A Prisoner in Malta

by Phillip DePoy

  “God in heaven.” Frances stood then. “That means—do you realize what that means?”

  “Among other things?” Marlowe stood too. “It means that the person who murdered Walter Pygott is the same one trying to kill our Queen.”

  Frances leaned over the table, her voice greatly lowered. “This document does not say which lady is the cohort?”

  “No,” Marlowe answered, “but it’s not obvious? The conspirator is Bess Throckmorton, your companion in the Queen’s chambers.”

  “No.” Frances closed her eyes. “I can’t believe it. She is like a sister to me, and the Queen’s favorite, despite the betrayal of her kinsman.”

  “And yet she is not here,” Marlowe said.

  Frances nodded. “I cannot force myself to think her a murderess. Why could it not be Carier himself?”

  “He may be the man in charge of the treachery,” Marlowe answered, “but how would he gain access to the Queen’s inner chambers?”

  “And not Frizer himself, for the same reason,” she said absently. “Bess is the logical suspect.”

  “Yes,” Marlowe agreed, “but you understand now why Frizer is not to be trusted.”

  “He’s taken Carier to London.”

  “And,” Marlowe added, “I’d be very much surprised if Frizer has done as he was told.”

  “You mean the letters we found in your room.” She shook her head. “He has not delivered the Mendoza letters to my father.”

  “I believe not.”

  “We must leave for London immediately,” she said. “We cannot wait. I’ll make some excuse to get away. Perhaps a ride about the estate. I’ll request a groomsman from the stables as an escort. Geordie will assign you.”

  “And Tin,” Marlowe mumbled. “She’ll go with us.”

  Frances stopped. “What?”

  “She longs for London,” Marlowe told her. “We had a talk.”

  Frances was about to respond to Marlowe when a sudden noise behind one of the barrel racks startled them both.

  Marlowe’s rapier was in his hand instantly, and Frances held a long dagger low and close to her thigh.

  Without a word, Marlowe moved to his right; Frances to her left.

  For a moment there was a complete absence of sound, then a small scrape betrayed the location of the intruder.

  Out of the corner of his eye Marlowe saw Frances move to the edge of the barrel rack. Marlowe countered, around the other side. The rack nearly touched the ceiling of the cellar, and was ten feet long, big enough for nine large, stacked barrels of wine.

  As if reading each other’s minds, Marlowe and Frances stood as one. Then, prompted by some invisible clue, both leapt, boxing in the intruder.

  A squeal of terror broke the silence, and Marlowe stood face-to-face with the redheaded girl who had led him to the cellar. She was quaking and gasping.

  Marlowe took a step closer to her. She squealed again and turned, only to find Frances and a dagger in her way.

  “What are you doing here?” Frances snapped.

  The girl burst into tears.

  Remembering himself, Marlowe returned his sword to its scabbard and came to stand beside the girl.

  “This wasn’t your idea,” he began in soothing tones. “Someone told you to come into the cellar and—and see what we were saying.”

  The girl nodded, but would not stop crying.

  “Who told you to spy on me?” Frances demanded.

  The girl was unable to answer. Shivering wracked her body and she was having difficulty breathing.

  Marlowe knelt.

  “I hate secrets,” he said to the girl. “I don’t like to have them in my head. You’re probably the same. No one will harm you if you tell the truth.”

  The girl nodded, doing her best to stop crying.

  “The truth shall make you free,” the girl whispered, “Our Lord Jesus said.”

  Marlowe could not hold back a slight smile. “He did indeed.”

  The girl looked down.

  “Tin says I was to listen,” the girl murmured.

  Marlowe looked up at Frances. “Tin?”

  “Did she tell you why she wanted you to do it?” Frances asked the girl.

  The girl shook her head.

  “And what did you hear?” Marlowe asked cautiously.

  “I don’t know,” she confessed, “couldn’t make sense of it. Something about letters and documents and the Queen. And—and you’re leaving for London.”

  Marlowe stood.

  “Now what?” he asked Frances.

  “Is everyone on the planet suspect?” she answered, mostly to herself.

