A Prisoner in Malta

by Phillip DePoy

The sky was dark and the moon was dim. It was only nine o’clock, but the air had midnight in it. Marlowe felt for the dagger hidden at his side, and the second one in his boot. The rapier was deliberately obvious.

  Despite hard weeks, little food, and less sleep, Marlowe felt the intense thrill of being alive. He knew that he was perched on the precipice of history, and that he would soon be the Queen’s salvation. Or he would be dead.

  The street outside the crypt tavern was narrow and strangely curved. While the moon’s light illuminated the stones around him, though barely, Marlowe could not see the moon itself. He took a moment to consider what sort of metaphor that might be—that he could only see the effect of the light, not the source—but that poetical exercise was interrupted. Someone came at him silently and held a blade at his back.

  “If you turn around,” the man behind Marlowe rasped, “I’ll stick this through your ribs. It’s a long blade. It’ll come out the other side.”

  “Fair enough,” Marlowe answered amiably, “and what will you do if I don’t turn around?”

  “I’ll ask you several questions,” the man replied.

  Marlowe nodded. “I like a good game, but let’s make it more interesting. For every question I answer correctly, I get to cut off one of your fingers. We’ll keep the stakes small, I’ll start with the littlest.”

  “What?” the man snapped.

  Without warning Marlowe grabbed the hilt of his rapier and tipped it, neatly forcing the man to stumble backward. That done Marlowe twirled, almost dancing, and in a flash the point of his own rapier was touching the other man’s gullet.

  “Now then,” Marlowe said lazily, “ask your first question.”

  The man gaped, still holding his dagger, mouth open, eyes wide.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Marlowe continued, “I’ll give you the first question for free—but the bet still stands.”

  The man licked his lips, trying not to move too much. The point of Marlowe’s rapier tickled a small nick of blood from his Adam’s apple.

  “Ask,” Marlowe demanded.

  The man sucked in a breath. His face was obscured by a cowl. Perhaps he was a monk, impossible to tell. He wore a plain black robe under an unadorned black cape attached to the cowl. The knife was interesting. It was made of silver, more a work of art than a weapon.

  The man managed his first words in full voice, despite obvious trepidation: “The moon shines bright in such a night as this, does it not?”

  It was one of the questions that Walsingham’s notes had told him to expect. He offered the countersign.

  “In such a night did Thisbe fearfully trip the dew,” Marlowe answered.

  The man nodded, relieved, and went on. “In such a night stood Dido with a willow in her hand.”

  Marlowe smiled. “And in such a night Media gathered the enchanted herbs, are we done?”

  “I heartily beg your pardon,” the man said, swallowing. “You understand I have orders.”

  “But do you understand that these words we’ve just spoken are an allusion to the Easter Mass, only thinly veiled?”

  The man blinked. “They are?”

  “What manner of Catholic are you,” Marlowe growled, “that you don’t recognize that? The moonlight, the suggestion of music, the repeated use of the phrase ‘in such a night’?”

  “Please,” the man coughed, “let’s just go in.”

  Marlowe hesitated, but sheathed his rapier. The man, as an afterthought, put away his knife and moved past Marlowe, headed for a small alleyway.

  “I detest these stupid codes,” Marlowe complained. “Some idiot half as clever as he thinks has devised a secret language twice as complicated as it needs to be.”

  “I don’t know what it means,” the man answered. “I just say the words.”

  “Spoken like a true Catholic,” Marlowe mumbled.

  “What’s that?” the man said, cupping his ear but not bothering to turn around.

  “I hope there’s ale,” Marlowe answered loudly.

  “Aye,” the man said, granting himself a single chuckle. “Where there’s men of God, I always find good drink.”

  The man turned into an open doorway, waved to someone, and stood aside.

  Marlowe stepped in. He found himself at the top of a short staircase staring into an ancient burial arena. Torches did their best to illuminate the place, but a palpable air of gloom and decay could not be so easily overcome. The gray stones seemed to absorb sound rather than echo it, and it was quiet as the grave.

  The crypt had been left as it had always been, without an iota of adornment. Only tables and chairs had been added. It seemed an appropriate place for a meeting between men who might, at any moment, be dead.

