A Prisoner in Malta

by Phillip DePoy

  Argi instantly sat down, folded his arms behind him, and skittered away toward the rail like a crab.

  Richard lunged forward and grabbed two pistols from the captain’s belt, cocked them, and pointed them both directly at the captain’s face.

  “Please don’t throw me over the side, Albert,” Marlowe said plainly to the man on the captain’s left. “I could probably swim back to Malta, but I’ve already said a proper good-bye to my new friends there, and if I show up again so soon, you understand—it would be rude.”

  No one moved for a moment.

  Then, from the railing, a small voice all but whispered.

  “The longboat is ready,” Argi called out softly. “Let’s go.”

  Eyes locked on their targets, the unlikely trio—Marlowe, Lopez, and the Maltese prisoner—backed slowly toward the sound of that voice.

  “Blast,” the captain muttered under his breath, seething.

  Without warning, the captain dropped, drew another pistol from his boot, and fired it.

  A ball nicked the side of Marlowe’s thigh.

  Without hesitation, Richard fired both guns, and two of the captain’s men fell to the deck, groaning.

  The crewman Albert dove toward Marlowe. Marlowe easily stepped aside, but found he lost his balance on his wounded leg, and toppled to the deck. Lopez leapt to his side, standing over him.

  Marlowe rolled and got to his feet just as Albert got his bearings and flew forward again. Marlowe thrust, and the rapier found flesh, but Albert was already in motion, and his sheer size carried him on. He landed on top of Marlowe, nearly crushing him.

  Marlowe stabbed with his dagger three times into Albert’s side. Albert snorted, but barely moved.

  Lopez appeared over them and kicked Albert in the side where the stab wounds bled.

  Meanwhile Richard had taken out the government-issued cutting sword that had come with the uniform and was fending off three attackers, one of them the captain.

  “Go to Richard,” Marlowe groaned to Lopez. “I’ll take care of the behemoth.”

  “Now!” Argi was calling. “We should leave now!”

  Lopez raced to Richard’s side, stabbed the captain twice in the arm, allowing Richard to slice into the side of one of the other attackers.

  Unfortunately, more crewmen were gathering, slowly realizing what was happening. It would only be seconds more before the entire crew overwhelmed the escaping quartet.

  “Get to the boat!” Lopez commanded Richard.

  “Not without both of you!” Richard shouted back, losing the deep voice.

  Hearing that timbre, Marlowe managed to free one arm from underneath the barely conscious Albert, and sliced off one of Albert’s fingers.

  That did the trick. Albert howled, and partially revived.

  “All right, Albert,” Marlowe gasped. “You win. Throw me overboard. I surrender.”

  Hearing this, focused on nothing else, Albert grinned, made it to his feet, picked Marlowe up with one hand, and staggered toward the rail.

  “Come on, then,” Marlowe called to his comrades. “Time to go.”

  Richard sliced into another crewman, kicked him backward, and tossed the nearly worthless blade at the captain.

  “You should arm your men with better weapons,” Richard said between breaths. “These swords are toys.”

  Then Richard kicked the captain under the chin, kicked him so hard that he lifted off the deck a little before he fell backward.

  “That’s for being an idiot!”

  Lopez grabbed Richard by the elbow. “Marlowe is in earnest. It’s time for us to leave.”

  The rest of the crew had massed, weapons at the ready, and were on the verge of overtaking the moment.

  “Now!” Marlowe called from high above Albert’s head.

  In the next second Marlowe was flying through the air, over the side, toward the choppy ocean. He registered an instant of exhilaration, a thrill of flight, before the dark water rose to greet him and that joy was replaced by a terror of the deep.

  Argi stood in the longboat, knife in hand, ready to cut the rope that held the boat in place.

  Lopez ran, dragging Richard along. They leapt into the longboat and Argi chopped the tether. The boat plummeted into the drink.

