,” Leonora shouted. “The monkey was too easy. Give me someone who’s a challenge.”
With that she pulled her dagger, hiked up her dress so that everyone could see her leather breeches and riding boots, and took a very fearsome stance blocking any exit from the ship.
“You’d better send someone his way,” Marlowe urged Darling. “You don’t want to make Ned mad. He’ll kill half your crew before I can stop him, and then where will you be?”
“Christ!” Darling howled. “Everything happens to me!”
Leonora began a kind of low rumble. She strode up the plank directly toward Darling.
“Ned, no!” Marlowe called out in mock panic.
Before anyone knew what was happening, Leonora had cut Darling’s ear, arm, and leg. Then, in a single move that looked more like a dance than a fight, she cut the captain’s suspenders. His trousers dropped immediately, and lay in a puddle-like heap around his feet.
Dagger still very visible, Leonora asked, “Now, are you taking us to Delft or not?”
“Some of you go get Duncan, if he’s alive,” the captain sighed, pulling up his pants, “and then make ready to sail; we’re away within the hour.”
EIGHT
MONSTER, THE NETHERLANDS
The next day, shortly after noon, the coast of the Netherlands appeared on the horizon over the bow of My Beauty. Two hours later the ship set in at Monster, some ten miles or so from Delft. Not a single word had passed between crew, captain, or passengers. Leonora slept most of the time. Marlowe slept, ate, stretched to test his wound, and slept again.
And when the dock was bumped and the gangplank was lowered, Marlowe and Leonora were first to disembark.
Just as Leonora’s foot hit the dock, the captain called out, “Why do you do it?”
Marlowe turned. Leonora stopped, but did not look back.
“Why do I do what?” Marlowe asked.
“Not you,” Captain Darling rumbled. “Him. Why does he dress up like a woman?”
Marlowe grinned. “I told you. Theatre.”
“No,” the captain objected, “but I mean, now. Why is he dressed up as a woman now? This ain’t a theatre. It’s bleeding Holland!”
That provoked Leonora to turn and face Captain Darling.
“All the world is my theatre, Captain,” she told him. “You—you and your crew, you’re merely players. That’s all.”
With that she strode, in a very manly fashion, away from the ship and off the dock.
Marlowe followed silently. But when he caught up with her he could not help but exclaim, “You’re a poet, Miss Beak. A philosopher. That was brilliant.”
“It’s not original to me,” she chided. “You’ve heard that before.”
“Never.” Marlowe held his breath for a moment. “But I think I’ll use it in a play.”
“Horses,” she responded. “That’s what we need. Delft is at least ten miles away, and time is clearly of the essence.”
“We don’t know the Frenchman’s plans,” Marlowe agreed, “but we really ought to assume that he’ll try to kill William as soon as he can.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t suppose you have any more stable contacts up your sleeve.”
“No,” she admitted, “but I might mention the Bell Inn. It’s quite well known.”
“And as to finding a stable,” Marlowe said, sniffing, “I need only follow my nose.”
In no time they had located a stable, close to a church—one of the largest churches Marlowe had ever seen.
“I think that’s how this town got its name,” he mused as they entered the stable.
“What?” Leonora asked vaguely, looking around for the stable master.
“Monster in Dutch means big church,” he told her. “As in the Latin monstrum.”
“What are you—why are you telling me this?”
“Thought you’d be interested,” Marlowe sighed. “I’m just about to achieve my degree from Corpus Christi, and I know things, you see.”
“We need horses!” she snapped.
On cue a very thin young man appeared out of the shadows. His drab clothes were dotted here and there with hay but they were neatly appointed and relatively clean. His boots looked new. He was smiling, jabbering happily and incoherently in Dutch.
“What’s he saying?” Leonora asked Marlowe.
“Not a clue,” Marlowe admitted, then he turned to the young man and said, crisply, “Spreekt u engels?”
He lit up.