  “That’s him,” the man told Marlowe, nodding in the direction of a man in inky blue robes.

  The first thing Marlowe noticed about William Allen was that his beard was divided. Beginning at his chin, it grew in two separate and distinct directions. Though Allen had the eyes of a doe, he had the beard of a satyr.

  That assessment made Marlowe smile as he descended the stairs into the dank tavern.

  Several men sat around tables. There were no women in the place so far as Marlowe could tell. A plank set on several up-ended barrels served as a bar. Tall barrel racks made walls against the darker inner reaches of the crypt. No one looked at Marlowe as he strode toward Allen, not even Allen himself. But out of the corner of his eye Marlowe observed several shadows behind one of the barrel racks, and one of the men at one of the tables had a cocked pistol on his lap.

  Marlowe came to Allen’s table and sat without being asked. He took hold of the jug next to Allen’s cup and pulled it toward him. Eyes on Allen, who had still not looked up, Marlowe raised the jug to his lips and drank.

  “Claret,” Marlowe remarked, setting down the jug. “French wine. That’s interesting.”

  “The French,” Allen said softly, “see wine when they look at any grape.”

  “And they see the Pope,” Marlowe countered, “when they look at any church.”

  “Yes.” Allen looked up at last.

  “You knew my father, once,” Marlowe guessed.

  It was a good guess: unimportant if it were not true, significant if it were.

  “He was of some small service to our cause in Canterbury,” Allen agreed. “But that was long ago.”

  “And you wonder if time has altered his sympathies.”

  “No,” Allen said, eyes now locked on Marlowe’s. “I wonder if you share them.”

  “I wonder if you know me at all, sir.”

  “I know that you have been missing from your Cambridge classes for some time. I know that you are wanted for murder. I know that the man you murdered was in our service.”

  “Would you happen to know,” Marlowe interrupted, “how I’ll fare on my year-end examinations? I’m a bit apprehensive about them, having missed so much instruction, and you seem to know everything else.”

  “I know that you are a degenerate poet,” Allen went on as if Marlowe had not spoken, “and I know that you have no honor.”

  “Ah,” Marlowe interrupted again, “there’s the one false note. You had the tone almost right, but you insisted on going a single step too far. Too clever by half.”

  Allen took in a breath as if to speak again, but remained silent, staring at Marlowe.

  “I understand that you mean to provoke me by saying that I have no honor,” Marlowe continued, “because you have heard that I am easily provoked. I was a boy six weeks ago, and might have leapt to my feet then, dagger drawn. But I’ve lived a strange life since then, and I better understand the odd things men do in order to manipulate the weak of mind. If I may say it: I possess the strongest mind you will ever meet in this life.”

  Marlowe set his elbows on the table and leaned forward, a slight smile in his lips. He produced one of the pages given him by Walsingham and slid it slowly across the tabletop. It was a note of safe conduct from Mendoza.

&nb
sp; Allen’s eyes flashed for a second, and Marlowe heard a slight clicking sound behind him, a pistol being uncocked slowly.

  “Well,” Allen said with a tilt of his head, “I won’t kill you just yet.”

  “Nor I you,” Marlowe answered, “for the moment.”

  Allen sneered. “If you kill me you’ll be dead the next instant.”

  “But that won’t bring you back to life,” Marlowe said lightly. “And it’s all one to me. I’m ready to explore what lies out there beyond this life, the undiscovered country. Are you?”

  “Maybe tomorrow.” Allen sighed. “I have work to do today.”

  “Then may we get on with it,” Marlowe snapped impatiently, “and have done with all this bandy?”

  “You want me to believe you’ll help us?”

  “I’ve already helped you,” Marlowe answered. “I’ve killed that idiot Pygott and rid you of a weakness in your scheme.”

  Allen sat back. He tried to hide the look of surprise on his face, but it was too late. Marlowe had seen it.

  “What’s more,” Marlowe pressed on, “I have friends in your contingent of Basque troops.”

  Allen’s face betrayed him once more, telling Marlowe that he had been correct in such a wild postulation.