  “Yes,” Marlowe affirmed. “You should go. Make your excuses, ask for your groomsman; prepare to return to London. I’ll go back to the stables with—what is your name, child?”

  “Rebec,” she responded at once.

  Marlowe looked down at her. “For Rebecca?”

  “No,” she answered, barely above a whisper, “for the musical instrument. It has strings. My father was a musician here.”

  “I—very well,” Marlowe said, “Rebec and I shall repair to the stables, there to confront young Tin with regard to—listen. I do not wish to be indelicate, but Tin is—Tin has certain feelings for you that—is it possible—”

  “Yes,” Frances said curtly, not looking at Marlowe. “That is the most likely reason this girl was sent to spy on us. Tin knows that I do not share her affections. And that I bear a certain—attachment to you. Kit.”

  He smiled at that. Then he realized that his heart had quickened to hear her say it.

  “I’ve told you not to call me that,” he said softly. “And you do realize, of course, that I—that the reason I came to Coughton, the actual reason—”

  “We must hurry,” Frances interrupted. “I concur with your plan: I’ll make excuses for London, you settle things with Tin.”

  Without another word Frances headed for the door.

  “You understand,” Marlowe called after her, “that mine is by far the more difficult task.”

  The only response she offered was the closing of the cellar door.

  TWENTY-SIX

  The stables smelled of new hay and old leather. Rebec took Marlowe’s hand and walked in silence toward the farthest stall, where someone was raising a racket.

  When they came to the stall Marlowe saw that Tin was whirling madly, blindfolded, skirts hiked to her waist, rapier in hand. She stabbed rhythmically at certain intervals, and managed to hit the exact spot at every rotation. Then, as if sensing Marlowe’s presence, she stopped turning and thrust her rapier, freezing its point only inches from Marlowe’s face. Rebec shrieked.

  Tin tore off her blindfold and stepped back. Marlowe had not moved. Rebec was cowering behind him, sobbing again.

  “You should never have sent my friend Rebec to spy on me,” Marlowe said, petting the little girl’s head. “It frightened her. And now you’ve tried to kill her. Honestly, Tin, if you want to know what I’m up to, you have only to ask. As I’ve explained to the girl, I hate secrets.”

  Momentarily made speechless by Marlowe’s words, Tin stood frozen until she remembered that her skirts were not remotely covering her bare legs, and had in all probability revealed that she wore no undergarment. Her face flushed, she loosened her belt and her skirt fell to her ankles.

  “Am I your friend?” Rebec whispered to Marlowe.

  He looked down at her. “Of course you are. We’ve met twice in one day, once in a garden and once in a hidden place. In some parts of England, that would make us betrothed.”

  The girl blushed and giggled once.

  Tin lowered her rapier.

  “That’s better,” Marlowe told her. “Now, what would you like to know?”

  “I—I wanted to know,” Tin began, but seemed unable to continue her thought and, instead, sighed as if she had just learned some terrible news.

  Marlowe smiled at Rebec. “Would you like to leave now?”

  “Yes, please,
” she piped.

  Marlowe nodded once, and the girl ran, gone from the stables in a matter of seconds.

  “What would you like to know?” he said again, more softly.

  She shook her head. “I already know it.”

  “Your affection for Frances has not abated.”

  “Has yours?” she shot back accusingly.

  “Alas,” was his only answer.

  “That’s why you came here,” Tin went on, here face hot and her eyes wet. “You came for her.”

  Marlowe wondered how much he should tell her and how much he should hide, a difficult thought considering that he had just been so vehement about hating secrets.

  “I came because it’s time for us to go back to London and finish things,” he said, his voice soft and steady, “to solve a murder and save a queen.”

  Tin blinked.

  “You came to save your skin and win a maid,” she countered.

  “I hope you will think better of me,” he responded patiently, “when I tell you that it occurs to me that you might come with us.”

  Tin could not believe her ears.

  “To London?” she managed to say, her voice weaker than the little girl’s.