“Ah! The English! Yes. Most apology. Of course I speak it.”
Marlowe turned to Leonora. “There.”
She sighed, then turned to the young man. “Have you two horses we might use?”
“Ah. Well. You must buy. Not to use.” He smiled.
“Of course,” she agreed. “How much?”
He shook his head, and turned to Marlowe.
“Most apology,” he told Marlowe, his brow furrowed.
“Hoeveel kost het?” Marlowe said, smiling.
“Yes, yes. The cost. Ten.”
“Ten?” Leonora turned to Marlowe. “Ten what?”
“English,” the thin man said quickly. “You are English, pay in English. Ten pounds.”
“Ten pounds?” Marlowe roared.
“Each,” the man said, still smiling.
“Are they made out of gold?” Marlowe asked loudly.
“Sorry?” the man asked, head cocked.
Using her hands as puppets, Leonora mimed as she spoke. “If we bring the horses back here when we’re finished, in a day or two, could we get our money back?”
The man looked down, slowly translating, it seemed, and then he nodded.
“Yes,” he said. “I keep one pound, give back nine.”
Marlowe was about to continue his objections, and then decided on another approach.
“Is that what you made the Frenchman pay?” he asked. “Fransman?”
“Fransman, yes.” He lost his smile. “Not good. He is not good.”
“Did he have to pay ten?” Marlowe asked sternly.
The young man looked away. “No.”
“He threatened you,” Marlowe continued. “Bedreiging.”
“For someone who doesn’t speak Dutch,” Leonora interrupted, “you know a lot of Dutch words.”
“Sh!” Marlowe commanded.
“Fransman, yes. He told he would kill me. Moord.”
“Murder,” Marlowe translated for Leonora.
“That word I got all on my own,” she told him.
“Look,” Marlowe said to the stable keeper, “Ten for both. Not each. And you keep one when we bring them back. But we also want food. Eten.”
He hesitated, took in a deep breath, and then nodded his head. “Cheese? Bread—brood?”
“And ale?” Marlowe ventured.
The man regained his smile. “Ale? Best in the world. Make myself.”
NINE
DELFT, THE NETHERLANDS
Twenty minutes later Leonora and Marlowe were galloping out of Monster on the road to Delft. Marlowe was still eating bread and cheese. His side burned.
The landscape flew past, a blur of trees and fields. In the distance the occasional windmill beckoned, but the ribbon of road held strong, and the horses, surprisingly swift, raced toward the home of William, Prince of Orange, often called William the Silent, leader of the Dutch revolt against the Spanish. That revolt made Delft, more or less, the capital of the newly independent Netherlands.
William’s home in that city was, by all reports, a comfortable residence: gardens, a good kitchen, less stately than many princely apartments.
With luck, Marlowe thought, they might arrive at dinner time.
Even though he was bleeding a little, his spirits had been bolstered by Dutch ale—and his conviction that they would see William and warn hi
m of the plot on his life, thus saving his life. A good day’s work that would surely be rewarded by a great evening’s meal, not to mention rendering remarkably speedy service to the Queen.
By the time the spires of the old church in Delft came into view, and then the lesser buildings, Marlowe’s self-satisfaction was complete.
The horses slowed, Marlowe and Leonora relaxed, and the sun began to sink low in the western sky.
“I think the house is just over there to the right,” Leonora said softly, tilting her head. “There, behind the church, do you see it?”
Marlowe nodded. “How do you know that’s the house?”
“It was described to me in a part of Walsingham’s missive,” she answered absently.
Marlowe stared at her. Walsingham trusted this person with all manner of knowledge. Who was she? What was she to Walsingham? More than an eighth cousin to the Queen, certainly.
Leonora sipped a breath. “But now that we’re here, what, exactly, are we doing?”
She sounded exhausted, and her voice reminded Marlowe that he, too, was not at his physical best, despite high spirits. It had been a long ride.