  “Those men, the Basque men, have gone missing.” Allen steadied himself. “Perhaps you can tell me where they have got to.”

  “They are men of strange conscience,” Marlowe answered. “Separatists. They may simply have gone home.”

  “And you admit your responsibility for Pygott.” Allen sighed again. “Well.”

  One of the figures that had been hiding behind the huge wine barrel racks rounded the dark corner into the flickering torchlight.

  “So you did kill that sack of bones after all,” said Ingram Frizer, walking toward the table. “You almost had me believing you was innocent.”

  “I had no idea whose side you were on,” Marlowe said to Frizer, though he kept his eyes locked on Allen’s. “Best not to reveal too much to a double agent.”

  Allen’s eyes shot toward Frizer’s approaching saunter.

  “It’s all right,” Frizer assured Allen. “The girl, Lady Walsingham, she most likely told him that. The trouble is, you see, Mr. Marlowe, once a thing is bent, it’s difficult to tell which way it’s pointing.”

  “Yes.” Allen smiled. “Well, that particular person is no longer—Frances Walsingham—she is no longer a problem.”

  Marlowe tensed before he could stop himself. Hoping no one had noticed, he quickly leaned forward and glared at Allen.

  “You sent this man Frizer to enlist me in a cause,” Marlowe snapped, “to which I was already affixed.”

  “Affixed?” Allen’s head tilted. “What an odd way to put it. I had been told you were better with words than that. It was a clumsy turn of phrase.”

  “It was a clumsy thing to do,” Marlowe countered, “sending Frizer, trying to force me into St. Benet’s to retrieve your Bible. When, exactly, did you realize that Walter Pygott didn’t have the brains or the guts to do your work?”

  There was a commotion at the door to the tavern, and the man who had accosted Marlowe in the streets came rushing in.

  “Queen’s guard,” he muttered, heading toward the inner recesses of the crypt. “Something’s happening!”

  Everyone in the tavern stood and moved at once.

  “This way,” Allen whispered to Marlowe.

  Without further ado, the men in the crypt raced almost silently to the hallways behind the barrel racks, and into darkness.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Past ancient dead bodies, into a sewer, up stone stairs, Marlowe, Allen, and Frizer came out into the moonlight, near the river. The others had gone separate ways. The night was dark and the wind was high; clouds ran past the moon.

  Allen’s face betrayed a troubled mind. He was still trying to decide about Marlowe’s true affiliation. So as he walked along the river’s edge with Frizer and Allen, Marlowe chose to shove matters forward.

  “I can’t afford to be seen with you two,” Marlowe whispered, “especially not by the Queen’s guard. I’ll go my own way, and we’ll meet again before dawn with Robert Parsons in Fulham.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Marlowe headed in an easterly direction.

  “Parsons?” Frizer called.

  Allen immediately grabbed Frizer’s arm, urging him to be silent.

  Marlowe spun around.

  “I hope he hasn’t killed the Walsingham girl yet,” Marlowe rasped. “Frizer can tell you that she had a fondness for me. I might be able to eke a bit of useful intelligence from her if she yet lives.”

  Marlowe held his breath.

  “The girl did seem to like him,” Frizer said.

  “You’re an idiot,” Allen whispered. “Be silent!”

  Marlowe’s conclusions were equal parts deduction and gambling. Frances had gone to Fulham to meet with Parsons, according to Walsingham. Allen had just said that Frances was no longer a problem. That meant Frances had been captured or killed by Parsons.

  If she was dead, Marlowe’s path was simple: kill them all—Parsons, Allen, Frizer, Carier; anyone else who had played a part in her death.

  If she was alive, the way was equally clear: secure her rescue.

  Careful, Marlowe thought. His heart was pounding, and if the moon had been clearer, the other two men would have seen the flush in his face.

  “Incidentally,” Marlowe said suddenly, willing the sound of his voice to be languid, “you wouldn’t happen to know where Benjamin Carier is at the moment, would you? I need to speak with him.”

  “Carier?” Frizer’s face contorted.

  “You brought him with you to London.”

  “Not really,” Ingram went on, still confused. “We did come together, but his father hired me as his road companion.”

