The English Agent

by Phillip DePoy

  Marlowe turned his attention to the play, but only momentarily.

  Alas, he thought, this play is as terrible as the poem had been. No good work of theatre will ever come of it.

  The crowd at The Curtain was, as usual, wildly diverse: drooling drunken men, whores on holiday, children filching pockets, lovers stealing kisses. The boxes were filled with demi-royals and their impatient supplicants, willing to sit through anything on the chance that they might be taken to court the next day, or the day after that.

  At last, in a box near the stage, Marlowe spotted a man in a red hat and pale green doublet, his beard too neatly trimmed, leaning forward, soaking in the language as if it were ale. He was not alone. Marlowe was not entirely surprised to recognize Thomas Morgan, dressed in dark blue with a patterned sash that made him foolish. Morgan had been in service to Lord Shrewsbury, Queen Mary’s jailor before Paulet. Morgan’s Catholic leanings soon encouraged Mary to use Morgan as her secretary and go-between. He was one of the reasons Mary’s trust had been so easy for Marlowe to gain.

  Good, thought Marlowe, making his way through the crowd toward the box. That will make it easier for me to engage them.

  The first scene being over, Alleyn again took the stage as narrator. Marlowe was momentarily distracted by the beauty of Alleyn’s voice, and his ability to transform mediocre words, spinning them into gold.

  If I could convince him to be in Dido, Marlowe considered, that would put the play over. After I finish rewriting it, I should speak with him.

  But further consideration of his own work was set aside as he drew near the box. Morgan noticed first, and alerted Paget.

  Marlowe did not slow his pace, and kept his eyes directly on Morgan’s.

  Paget did his best to hide the fact that he’d drawn a dagger.

  “I have news of a caged bird,” Marlowe whispered as soon as he was close enough. “Yesterday I was at Chartley.”

  Paget stayed his hand for a moment.

  “Our holy salvation was poisoned,” Marlowe went on, clutching the rim of the low wall that separated the box seats from the standing ground. “I was there, and saved her life.”

  Let them check that story, Marlowe thought. They’ll see it’s true.

  “No idea what you’re talking about,” Paget said, his lip curled. “And you’re destroying my enjoyment of the play.”

  Without warning Marlowe hoisted himself over the gallery wall and landed in the box beside Morgan, his knife under Morgan’s chin.

  “I think the playwright has already succeeded in that,” Marlowe told Paget.

  Both men froze.

  “Now if you’ll put your blade away, Mr. Paget,” Marlowe said softly, “I’ll take a seat and tell you my news from Chartley. Or I can just slit Morgan’s throat and be on my way. Alerting our true queen, Mary, of your obstinacy, of course.”

  “We’ve had no news at all from Chartley,” Morgan objected, his breathing labored.

  “I told you it happened yesterday.” Marlowe shook his head. “You may hear of it tomorrow, or the next day. But that will be too late for our purposes. Time is our enemy. Walsingham knows.”

  The two men exchanged a glance.

  “Walsingham knows what?” Paget asked.

  “Well,” Marlowe snapped, “I see I’ve come to the wrong men.”

  He turned to leave through the door of the box.

  “Who are you?” Morgan demanded.

  Marlowe turned, glaring at the men. “There will be no invasion through the Netherlands. Gérard has given up that secret, his elimination of William was in vain. Walsingham has already sent troops to Lancaster, Derby, and Stafford. Our only hope is to send in the assassin today, before Walsingham finds him out. But I could not find him myself this morning, and so I thank you, gentlemen, you have succeeded in destroying all our plans.”

  With a flourish, Marlowe turned to leave, hoping that the onslaught of information had sufficiently stunned his audience of two.

  “Wait,” a panicked Paget whispered harshly. “I know where Sidney is!”

  Marlowe froze. He dared not turn around to face the men, afraid that his eyes would betray him.

  “Is that a fact?” Marlowe answered, his back to the men.

  “Where he always is, at this time of the afternoon,” Morgan said eagerly. “In Lady Rich’s London home.”

  Marlowe forced all emotion from his eyes, and turned about.

  “Lord Rich is at Warwick, on the Avon River, you see,” Paget said.

