The English Agent

by Phillip DePoy

  Lopez did not change expression one iota.

  “Penelope Rich,” he said softly.

  “Yes.” Marlowe shook his head. “I’ve brought Sidney here on Walsingham’s instructions. Sidney thinks that we’re going to fight with you, and then, when we can slip away, meet with the Spanish and escape. In fact, my actual directive is to kill him.”

  Lopez nodded. “And make it seem he’s been killed in the fighting.”

  “Yes.” Marlowe reached into his pouch. “And his wife, Frances, gave me this to accomplish the task.”

  He produced the wheel-lock pistol.

  “Odd pistol,” Lopez mused.

  “It’s one of the two that killed William the Silent,” Marlowe told him.

  Lopez offered a rare smile. “Sir Philip will appreciate the poetry.”

  Marlowe nodded. “That’s what Frances said. But I’m not certain I can do it—kill such a man.”

  “It’s easy to kill a man who’s trying to kill you,” Lopez commiserated. “Instinct and training do most of the work. But this—it’s cold-blooded, calculated.”

  “Yes, and lose a great poet.”

  “The poetry won’t die when you kill the man.”

  “Yes, I won’t kill what he’s written so far,” Marlowe agreed, “but I keep imagining the work to come, his future poems. Those I would be murdering.”

  “Is a poem worth a queen?” Lopez asked quietly.

  The fact that Marlowe did not answer immediately gave both men pause.

  So Marlowe changed the subject.

  “I must confess that I am primarily consumed by a desire to find the man who murdered Leonora Beak,” he said, staring into the darker woods. “You may have been the last man to see her alive. Do you have any small fact or observation that might aid me in my investigation?”

  “It seems a decade ago,” Lopez sighed. “Let me see.”

  And Lopez cast his mind back to his last moments at the Bell Inn.

  * * *

  Leonora Beak sat in her father’s room at the Bell Inn, reading. Lopez stood beside her sleeping father. Downstairs they could hear the ordinary noise of the place, dishes rattling, lowered voices, the clank of a tankard on a wooden tabletop.

  “He is much improved,” Lopez announced.

  Leonora looked up from her book. “He opened his eyes a while ago, and knew who I was.”

  “Good sign; he’ll be up and about in a few days,” Lopez concluded. “That means I must be on my way. As I have told you, Walsingham’s message to me was explicit. I am to rally with Her Majesty’s troops near Zutphen, further inland than Delft.”

  “Delft,” she growled. “Don’t remind me.”

  “In some way it is a blessing that your father lies here,” Lopez told her. “It occupies your present mind so that you do not dwell on the past.”

  She sighed. “If only that were true.”

  “Well,” Lopez said, heading for the door, “I must say farewell.”

  She stood. “And I must thank you, Doctor. You saved my father’s life.”

  Lopez inclined his head politely, but did not stop walking.

  “I know that I must bide my time here with my father,” she said softly, “but I would rather be with Marlowe.”

  “Your father needs you,” Lopez said in the doorway. “Read your book.”

  “What’s all the noise downstairs?” she asked absently.

  “Travelers, strangers—I haven’t seen these new men before. They’re just hungry, standing around in the kitchen.”

  “God.” She yawned. “I understand that, I’m famished.”

  “I’ll send someone up,” Lopez told her, “but I must be on my way.”

  “If you see Marlowe,” she began.

  “I won’t,” Lopez said from the doorway, his back to Leonora. “Not for a while, anyway.”

  * * *

  Lopez suddenly stopped his story and cast his eye about the Dutch woods. “Soft.”

  Before he could speak further, the woods around them exploded: orange fire and screaming men roared at them from all directions.

  “Spanish troops!” Lopez said, drawing his rapier.

  Marlowe turned his back to the doctor’s and drew his rapier and dagger.

  The soldiers were difficult to see by the light of the moon, but they were firing pistols, giving away their locations.

  “Ten!” Marlowe shouted.

  “A dozen!” Lopez corrected.