  “I have no idea why I suggested it to Frances,” Marlowe confessed. “But, yes, let us discuss it with your father and see what he says.”

  “He’ll say I can’t go,” she answered immediately. “He says that every time I want to leave his stables.”

  Her voice was forlorn, the sound of someone defeated before the battle had begun.

  “And yet you came to Cambridge,” Marlowe said.

  Tin twitched and her eyes grew wide for a moment, and then she exhaled. “Yes. I did.”

  “You left without telling your father.”

  “I left without telling him the truth,” she admitted. “I said I was going to Northampton. For a special mare physic.”

  Marlowe nodded, but he wasn’t certain he believed her.

  “What will you tell him this time?” he asked.

  “Why are you—why have you asked me to go?”

  Marlowe looked away, out the open stable doors, into the sunlight on the stones. He was surprised, once more, at his response.

  “I am in pursuit of the man who killed Walter Pygott. He is named Carier and he’s gone to London with Ingram Frizer to aid in the murder of our Queen. If I find him and stop him, all justice will be satisfied. I was once accused of being very young. It was a crime of which I was guilty, until experience rewrote the indictment. You paint yourself with that same brush of youth. Life is not always about the maiden one loves, or the wine one gets, or even the friend one loses. Sometimes there is a higher purpose, one beyond the boundaries of appetite and longing.”

  Tin would not look at Marlowe.

  “A fine speech,” she whispered bitterly, “but those are the words of a man. What do women have in this world but passion—and regret? What higher purpose can there be than love? Love spins the globe. Love built our religion. Our Lord’s message was clear and concise: love everyone and do no harm—a task too difficult for most men, but the secret virtue of every woman on the planet.”

  “Spoken,” Marlowe sighed, “like a very young person.”

  It only took a moment for Marlowe to realize that those were essentially the words Lopez had said to him.

  “I am not so young as you might imagine,” Tin snapped, not realizing Marlowe’s sudden melancholy. “I have done things beyond my years.”

  “As have I,” Marlowe said, cutting her off impatiently. “Do you want to go to London with us or not? Frances will be safer, you’ll have a chance at the life you want, and I’ll have help with my task.”

  Tin only thought for a moment. “I do know Frizer by sight, of course,” she mused. “And I am not the worst with a rapier. I practice daily.”

  “So I observed,” Marlowe agreed, beginning to smile.

  “And you know who killed Pygott, but you’ll need help with that.”

  “Yes.”

  “London.” Tin said the word with a mixture of longing and wonder. “I might even find a young man there, one who would not mind my forward nature. If Frances can do it, so can I.”

  “I believe you could,” Marlowe responded, unable to hide a grin.

  “I’m still not certain why you’ve asked me to come with you,” she said, eyeing Marlowe suspiciously.

  “Nor am I,” Marlowe admitted, “but of late I have come to rely on my instinct as much as my intellect.”

  Tin looked Marlowe in the eye, and smiled back at last.

  “A very feminine attribute,” she told him.

  “If you seek to insult me,” he warned her, laughing, “you’ll have to do better than that. I cannot count the number of feminine attributes I admire.”

  “Nor can I,” Tin answered. “How strangely alike we are.”

  “In many ways,” Marlowe agreed. “So. Shall we go to London and save the world now, or would you rather eat something first?”

  She considered before suggesting, “I could murder a boiled egg.”

  Before they had taken two steps they heard Rebec’s voice call out in a very theatrical manner.

  “Good morning, sir,” she sang out, “what a wonderful surprise to see you here in our stables so early!”

  One of the men grumbled something and the girl fell silent.

  “Throckmorton,” Tin whispered.

  She pointed to an empty stall and hid her rapier behind several bales of hay. Marlowe moved silently and hid himself just as Tin stepped into the open area of the stables.

  “Sir Francis,” she said deferentially, “and Sir John. Shall I ready horses?”

  A whining, effete voice complained, “There are quite a number of girls in your employ, Sir Francis.”

  “Pardon, my lord,” Tin went on. “I am only the stable master’s daughter. Shall I fetch my father?”