“Occam’s Razor,” Marlowe mused. “We do the simplest thing: ask to see the prince, tell him there’s a plot against his life, from a French assassin, gather his guard around him, and then have a very nice dinner.”
Leonora laughed, leaning forward onto her horse’s neck. “Honestly? That’s your plan?”
“Unless I’ve added up my hours incorrectly,” Marlowe responded, irritated by her tone of voice, “Prince William is, this night, hosting Rombertus van Uylenburgh. They are to discuss matters concerning the Frisian state. Do you not recall?”
“I do,” she sighed, then lowered her voice. “And we are to say the Dutch words—butter and green bread.…”
“Bûter, brea, en griene tsiis,” Marlowe corrected, “Butter, bread, and green cheese.”
Leonora rolled her eyes. “Men make up the most ridiculous codes.”
Marlowe ignored her.
The streets were moderately crowded, the last of the day’s business coming to a close. Though Marlowe and Leonora might have provided a bit of interest to the populace, so obviously foreigners, Delft was a very cosmopolitan city, and most citizens of the residents were happily inured to strangers from nearly everywhere.
Stone and brick buildings rose several stories on both sides of the street leading to the church, and then, around to the right and behind, one might just make out the front gardens of Prince William’s house.
As they drew nearer, they could see nearly every window in the place was filled with light. Candles and lamps had been lit, apparently, all over the house, to suggest a kind of opulence ordinarily reserved for guests.
“Do you suppose that William’s dinner companion has already arrived?” Marlowe asked, almost to himself.
“A bit early for dinner, isn’t it?” Leonora scanned the sides of the house, looking for signs of a carriage or stable activity that might indicate a recent arrival.
Unsure of the proper protocol for such a circumstance, Marlowe made bold to ride his horse through the front garden and up to the main entrance of the house. The building was lovely, smaller and more comforting than most royal apartments. The gardens were well-tended but not fussy; nature’s hand was more evident than any gardener’s.
Marlowe dismounted, patted his horse, adjusted his soiled black doublet, and stood waiting for Leonora to join him.
She stayed on her horse.
“Are we certain that barging in the front door is the proper behavior?” she whispered. “Aren’t we supposed to be spies?”
“You’re a spy,” Marlowe corrected. “I’m an investigator in the service of the Queen. At this moment I am attempting to prevent a murder, international mayhem, and the ruination of civilization as we know it—in that order. Care to join me? Here on the ground?”
Sighing heavily, Leonora dismounted.
Without further discussion, Marlowe strode to the front door and banged loudly.
After a moment the door cracked slightly and the thin face of a very irritated servant appeared.
“Nr,” was all he said.
“He says, ‘No.’” Marlowe took a step forward. “Ik wens te zie William.”
“Nr,” the man repeated, and made as to close the door.
“Bûter, brea, en griene tsiis,” Marlowe intoned.
The man laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. “We hebben geen eten voor u.”
Marlowe turned to Leonora.
“He says he has no food for us,” he translated.
“Well tell him what the problem is,” she scolded, “and stop trying to be subtle.”
Marlowe turned to the man and squinted.
“William in gevaar is,” Marlowe told him, raising his voice.
“Weg!” the man shouted.
Marlowe turned back to Leonora.
“He’s just told us to go away.”
“Christ,” she muttered.
Reaching into a fold in her dress she produced a small leather pouch, one that Marlowe had seen before. She dipped her hand into it and stepped toward the door, smiling sweetly.
“Look here,” she said to the man in the doorway, smiling.
Then she blew an orange powder into the man’s face. He jerked his head back and seemed just about to rail angrily, when his eyes rolled and he collapsed onto the floor, allowing the door to open a few more inches.
“Shall we?” she asked, inclining her head toward the inside of the front room.
“Eventually you’re going to have to tell me how you do that, all those powders.” Marlowe stared through the doorway at the motionless servant. “Is he dead?”