  Marlowe struggled in the icy water; it soaked him to the bone almost instantly. He swam, but his sodden clothes threatened to drag him down. He swallowed first one, then several gulps of salt water, and his eyes were caked with it, making it nearly impossible to see as the waves rose around him. He could hear voices calling his name, but there were many, too many. His father, a childhood friend, Thomas Kyd—they were all beckoning him.

  Then he felt his head whack against something hard, and several hands grabbed him; pulled him upward.

  He landed, belly down and floundering, in the longboat. He belched salt water from his stomach and lungs, and sat up immediately, dagger drawn.

  “That was your plan?” Richard howled angrily. “To get thrown into the ocean?”

  “I hate the water,” Marlowe mumbled.

  “It worked, though,” Argi suggested.

  As his eyes cleared, Marlowe could see the sailors on the Ascension standing at the railing, some with firearms.

  “They won’t shoot,” Argi went on. “They can’t risk losing the prisoner. I don’t know why, but this person is very important.”

  Marlowe regained himself. “You hear that?” he asked Richard. “You’re very important.”

  Lopez glared at the ship. “That was a very strange turn of events,” he mused.

  Marlowe studied the side of Lopez’s face for a moment.

  “You mean that the captain was quite willing to have me removed from the ship on such flimsy evidence as gossip from a new crewman.”

  Lopez turned. “I hadn’t even thought of that,” he said. “I was only thinking how violent the confrontation grew, and how quickly. That captain and his crew are dressed to look fairly disciplined, under some sort of royal control, but that chaos was the behavior of—I’m sorry, Argi, my friend, but it was more like the men on your ship.”

  “They were like privateers,” Richard realized. “Did we get on the wrong ship?”

  “Or is Mr. Cordal less Walsingham’s man than we thought?” Lopez added.

  “Or did someone offer this captain enough money to subvert his more loyal intentions?” Marlowe concluded.

  Marlowe turned to Argi.

  “Tell me again how you came to be on that ship?”

  Argi busied himself with the mast and sail. “Help me with this, will you? With this kind of wind, we’ll manage ten knots. We’ll be aground in Sicily in four hours. From there—”

  “Argi,” Lopez insisted. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re taking this prisoner to the proper authorities,” the Basque said, still avoiding eye contact.

  “I hope you won’t mind if I ask,” Marlowe interjected, “which authorities might you recognize as proper?”

  Argi looked up at last. “Lord Walsingham has plans within plans, you must see that. The information that the prisoner has is too much for a single, straight line. You and the doctor, you are only a part of the larger map of things.”

  Then Argi continued his work, readying the sail.

  “He’s saying,” Lopez said to Marlowe, “that it isn’t as simple as just rescuing the prisoner and bringing that person back to London.”

  “There’s something else going on,” Marlowe agreed.

  “Before anyone’s imagination ranges out of hand,” Richard said, “I would like to insist that I know Sir Francis very well, and one of his tricks is to make people think too much.”

  Lopez and Marlowe turned as one toward Richard.

  “If he can make an enemy believe that there are ten possible answers to every question,” Richard continued, “then he has succeeded in making confusion reign, has he not?”

  “In which case, simplicity becomes a ploy.” Lopez nodded.

&nb
sp; “And honesty a diversion,” Marlowe added.

  The ship rose high on a great black wave, and came crashing down, nearly filling the longboat with dark water.

  “You can talk some more if you want to,” Argi suggested, “but could you bail while you do it?”

  Silently agreeing, everyone took up something and hastily went to work emptying the longboat of water.

  By the time the sun had set, a violent wind threw the tiny vessel forward. A nearly full moon was on the rise. The stars came out.

  Before midnight the boat had landed on the shores of Sicily, near the tower Cabrera in Pozzallo.

  As they dragged the boat onto the sand, Marlowe could not help noticing Richard’s exhaustion.

  “I fear this part of our adventure has weakened you again,” he whispered.

  “I confess”—Richard nodded, gulping air—“that I am not fully recovered from my ordeal in Malta.”

  Marlowe took Richard by the arm.

  “We should rest for a while,” he announced to the others.

  “No,” Argi insisted. “No rest. We have horses in Pozzallo. We ride to Messina. We cross to Italy. We ride in stations.”

