A Prisoner in Malta

by Phillip DePoy

  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.

  “And research
tells you about our burial prayers?”

  Marlowe nodded. “I will attend to these men if you leave quietly now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then you will owe me a debt,” Marlowe answered.

  The man looked away at last.

  ”My name is Fahd. If you kill me, I would like you to know it, as I know yours.”

  With that he and his companion left immediately.

  “What the hell was all that?” the landlord demanded after he was certain the men were gone.

  “They tried to kill me,” Marlowe answered vaguely, already beginning to wonder how he would actually dispose of the bodies in his doorway.

  “Well, I won’t stand for it,” the landlord raged. “You pack off. Take them corpses with you.”

  Marlowe sighed. “Yes. Let me get my boots on.”

  He turned and went back into his room. The landlord came to the doorway, trying not to look at the bodies.

  “And you get no refund, you see,” the landlord went on, still holding his musket. “Disturbing the peace is a crime in this town.”

  “I didn’t disturb the peace,” Marlowe objected, pointing to the corpses. “They did. I was asleep. Peacefully!”

  “Well.” The landlord exhaled. “I see the truth of that. But you can’t stay. And you have to get rid of this trash.”

  Marlowe sighed and pulled on his boots. He was suddenly faced with the prospect of disposing of dead bodies, and the difficulty of that project gave him a new appreciation for the plight of the men who’d labored to deal with Pygott’s body.

  “Is there a field nearby,” he asked, “or a yard that’s not too public? I mean to bury these men tonight.”

  The landlord’s first impulse was to renew his scolding. He raised a partial fist and sucked in a breath. But Marlowe stopped him with the two words.

  “I’ll pay.”

  The landlord turned his head.

  “I’ve got a small garden out back,” he said calmly.

  Marlowe stood. “Well, then. I’ll lug these guts downstairs if you’ll introduce me to your shovel.”

  * * *

  After bathing his would-be killers, Marlowe said aloud the words of a prayer seeking pardon for the deceased. Salat al-Janazah was the collective obligation of all Muslims. If no one fulfilled it, all Muslims were accountable. After the words were spoken, he buried the dead men in the landlord’s garden.

  Several hours later Marlowe was on the moonlit road to Coughton Court, surprisingly well-rested, contemplating the man who called himself Fahd. He knew that Fahd would kill him if he had the opportunity, but it would be with reluctance, because they’d exchanged names. Fahd reminded him of the Jews he’d met on Malta. It was truly said that Jews and Arabs were only feuding cousins—family squabbles were the deadliest on the planet.

  On a less philosophical note, Marlowe began once more to question everything about the attack at St. Benet’s. Was Boyle somehow a part of that treachery? But Boyle, too, had been nearly killed by the brutes. Did Professor Bartholomew alert the killers? But the timing was nearly impossible, and the motive was absolutely opaque. Could the farmer, Tom, have been involved somehow? That man had, after all, been a part of the original band who attacked the coach to London. Marlowe’s head swam with dozens more questions, and no answers.

  Finally Marlowe settled once again on immediate practicalities. He began to develop a plan for his appearance at Coughton. Of course he would try to avoid Throckmorton himself, owing to the close relation with the Pygott brood. But he would have to alert Frances of his presence without being seen by very many people. His murder investigation had produced more questions than answers. He had a list of men who had not killed Pygott, and only conjecture to say who had. Maybe Frances had discovered something. It would also be important to confirm suspicions of Throckmorton’s direct interaction with the Spanish ambassador, Mendoza, if the message in the Bible was the reason for Pygott’s death.

  The best hiding place would be with Tin and her father in the stables. Marlowe might even masquerade as an ostler. He knew horses. It might work. Yes. Assume the role of a carefree ostler for a week or two. It might even be a welcome moment of calm, even respite. As he considered it, he grew happier with the idea.

  The day dawned. The road widened. Narcissus were suddenly everywhere in the clear light. Green buds filled the trees and called to his mind a line of poetry: “leaves that differed both in shape and show, like to the checkered bent of Iris’ bow.”

  Marlowe lamented that the beauties of spring were lost on him. More urgent matters had supplanted nature’s effort. It suddenly seemed to him that spring and passion ought to be all there was to life, and he ardently wished to rekindle the simpler longings of a young man in May.

  But just as he thought that, his horse came to the top of a small rise in the road, and Coughton Court came into view.