  “And so, of course, Philip Sidney is with Penelope,” Marlowe said coldly.

  “She spurns his affection, they say,” Morgan reported, “but he goes to her every day nonetheless. He’ll be there now.”

  Marlowe lowered his chin. “You may just have saved our queen.”

  Not realizing what Marlowe truly meant, both men smiled.

  Behind them on the stage, Ned was addressing the audience as dancers swirled behind him.

  “Juliet,” he said, his voice breaking, “does seem to pass the rest as far as Phoebus’s shining beams do pass the brightness of a star!”

  And on the other side of the stage, a boy only two years younger than Ned, in white makeup and a pale dress, his Juliet voice high and sweet, sang out: “At last my floating eyes have anchored fast on him, who for my sake does banish health and freedom from each limb.”

  * * *

  Marlowe willed his legs to walk, his lungs to breathe. But his mind objected to every thought it had, and every image it saw. He did not care for Sidney, but he found it impossible to believe that Sidney would murder Elizabeth. Then, worse, he imagined Sidney and Penelope in each other’s arms, swimming in a white sea of bedsheets and sunlight.

  At last he stopped, leaned against a wall, and closed his eyes.

  Even in broad daylight, life on the wrong side of the Thames was questionable. Cutpurses wended through the crowded streets. Drunken men with clubs and daggers lumbered from one libation to the next. Whores with blood-red lips and missing teeth cajoled each man who came their way.

  But Marlowe felt safer there, a hundred feet from the theatre, than in the finer climes at court, or in the home of Sir Robert Rich, where treachery wore a better disguise.

  He knew the Rich household; he’d passed it a dozen times whenever he was in London, hoping to catch a glimpse of Penelope. He never had.

  He knew he must hurry, and yet he found it impossible to move.

  Philip Sidney could not possibly be an assassin in favor of Queen Mary.

  It must be someone masquerading as Sidney. That was it. Someone had deceived Paget and Morgan.

  But Penelope would know. She would not be deceived. That would mean she was a party to the plot, somehow. She had not learned her lesson. She still thought it possible to revenge herself against Elizabeth.

  Rash, unthinking madness propelled Marlowe forward, through the crowd. He knew he must report to Walsingham at once, but he wasn’t going to do it. As he rushed toward the bridge, he whispered a silent prayer: let me find an imposter in Rich’s house.

  Across the bridge, through tamer streets, in the direction of Hampton Court, but not too near it, he soon found himself in front of the home he had seen so many times before.

  Still seized by an unnatural absence of logic, he pounded on the door.

  A startled, indignant servant answered, scowling.

  Marlowe pushed past him, bursting into the hall.

  “I have an urgent message for Philip Sidney,” he snapped.

  The servant, dressed in black, lifted his chin and sneered, “Sir Philip is not here.”

  “The message is from Walsingham,” Marlowe answered, his eyes narrow.

  The servant was momentarily mute.

  “Which is Lady Penelope’s bedchamber?” Marlowe demanded.

  And to give his demand meaning, he drew his dagger.

  The servant’s face went white. “Top of the stair, turn right, third door on the left. But she’s not there!”

/>   Marlowe raced up the stairs, not sheathing his blade. His heart pounded as he opened the door and pushed it in.

  Empty.

  Marlowe spun around and ran down the stairs.

  “Where is she?” he shouted.

  “In the garden,” the servant answered, pointing. “It’s past the kitchen.”

  Down the stairs, through the house, instinct and smell leading him to the kitchen, Marlowe plunged past cooks and startled maids, out the door to the kitchen garden, though a rounded iron gate into the more formal area.

  There, on a stone bench, sat Penelope. Kneeling beside her was a man, his back to Marlowe. In a flash, Marlowe knew what to do.

  When Penelope saw Marlowe racing toward her, she shrieked and stood.

  The man turned his head.

  An instant later there was a rapier in the man’s hand and he was standing in front of Penelope.

  Marlowe stopped short, breathing hard, his face red.

  “Sidney,” he whispered.

  “Marlowe?” Sidney answered. “Christopher Marlowe?”