  The first Spanish soldier ran at Marlowe. Marlowe turned sideways, took a step backward, and sliced the man’s jugular vein. The soldier plummeted to the ground at the doctor’s feet.

  Lopez, in turn, ducked low and leapt forward, rapier point stretched far out in front of him, and struck another attacker in the gut. That man’s rifle went off before he fell to the ground, moaning.

  Lopez grabbed the rifle by its hot barrel and used the butt as a club, bashing it hard against another soldier’s skull; the wood cracked.

  Three men rushed Marlowe. Marlowe whirled. His rapier’s tip cut each assailant on the face, slowing them all. Marlowe crashed to the ground, rolled, and bowled over two of the wounded men, his dagger then neatly slicing through each man’s Achilles tendon. The third man, standing over Marlowe, had a pistol. It was pointed directly at Marlowe’s head.

  The Spaniard grinned, cocked his pistol, and then fainted dead away.

  Marlowe was on his feet.

  The third Spaniard had not, in fact, fainted. Sidney had killed him; stabbed him through the heart from behind.

  “That was close,” Sidney said happily.

  “I don’t know,” Marlowe answered. “Spanish soldiers aren’t really known for their marksmanship.”

  Sidney grinned. “You’re welcome.”

  Then from behind another Spanish soldier thrust his blade, a clumsy larger weapon, in the direction of Sidney’s neck.

  Marlowe kicked forward with his rapier high, as if to stab Sidney in the head, missing his ear by the width of an atom, and parried the Spaniard’s attack.

  Leaping past Sidney, Marlowe engaged the soldier, an older man with several visible scars.

  “Apuñalar a un hombre por la espalda?” Marlowe asked, taunting his opponent.

  “Un ojo por un ojo,” the man answered. “He stab my friend in the back, I stab him in the back.”

  Marlowe glanced back at the dead man who had just tried to shoot him.

  “I see your point.”

  The man smiled and held up the point of his sword. “Good, I’m glad you do.”

  “Well I wouldn’t like to kill a man who speaks English and quotes the Old Testament,” Marlowe said, walking around the man, “but if you keep pointing that ridiculous antique at me, I’ll have to.”

  The man turned to keep facing Marlowe. “Entendido.”

  Without warning the man sliced backhanded at Marlowe’s rapier from below, and cut the rapier in half.

  Marlowe stared at what was left of his blade.

  “Toledo steel,” the man said, glancing at his sword.

  “I take back my insult,” Marlowe said amiably. “It’s a great weapon.”

  With that Marlowe cocked his arm and threw his dagger into the Spaniard’s sword arm. It stuck there, and the man dropped his formidable blade.

  Marlowe raced forward, kicked the man’s kneecap, dislocating it, and then shoved his bulk against the man, knocking him to the ground. He picked up the soldier’s sword and in an instant had its point at the man’s throat.

  “Your neck will cut more easily than my rapier did,” Marlowe warned.

  “I didn’t even see your arm move,” the soldier said in wonder, staring at the dagger stuck in his forearm.

  The rest of the Travelers were in the woods by then, and the Spanish soldiers were quickly subdued. Most were killed, but three, including the man with the scars, were kept alive.

  Lopez had those three tied and thrown to the ground near the cooking fire. Sidney and several of the Travelers sat around; the
rest were on guard in the woods.

  “How did you know where we were?” he asked in English.

  The man with the scars answered immediately. “I didn’t know anything, I just went where I was told. They say: go here, kill these, and so I do.”

  “A good soldier,” Lopez said.

  “For almost twenty years,” the man said without a hint of pride.

  “Why is your English so good?” Marlowe asked.

  “I was in Queen Mary’s guard for a time,” he said, “in the employ of Nicolas Durand de Villegaignon, a commander of the Knights of Malta.”

  Marlowe glanced at Lopez. “Yes, I’m familiar with that order.”

  “It was expected of a few of us that we learn the language.” The man struggled a bit in his bonds. “My knee is in much pain.”

  “Answer the rest of my questions,” Lopez promised, “and I’ll set the kneecap right.”

  “Ask quickly, then,” the man said, “before I am to faint away; it really hurts.”