  Its entrance was reminiscent of the grander one at Hampton Court, with two towers on either side, but the surrounding buildings and gardens made the place more a home than a castle. The immediate grounds stretched in every direction, more than twenty acres, and beyond them: untold miles of property.

  Though it was just after dawn, working men were about. Marlowe slowed his horse, sat for a moment studying the estate. He did not dare brazen his way in for fear of being recognized as Walter Pygott’s killer. He would have to find Tin and her father, which meant he would have to find the stables. To find the stables without attracting too much attention, he would have to assume another disguise.

  He slid down from his horse, pulled off his doublet, turned it inside out, and put it back on again. The gray linen lining was a bit worse for wear, but once the collar was turned down and the sleeves pushed up, it could almost pass for a servant’s garment.

  He took off his rapier and secured it to the saddle, slightly hidden. Then he tucked his dagger away under his doublet, invisible to anyone.

  Next, he looked around for a stone.

  Finding a small round one, he took out the dagger.

  “Sorry,” he said to the horse, patting its neck, “it’ll only last a moment or two.”

  With that he pried a small gap between the front left shoe and the horse’s hoof and wedged the pebble there.

  “Right,” he whispered to the horse, “let’s go. The sooner we get there, the quicker we’ll get that out.”

  He put his dagger away, ran his fingers through his hair, setting it awry, and then began to walk toward a side entrance to Coughton, leading the limping horse.

  As he drew near he assumed a pained gait, altering his body, appearing much older than his nineteen years. He was noticed as soon as he came within five hundred yards of the gate.

  Two men looked up from pulling weeds, another stood staring, his weight on one leg.

  Marlowe soured his face a little, nodded at the men once, and took in a deep, rattling breath.

  “The master’s horse is got a limp,” he wheezed. “I’m told to see Tin’s father, the stable master here. And to be quick about it. The master’s up the road, impatient as ever, and looking to take it out on me.”

  The standing man nodded. “Tin’s father, is it?”

  “If you please,” Marlowe said wearily, lowering his voice. “Otherwise I’ve got the notion the old man’s riding me back to Northampton.”

  The men kneeling on the ground laughed at that.

  “He’s from Northampton, your master?” the standing man asked suspiciously.

  “No,” Marlowe answered, “he’s from Cambridge.”

  “I see,” said the man, “and what’s his name, at all?”

  Marlowe’s eyes narrowed. “His name? It’s not to be bandied about by the likes of us. Do you want me to walk this poor horse back to him and say I was turned away?”

  “He knows Tin,” one of the men on the ground said reasonably.

  “Well,” the standing man sighed.

  “I thank you,” Marlowe said, headed for the gate, “and the hors
e thanks you double.”

  “It’s just to the right and back as you go in,” one of the men on the ground called out.

  “Many thanks,” Marlowe answered back, his voice deliberately exhausted.

  Once inside the gate, the yard and the grounds and the general appearance of the home were all remarkable. Everything was astonishingly clean and well-kept. Even the stones in the courtyard seemed scrubbed and washed.

  Marlowe’s nose led him to the stables. As he drew near them he had the distinct impression that they were a tiny kingdom all their own. Tin’s father might be considered Yeoman of the Horse rather than a more common stable master, which would mean he was in charge of acquiring most of his own goods and services. And if that were true, he might hire Marlowe without much fuss, and Marlowe could take care of his business at Coughton more quickly.

  Marlowe came to an open doorway and stood quietly, petting his horse’s neck.

  After a moment a voice came from within.

  “What is it?” the gruff man asked.

  “I’m sent,” Marlowe replied with just the right degree of growl.

  “Sent?”

  “The master’s told me to take this horse to Tin’s father. It’s come up lame, he says.”

  Out of the shadows a sleek otter of a man emerged, gray hair full and wild atop his head. He wore work clothes, but they were immaculately clean. His face was like the leather on the saddle Marlowe’s horse wore: brown but smooth, aged but soft.

  “Tin!” he roared.

  “Sh!” a voice immediately behind Marlowe insisted.

  Marlowe spun around, reaching for his dagger. He came face-to-face with Tin. No longer dressed in her gray man’s costume, she wore a plain green linen dress. Marlowe found it a significant garment: the Queen’s Sumptuary Laws allowed both lower and upper classes of women to wear that particular color. It meant that Tin could move as freely in the household as she could in the stables.

  Marlowe tried his best to maintain a slightly contorted face. Tin stared into his eyes. After a moment she smiled.

  “Let us go into the stall here, sir,” she said with great amusement to Marlowe, “and see what might be done for your master’s horse.”