  “I have been begging Philip to leave me,” Penelope piped, “but he will not, no matter what I say.”

  “She fears the brute Rich,” Sidney growled defensively. “She loves me.”

  “I do not!” she protested.

  “She loves me,” Marlowe gasped between breaths, bent slightly at the waist.

  Sidney lowered his rapier slightly.

  “Is—is that true?”

  “I love him more than you,” she said.

  “Will you give me a moment?” Marlowe asked Sidney. “I’ve just run all the way from The Curtain and I’m a bit out of breath.”

  “Is it still Romeus and Juliet?” Sidney asked, lowering his blade completely.

  Marlowe nodded.

  “Terrible,” Sidney complained.

  “Ghastly,” Marlowe agreed.

  “Why have you run here?” Penelope wanted to know.

  Marlowe drew in a deep breath and stood upright.

  “I was there with Paget and Morgan,” he said carefully, watching Sidney’s eyes.

  Sidney did not move or speak.

  Marlowe let the silence be his ally. It only took a moment for Penelope to break.

  “He knows!” she whispered to Sidney. “And he’s Walsingham’s man. He’s the one who found me out at court, before.”

  “Are Paget and Morgan dead?” Sidney asked slowly.

  “Not unless the second act killed them,” Marlowe said. “They were alive when I left the theatre. I ran here to bring you an urgent message from them.”

  “Really.” Sidney glared. It wasn’t a question.

  “Mary has been poisoned at Chartley,” Marlowe said quickly. “You will hear that news shortly, I am certain. I saved her. But our plans must be accelerated. Time is our enemy.”

  “You attempt to convince me that you are not Walsingham’s man,” Sidney said.

  “I am Walsingham’s man,” Marlowe told him, “in order that I might serve our true Queen Mary.”

  Here’s the tipping point, Marlowe thought. If Sidney is not the assassin, now is when he will attempt to take me to Walsingham as a traitor.

  Sidney sat down on the bench. Penelope backed away, looking back and forth between Sidney and Marlowe.

  In that moment Marlowe tried to understand why he had been so rash, why he’d raced straightaway to confront Sidney.

  Had he done it because he was truly in love with Penelope? Or had he wanted to prove to himself that Sidney could not possibly be the murderer? Or had he simply wanted to conclude the matter of the Queen’s assassin so that he might return to a more personal task: finding Leonora’s murderer?

  Before any decisive answer presented itself, Sidney spoke.

  “You and I, Marlowe, should repair to the nearest public house and drink.” He turned to Penelope. “Would you, my love, send to our man at Chartley with great haste to see if what Mr. Marlowe has told us is, in fact, true?”

  “No need to go that far,” Marlowe called out. “Just ask any of your people inside Hampton Court what news has come from Chartley this day. That way you and I won’t have to spend all night and tomorrow in a pub. I need sleep, not drink.”

  Penelope answered before Sidney could stop her.

  “I’ll speak with Daphne within the hour,” she promised. “She knows everything.”

  Marlowe stared at Penelope’s face. Words from one of Sidney’s sonnets about her came into his head: “Stella’s image, wrought by Love’s own self … not only shines but sings.”

  “There,” Marlowe said, at last sheathing his blade.

  “No matter what you say,” a stunned Sidney said, “I need a drink.”

  “Well, maybe just one,” Marlowe allowed. “Where shall we go?”

  “The White Gull,” Sidney sighed. “It’s near The Theatre, and dark.”

  “I’ll send my man Tolbert to see you there the moment I hear anything,” Penelope said quickly. “Now go, both of you!”

  Marlowe and Sidney exchanged glances that were at least partially sympathetic.

  Ten minutes later, they were sitting in a corner of The White Gull, ale in hand, leaning forward and speaking low. The entire place was only forty square feet, and lit by a single torch above the bar. There were a dozen other men in the place, mostly alone, all drinking. No food was offered, but the ale was stronger than most, and flavored with ivy and juniper.

  An hour later, Sidney had finished ten tankards of the stuff.

  “You must understand that I do what I do for her,” Sidney whispered harshly.

  “Whereas my Catholic father encourages my actions,” Marlowe said in complete honesty.