  “His protection, you mean.” Marlowe nodded. “I know that he’s a part of this. His sympathies are well known.”

  “They are,” Allen answered. “And he is of some use to us. At the moment.”

  It was impossible for Marlowe to tell if they were lying. The same lack of moonlight that had obscured his own feelings worked to conceal their faces as well.

  “He’s asleep in his uncle’s home, most like,” Frizer complained. “Why do you want to know?”

  “A trivial matter. He may have been at classes more recently than I have, and my year-end examinations are at hand. Have I already mentioned that? I don’t like to waste my father’s money. I thought Carier might tell me what I’ve missed.”

  “College,” Frizer said, as if it were a curse word.

  Allen was less dismissive. “This way, Mr. Marlowe. We’ll meet Parsons, but not at Fulham.”

  Without another word he led the way and Marlowe could only follow. Around several corners and through a foul-smelling alley, they moved quickly to a small storehouse behind several taller buildings.

  Inside, the room was small and entirely bare, no rugs, no wall hangings, only bare cold stones. It was, however, quite bright, filled with ten or more wall torches.

  Marlowe’s skin felt like sand and his spine was burning. He ground his teeth. Every muscle in his face stung from the effort of maintaining an appearance of composure. And no matter what he said out loud, the only prayer in his mind was “God, let her be alive” over and over again.

  Allen sat on a small stool. Frizer tumbled into a corner of the room on the floor and began snoring almost at once. Marlowe stood by the door.

  They were waiting, Allen had explained, for Robert Parsons. But Marlowe suspected that other work was at hand: someone was checking on Marlowe’s story, his background; his father’s affiliations. Walsingham was a genius at establishing false facts, but Marlowe recalled words his father had often repeated: “There’s always someone cleverer than you.”

  These men had mobilized a Spanish army at the border, Basque rebels in England, hidden Catholics in London, old families with ties to the Queen, a
nd an innocent young girl, a lady-in-waiting, who would be the instrument of her monarch’s death. They were not to be underestimated.

  Without warning the door burst open. Marlowe’s hand flew to grasp the hilt of his dagger.

  Allen glanced at Marlowe and held up his hand.

  “Robert,” Allen said.

  The Jesuit took in the room at a glance. He wore a black cassock wrapped around his body and tied with a cincture, a black biretta atop his head, and a floor-length cape tied around his neck. It was a deliberately uncomfortable costume.

  The priest stared at Marlowe.

  “This is the student?” he asked softly.

  “I am, sir,” Marlowe answered before Allen could, “a student at Corpus Christi Cambridge, and an admirer of your brotherhood.”

  “Indeed.” It was not a question. “What is it that you know about the Company of Jesus?”

  “The Jesuits?” Marlowe’s eyes narrowed. “I know that it is a company but fifty years old, founded by Ignacio Lopez de Loyola, a Basque, in a crypt beneath the church of Saint Denis near Paris. I know that his guiding principle was ‘For the greater glory of God,’ which glory is to be achieved by being perinde ac cadave—well-disciplined like a corpse. Possibly a dictum borne of your society’s original meeting place.”

  Parsons exhaled slowly. “Do you mean to mock my brotherhood?”

  “Do you mean to challenge my intellect with elementary questions?” Marlowe answered calmly.

  Parsons turned to Allen.

  “You were right,” Parsons said. “This man is a dangerous weapon. One may never know which way he cuts.”

  “A fair observation, your grace,” Marlowe began, “or is ‘your grace’ the proper address? Among conspirators would ‘Robert’ do?”

  Parsons clasped his gloved hands behind his back. “Why do you seek to insult me?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same question,” Marlowe told him.

  “Were you.” Again, it was not a question.

  “Before the coming day is done, Queen Elizabeth will be dead and we’ll all be in a different county than this one.” Marlowe looked around the room. “And yet you waste our time.”

  He wondered, himself, why he was being so aggressive. He heard the sentences as they came out of his mouth, heard the sound of his voice. No forethought prevented or encouraged a single syllable. He was comprised almost entirely of instinct. Like a mystic. Or an animal.