  “Ride in stations?” Lopez asked.

  “Stations, stations,” Argi ranted. “We ride from one station to the next, where we change horses, sometimes eat, ride on—it’s very fast. I have a map.”

  He held up a crude square of leather. There were, in fact, locations, instructions, and even several passwords carved into it. And everything was in English.

  “This is from Walsingham?” Marlowe asked, staring at the map in Argi’s hand.

  The Basque nodded once.

  “All right.” Richard smiled. “Let’s go.”

  Marlowe turned to Lopez. “I wish there were a word or phrase,” he began, “that could describe the eerie feeling I’m having: that this has all happened before.”

  “You mean the feeling of being put off a ship and landing in a foreign land?” Lopez responded.

  “Well.”

  “I understand,” Lopez told his friend, “this is all too familiar.”

  The moon illuminated the beach with silver light, and gave everything there the aura of a dream. So it was less shocking than it ought to have been when Argi produced two double-barreled pistols from somewhere in his part of the longboat.

  “I am afraid, my friends, that there are only two horses. One for me. One for the prisoner. You two wait here. Someone from Captain de Ferro’s ship will be along shortly to pick you up. We made better time from the Ascension to here than I thought we would, so it may be a few hours. But it’s a nice beach, and there’s rum in the longboat.”

  With that he stepped forward, holding one gun to Richard’s head and the other aimed at Marlowe. Both guns were cocked.

  Marlowe took the slightest step and Argi smiled.

  “You have seen what kind of a shot I am,” he said to Marlowe. “And at this distance? Be reasonable. Don’t be a dead man.”

  Marlowe kept his eyes locked on Argi, but spoke to Lopez.

  “You and Richard can find your way back to London even if I’m a dead man, can’t you, Doctor?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Lopez said calmly.

  “Or—” Richard began.

  In a blur, Richard wrapped an arm around Argi’s neck, kicked the man’s feet out from under him, and dragged him backward.

  The guns went off but the shots were wild.

  Marlowe leapt forward and instantly relieved Argi of his pistols.

  Argi’s face was purple, and he was flailing so violently that he kicked off one of his boots before he passed out.

  “Not bad,” Marlowe said to Richard, tossing the guns aside.

  Argi thudded into the sand next to the boat.

  “I’d rather not go back to London without you, Kit,” Richard said lightly. “Is your leg all right to ride?”

  “My leg?”

  “You were shot.”

  “I’d forgotten. It’s nothing. And why do you keep calling me Kit? That’s only for my father.”

  “If I may point out,” Lopez interjected, “there are still only two horses. And unless we want to kill Argi, which I am loath to do since he’s probably only following orders, possibly Walsingham’s orders, someone ought to wait here with him. We don’t want him following after us, making a nuisance. And who knows, he may even have told the truth when he said that Captain de Ferro’s ship is on the way.”

  “But—” Marlowe began.

  “I should be the one to wait behind,” Lopez interrupted, rummaging around in the longboat for the promised rum. “I speak Portuguese, you do not. I know de Ferro, you do not. Also, I cannot be killed. I think you’d agree.”

  “I think it would be very difficult to do it,” Marlowe said, looking down to stifle a grin.

  “Well, then.”

  Lopez sat on the gunwale of the longboat, pulled up a bottle of rum, leaned forward, and retrieved the leather map from the sand beside the unconscious Argi. He tossed it to Marlowe.

  As if on cue, a horse whinnied from somewhere close by.

  Lopez removed a woolen scarf from his neck. “Place this around your wounded leg. Let the wound breathe.”

  Marlowe hesitated, then touched the scarf. “You’ll get it back in London.”

  “Go on,” Lopez urged. “With any luck at all, I’ll see you in London in three weeks’ time.”

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Richard said softly. “We should go.”

  Marlowe nodded.

  “Three weeks, then,” he said, not looking at Lopez.

  Richard took Marlowe’s arm and, without another word, they headed off.