  The best lies, Lopez always said, are the ones that are also true.

  Sidney’s head drooped. “I am desolate.”

  “Yes,” Marlowe commiserated. “Penelope has that effect.”

  “She doesn’t love Rich.”

  “No,” Marlowe agreed, “she hates him. And the Queen forced the marriage.”

  “That’s right,” Sidney agreed, his voice already slurred by the strong drink. “That’s right!”

  Marlowe pretended to sip, and then set his mug down. His brain raced.

  “Can we discuss the new plan,” he said to Sidney. “That way, when you discover that I have told you the truth, we will not have wasted this time?”

  “The new plan?” Sidney asked, looking up.

  “Well, we don’t have time to wait for your original attack, do we?”

  “I suppose not.” Sidney gulped his brew. “My audience is over a week away, though I have already sent her the manuscript.”

  Instinct, calculation, and guesswork collided in Marlowe’s brain, and he heard himself say, “You have presented Her Majesty with—what was it, your manuscript?”

  “A new version of my masque, The Lady of May, rededicated to Elizabeth.” Sidney’s voice sounded hopeless. “To be performed for her in early autumn, or sooner, I had hoped. That’s what we were to discuss in my audience with her.”

  “You have been driven to distraction by Penelope Rich,” Marlowe said grimly. “And you ignore your own wife, a brave and wild companion.”

  “Frances,” Sidney choked. “She has no feeling for me whatsoever.”

  “No?” Marlowe could not prevent a slight smile touching his lips. “Small wonder. Lord Walsingham secured the marriage, not Cupid.”

  “I haven’t seen Frances since May,” Sidney went on miserably.

  An entire play broke out in Marlowe’s mind. He watched images of Frances at the bottom of a cell in Malta, naked in a tub on a ship, sleeping in a field in France—a hundred other scenes of her as they fought their way back to England. And his yearning for her company suddenly threatened to overwhelm him.

  Then, without warning, he realized that the face he saw in the visions was shifting. Frances’s face became Leonora’s.

  With a sudden start he realized that he did not love Frances, or Leonora
. Not in any romantic way. He loved them both as he would a man. He loved their boldness, their bravery, their skill—he loved the spirit of the person, not the face, or the form.

  He was jolted from his realization by Sidney’s drunken voice.

  “What occupies you so completely?” Sidney asked. “Your face is a map of confusion and—I cannot tell what else.”

  “Something has just happened to me,” Marlowe answered in wonder.

  “What is it?” Sidney leaned forward.

  “I think I am becoming a man, a true man. I may not be a boy any longer.”

  Sidney shook his head a little, trying to clear it.

  “What?” he mumbled.

  “I said—”

  Before Marlowe could finish, he saw Penelope’s servant, Tolbert, slip through the front door and cast an eye about. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, but he found the corner table at last, and steered for it.

  He arrived at the table, clearly uncomfortable.

  “I am to say only this: it is true.” He clearly hated his role as carrier pigeon.

  Sidney waved his arm grandly. “I already knew that. Marlowe and I have become bond kinsmen.”

  “Please tell Penelope to do nothing further,” Marlowe instructed Tolbert. “It’s too dangerous for her. She is to stay in her home. Yes?”

  Tolbert nodded curtly.

  Sidney looked up. “Will you take her a message from me as well?”

  “Be off,” Marlowe entreated Tolbert. “Sir Philip is in his cups.”

  One look told Tolbert that Sir Philip was, indeed, beyond his capacity. Without another word, Tolbert turned and sped away.

  “Tell her I love her!” Sidney cried out.

  A few of the men in the pub laughed. All the rest hung their heads; one nodded profoundly.

  Marlowe stood up.

  “We must get you to safety,” he whispered to Sidney.

  Helping Sidney to his feet, Marlowe steered toward the front door.

  “Where are we going?” Sidney managed to ask.

  “I know a certain hidden room at Hampton Court,” Marlowe answered. “No harm will come to you there.”

  Some lies, Marlowe thought, are, in fact, the opposite of the truth.

  But Sidney nodded, agreeing to go, and leaned on Marlowe as if he were leaning on his last true friend.