  “At once!” the other, more commanding voice insisted.

  Tin scurried away.

  Marlowe peered between slats in the stall, and saw the two men.

  One was an older, fatter version of Walter Pygott: chinless, slack-jawed, and balding. The other, Throckmorton, was stiff as a rail, tall but weak-chested. Pygott was dressed for travel: buttoned cloaks and thick gloves.

  “You make too much of the feminine presence here,” Throckmorton said to Pygott in a low voice. “The one you fear is but my daughter’s companion.”

  “I will not stay and be discovered here by Walsingham’s daughter!” Pygott objected. “We must assume that she reports everything to the father.”

  “She’s a girl,” Throckmorton chastened.

  “And girls chatter,” Pygott countered. “I daren’t be gossip fodder.”

  Throckmorton considered the thought and sipped a breath. “Perhaps you’re right. The better valor lies in safety. The plan proceeds apace. The bitch Queen will be dead within the week.”

  Pygott smiled. “It’s a brilliant gambit, tricking the Queen’s most trusted girl.”

  “Silence,” Throckmorton commanded. “How many times must I tell you not to speak of these things aloud?”

  Pygott laughed, looking about. “Are you afraid that one of your horses will give us away?”

  “I am afraid that your idiot son has already done that!”

  “My idiot son is dead,” Pygott yawned, “and his demise served us well.”

  “I don’t see why you and Mendoza place so much emphasis on this student Marlowe. Why pursue him for your son’s murder?”

  “Because Walsingham has been watching him, and the Jew trained him,” Pygott snapped. “He is an unknown commodity and a risk we cannot afford. He must be eliminated precisely because we don’t know what he can do.”

  “Well,” Throckmorton answered with a toss of his head, “Mendoza has seen to it, and that is that. Now listen to me carefully.”

  But before he could go on, Geordie interrupted, barreling into the stables.

  “Pard
on, sire,” he announced, “I’ve made ready the two best, the black Arab and the sable—”

  “Just Sir John’s horse,” Throckmorton interrupted.

  And without further ado, he strode out of the stables, followed by the other two.

  Marlowe let go a breath. These two men weren’t capable of taking a piss without help. He’d come face-to-face with devils only to discover they were fools instead. Mendoza was the puppet master. He, not Pygott, was responsible for the Arab assassins, and for Walter Pygott’s death.

  * * *

  By early afternoon Marlowe, Frances, Tin, Rebec, and Geordie were gathered in the most remote stall of the stables. Rebec was shaking with excitement, unable to control her joy at being included in such adult adventures. She had worked most of the morning as a go-between for Frances and Marlowe. She had reconciled with Tin; Geordie had let Rebec feed three horses by herself. It was the best day of her life.

  She stood in the stall silently, looking up at everyone as they whispered.

  “My host believes I will be gone for the morning riding,” Frances said to Geordie, “and that I’ve taken a groomsman with me for protection. It was a nice touch. The men in the house thought it was an appealing bit of weakness from a woman they had come to think of as too masculine, I suppose.”

  “And of course the groomsman is Marlowe”—Geordie nodded—“so that no one will think anything of it when they see the two of you riding together.”

  “And I have let it be known,” Tin said, “thanks to Rebec, that I am bound for Northampton once again. I was going there anyway, on an errand of trade with an eye toward our breeding program.”

  “So that no one will suspect when they see you with Frances’s kit,” Geordie said. “They’ll take it for equipment and trade items.”

  “I’ll return the kit to Frances on the road closer to Northampton,” Tin added.

  “But what happens when you don’t return from your ride?” Geordie asked Frances. “Night comes on, you’re not here; my new groomsman is missing. It won’t take long for that lot up in the manse to realize something’s not right.”

  Marlowe smiled. “Rebec’s thought of something.”

  He looked down at her and nodded, encouraging her to speak.

  “Well,” she began breathlessly, “what if I was to say that I saw Mistress Frances and—and a man, a stranger. They would think—everyone would say that she had a sweetheart, you see, and that she and this sweetheart had gone away together.”