“Of course not,” she said, pushing the door inward. “But he won’t awake for a while.”
The man’s body was preventing the door from opening completely, so they were forced to scrape their way inside, careful not to step on the man.
Once in, Marlowe took the servant’s arms and dragged him inward. Alas, before he got very far, another man appeared. This one was more in the line of a guard. He had a weapon drawn, a riding sword with its slightly wider blade gleaming in the light from the chandelier in the front entranceway.
Marlowe held his hands out to assure the man he had no weapons of his own in them.
“Wij zijn hier voor willem op zaken van de koningin van Engeland,” Marlowe pronounced very carefully.
“English?” the man asked, cocking his head.
“Yes,” Marlowe said.
“Your Dutch is not good.” He glanced down at the unconscious servant. “Did you kill Hans?”
“Of course not.” Marlowe dropped his hands. “He fainted when I told him why I’m here. I’m on urgent business of the Queen of England. William is in grave danger.”
The man smiled. He pointed his sword directly at Marlowe’s face.
“I think not,” he said, his eyes shooting to Leonora.
The man wore a tunic over what appeared to be light armor. He was, by appearance, a knight. The crest on his tunic was a red shield with a standing, golden lion on it. The lion held a sword, its claws and tongue were blue—the coat of arms of the Dutch Republic.
“Someone is coming to murder William,” Marlowe said quickly. “I think he should know about that.”
“The prince is currently dining with Rombertus van Uylenburgh,” the man sniffed, “and after dinner he must attend to a small matter, a passport for one Francis Guion, of Lyons. Possibly when that matter is concluded—”
“Bûter, brea, en griene tsiis!” Marlowe shouted. “Say that to William!”
“Ah!” the man snapped. “All you want is food?”
“We are on the Queen’s business,” Marlowe began, his voice even louder. “I must insist that you tell Prince William—”
“And I must insist that you wait outside!” the man interrupted, matching Marlowe’s volume. “There are wooden benches at the door.”
Without another word he turned and walked away very calmly.
Stunned, Marlowe watched the man retreat.
“It’s a nice evening,” Leonora offered. “Maybe we should just wait outside until the prince has finished his dinner. He’s obviously well-protected here.”
“Did you hear what that man said?” Marlowe howled. “There’s a Frenchman wanting a passport. That’s our man! He’s already in this building!”
Leonora turned and opened the front door. “I have grave doubts about that. Why would he be asking the prince for a passport?”
“It’s a ruse!” Marlowe told her. “Christ! Am I the only thinking person in this city?”
“Well, you’re certainly the only one who thinks the way you do.” Leonora opened the front door. “Shall we?”
“I may lose my mind.” Marlowe brushed past her, fuming.
Leonora followed. “The prince is dining. There are guards. This man, this Rombertus van Uylenburgh is with him. All is well.”
“All is shite,” Marlowe countered. “No one seems to know the—what would you call the secret words, the passwords? This feels wrong.”
The evening air was cool. Marlowe sat, vigorously attempting to display his ire.
“Christ, calm down,” Leonora said softly as she sat beside him. “Everything has happened at such a pace—let us sit a moment, take time to survey the larger situation.”
“All right,” Marlowe agreed grudgingly. “Then tell me when did you receive the message from Walsingham?”
“Hm?” She sat beside him. “The day before yesterday, in the morning. It came by special courier.”
“The courier was a man you’d seen before?”
“No, but that’s not unusual. It’s a different man every time.”
Marlowe shook his head. “As I sit here, I can’t make the sequence of events fit right. Do you recall the passwords you were to tell us?”
“The bit about the storm? ‘Hail, snow, and lightning all at once. ’”
“That’s from a play of mine,” Marlowe whispered. “Not a very good one, at present. It’s only been performed once—not even fully. And that was the morning that Dr. Lopez came to fetch me in Cambridge with the news that William the Silent was dead.”
The English Agent Page 7