  “Where are the rest of your troops?” Lopez asked.

  “Is that your question?” the man countered. “We’re everywhere. There are very few places near Zutphen where we are not!”

  “How many?”

  “Don’t know. Thousands.”

  “He’s exaggerating,” One of the Traveling men said. “We’d know if there were thousands. And we would have been prepared for this pitiful attack tonight.”

  “Yes,” Lopez went on. “Why did you attack us? Us in particular?”

  The man groaned. “I told you: they say ‘go here, kill these’ and we do.”

  “No idea why you were sent to wipe out an encampment of Traveling People who have absolutely nothing to do with our political disagreements.”

  “Well,” the man allowed, “if I had to guess, I would say that it might have something to do with the famous Dr. Lopez or the poet Philip Sidney.”

  Marlowe stared down at the man. “So you do know more than you’re saying.”

  “Fix my knee,” the man groaned, “and I may be able to say more.”

  “How on earth did he know I’d be here?” Sidney asked, standing.

  “As in days of old,” the Spaniard said, laughing, “your coming was foretold.”

  And then he fainted dead away.

  “This is far worse than I had imagined,” Lopez said, mostly to himself. “Thousands of troops, and dangerous intelligence.”

  “No, but I mean: how would they know I was coming?” Sidney asked again.

  “Penelope,” Marlowe said coldly.

  “No.” Sidney shook his head and stepped closer to Marlowe, so that only he could hear. “She had no idea where I was going. Also, I love her, but she’s hardly bright enough to gather such intelligence on her own. No, it was Paget, or Morgan.”

  Marlowe nodded.

  How much did the Travelers know about the intrigue afoot? Lopez would only have told them the bare essentials. But had they discovered more? He wasn’t certain how much he could say in front of them.

  “I wonder why,” one of the Travelers asked pointedly, “the most famous poet in England is in our little camp here in the Netherlands. Will you write an elegy about us?”

  Without a word, Sidney drew his rapier and jumped several feet in the air, landing directing in front of the man who’d spoken. He tipped his rapier upward, knocking off the man’s hat, and then he stuck the point of his rapier into the man’s pistol holster.

  Before the man could react, he found Sidney’s dagger at his throat.

  “I am here, my friend, because I am the greatest swordsman in England,” Sidney said, leaning very close to the man’s face, “as well as her finest wordsmith.”

  “It’s true,” Marlowe added casually. “Sir Philip came here to fight. And he’s not bad, would you say?”

  The Traveler didn’t blink, staring back into Sidney’s eyes.

  “Not bad,” he said, “for a poet.”

  “Would you challenge me?” Sidney asked a little too shrilly. “Would you question my abilities with a sword?”

  “No,” the man answered steadily. “I challenge your abilities as a poet—a real poet. How much do you know about bertsos?”

  “Careful, Sidney.” Marlowe grinned. “Bertsos are Basque improvised lyrics, lightning fast, with extemporaneous music. Devilish, intricate—and beautiful.”

  “Ah!” Sidney put his blades away at once. “A real challenge. What accompaniment?”

  “None,” the man said.

  Sidney locked eyes with him. “Tell me your name.”

  “Egun,” the man answered proudly.

  “Good, I am Philip. Show me how to begin.”

  “Shall we sing in French or Spanish?” Egun asked.

  “I’m better at French.”

  “Spanish it is!” Egun shouted, and the other Travelers laughed.

  “Keep in mind that this is a double improvisation,” Marlowe explained to Sidney. “You invent the melody as well as the verse as you sing. There are a variety of rhythmic structures, but my opinion, so far as I understand it, is that you should choose the ‘small of eight,’”

  “Zortziko txiki,” Egun said, nodding.

  “The first contains seven syllables,” Marlowe went on, “followed by six syllables in the next line. A little like a couplet, but the rhyme is in the seven-syllable lines. You have four such couplets, or eight lines in all.”

  “And if you cannot find a rhyme,” Egun added, “is called a poto.”