  The moon was high. Lopez watched the two silvery figures rise up into the air as they mounted their horses. He watched as they disappeared over the next dune.

  Only then did Lopez hoist the bottle of rum over his head for a moment.

  “Good-bye, my friend,” he whispered, and then drank very deeply from the bottle.

  From behind him a groggy voice called out, “Save a little of the rum for me.”

  Lopez did not look back, but he did hold out the bottle. Argi hobbled over and took it.

  “That went well,” he said to Lopez, taking a healthy drink.

  “I hate this plan,” Lopez growled.

  “You’re not the one who was beaten by a girl.” Argi handed the rum back to the doctor. “The captain’s ship is just over there, in a small cove. Let’s go.”

  Lopez stood, took the rum from Argi, and finished half the bottle.

  “I suppose so.” He sighed.

  Without warning, a shot rang out. A plank in the longboat splintered. Lopez leapt forward. Argi dropped.

  An instant later six or seven men appeared over the top of the nearest dune.

  “Maltese knights!” Argi cried.

  “No,” Lopez countered, pulling out his rapier and dagger. “Look at them!”

  All of the approaching men were dressed in azure uniforms with thick black gloves, crowned with Arabic headdresses.

  Argi rolled in the sand, scooping up his guns as he went. With a single motion he laid the weapons in his lap and began to reload first one, then the other.

  Lopez advanced. Two men in the lead were carrying Bedouin swords, thick steel but less wieldy than the rapier. One ran directly for Lopez while the other moved to the side, outflanking him.

  Two more steps, and Lopez dropped to one knee. He sucked in a deep breath and threw his dagger at the man coming at him. It hit the attacker in the belly, and the man howled. Lopez had his red cloak off in the next instant. He charged the other man to his side, whirling the cloak above his head. When he was close enough, the cloak descended, covering the man. Lopez thrust his rapier and pierced that man’s heart.

  Argi was up, double-barreled pistols loaded. One blast took down one of the agents, but his second gun would not fire, soiled by sand.

  Argi was in peril; three men were coming his way. He withdrew
a small knife from his boot and roared an incoherent threat.

  Lopez saw, let go of his cloak, and rushed to Argi’s side.

  As he did, another shot rang out, and Lopez felt a white-hot explosion in his side. As he fell he saw a silver blade cut Argi from shoulder to waist. Argi fell backward into the sand. Lopez struggled to rise but a second bullet bit his arm.

  Lopez watched as several agents swarmed around Argi.

  Then the flash of a dagger caught his eye as it flew directly toward his head.

  ELEVEN

  LONDON

  It was a small room, but it was in the Palace of Whitehall. Marlowe stood, paced, and even dared to sit down once or twice. Hours passed. He’d studied every inch of the room. It was ten foot square. Only one wall was given a tapestry, the other three were bare, gray stone. There was a table with two chairs, a desk with another chair, a small washbasin and a chamber pot, which seemed odd. There was no cot or bed. It was impossible to determine what manner of room this was supposed to be.

  A sizeable bunch of gillyflowers and musk roses lay on the table. They made the air very sweet, and brought to Marlowe’s mind, once again, the journey he and Frances had shared, returning to London.

  * * *

  The sky was dark and Frances was sleeping, still dressed as Richard. The shelter she and Marlowe had found barely kept out the rain, and she was shivering in her sleep. Marlowe saw it, and covered her with his riding cloak.

  He watched her face, glancing every now and again across the moonlit fields somewhere in the south of France. They’d already endured nearly a week’s hard riding, with another long week ahead. There was little time for talk, but when they managed a word or two, every syllable imprinted itself on Marlowe’s brain, like a cattle brand, or Inquisition torture.

  Marlowe found that he could not sleep well lying next to her. Everything about her was distracting, fascinating. Even as she slept, sighing slightly, dressed convincingly as a man, her body was a flame, fluttering, blinking; living in a circle of light.

  At first he did his best to tell her how he felt, but she hadn’t taken him seriously. So he hid his true feelings, instead discussing his theories, idle supposition, concerning the murder of Walter Pygott.