  “A point against the man who failed,” Sidney said excitedly, “I understand. Since I’m new to it, you start.”

  “Fair,” Egun admitted.

  He stepped closer to the fire. The orange under-lighting gave him an eerie presence. His clothes were ornate, a little like Belpathian Grem’s followers: necklaces, small items tied to his shirt, golden earrings, one in each lobe. His face was smooth, shaved, but his eyes gave away his age and his face was flushed with confidence as he began to sing.

  His voice was high and clear, and the men around the fire were silent. Sidney listened with his entire body, soaking in the words and music.

  And when it was his turn, Sidney improvised a variation of the melody Egun had used, and composed a short verse about the battle they’d all just won, even managing to use Marlowe’s name. All in Spanish.

  The men around the fire all applauded, including Egun.

  But the contest went on. The melodies grew more intricate, and the verses more subtle until Sidney burst out laughing and conceded Egun’s superiority.

  Everyone roared approval as Egun embraced Sidney.

  Marlowe applauded, staring at Sidney. How could he possibly kill such a man?

  TWENTY-SIX

  LONDON

  At Hampton Court, in the middle of the night, Leviticus stole down the black stone hallway toward John Dee’s laboratory. He knew that Dee was asleep because he’d just peeked into the old man’s room and seen him in bed, snoring, a book collapsed on his chest.

  Leviticus had dressed himself in his best black doublet and gold trousers for this espionage, because he wanted to go directly to Walsingham’s small office, the one closest to the spymaster’s bedchamber, as soon as he’d stolen his prize.

  The laboratory was a frightening place. Skulls and dead animals and poison plants and potions all lay everywhere, in no order, and the moonlight slanting through the high openings at the top of the western wall only emphasized the air of terror.

  The boy hesitated at the doorway. He needed more light but did not dare to risk a torch. He cast his eye about for a candle, but found none. Slowly he crept into the vault, eyes flashing everywhere at once.

  A human skeleton dangled from a post, and seemed to be staring right at him. A sudden noise clattered in a far corner, and he jumped backward, nearly flying from the room.

  A second later he heard the telltale muttering of rats.

  Following one of the moonbeams, his eyes soon fell on a taper on a table at the far end o
f the room. He inched forward. More noise in the corner froze him for a moment. He was relieved to see a tinderbox near the taper and in moments had it lit.

  Relieved by the flame’s warmer glow, he surveyed the chamber. In an opposite corner there was a large standing desk, old wood and steel bracing, and on that desk there was an open volume.

  Leviticus moved carefully through the maze of tables, boxes, and random piles of herbs until he arrived at the desk. He stared down at the page to which the volume was opened and felt an odd surge of—something he’d never felt before, nor could explain. The images on the page were of naked women, sitting or standing in tubs. The tubs were connected by tubes or conduits, and each smiling woman wore a diadem.

  Unable to make sense of the words, the boy stared at the pictures, not daring to touch the manuscript, afraid of what power it might have.

  When, at last, his discomfort at standing in the laboratory overcame his reticence to take the manuscript, he slammed the volume closed, took it under one arm, and blew out the taper.

  After his eyes adjusted to the moonlight once more, he carefully made his way back to the door and slipped out.

  Walsingham would be able to read the language. Walsingham would explain it all. He might even confirm what Christopher Marlowe had told him: that his mother was indeed Jane Fromond, John Dee’s new wife.

  * * *

  In the forest just outside London, the moon was going down. Gelis climbed into his covered cart, newly painted in green and gold. He woke his wife and child silently. His wife sat up in her quilted covers, rubbing her eyes; the boy turned over and went back to sleep.

  “It’s time we were on our way,” Gelis whispered to his wife in Gaelic.

  “Now?” She blinked. “Has something happened?”

  “We’ve done our duty to Leonora Beak,” he hedged, “and more. That’s all. I don’t like being so close to London.”

  “Nor do I,” she agreed, “but that’s not the reason you want to leave in the middle of the night.”

  “It’s not the middle of the night,” he argued. “The sun will be up in an hour.”

  She shook her head. “What is it, husband?”