A Prisoner in Malta

by Phillip DePoy

  “I’m delivering this to one of Her Majesty’s ladies,” he managed to say.

  One of the guards locked eyes with Frances, read her thoughts, and opened the door behind him.

  Frances plunged ahead, Carier was next, and Marlowe followed the poor man in.

  “First things first,” Frances said, gliding down the dimly lit hallway. “Get that package delivered.”

  If Carier was beginning to wonder what he’d gotten himself into, he did not find words to express his misgivings. Marlowe kept behind him, hand on his dagger’s hilt. Frances moved quickly. Down several corridors and suddenly out into an anteroom, the unlikely trio found themselves the object of surprise by the rest of the courtiers there. Many of these men, and several women, had arisen before dawn to prepare for a day at court. There were twelve in the small room, all standing still with a deliberate air of nonchalance. Each had dressed in finest array, ready to speak with Her Majesty or, more likely, just to stand in the room in her presence, smiling, doting; being seen. One man in a raging purple doublet and ridiculously elaborate collar looked down his nose at the three strangers bustling into the room. Then he affected a yawn to show that he disapproved of what he saw. Frances was dirty and disheveled from her evening’s adventures. Marlowe was significantly unkempt, here and there a spot of blood. Carier had the look of a terrified rabbit.

  Frances moved briskly past the courtiers. Without hesitation she pushed through the inner door of the room, ahead of everyone.

  A collective gasp arose from the company, and the man who had yawned began to sputter, “See here!”

  Carier and Marlowe followed Frances into the next room. It was small. Two more guards stood on either side of another door, but these were different. They were of the Queen’s guard, weapons drawn. Frances nodded, they relaxed, but the swords remained out.

  Frances turned and stood in the open doorway through which she had just barged, addressing the dozen or so sycophants.

  “I am Lady Frances Walsingham,” she announced harshly, “I speak for the Queen. She will receive no one today. You must all leave at once.”

  With that she slammed the door and smiled at the guards.

  Their weapons disappeared, and they stood aside.

  “Thank you both,” she told them.

  They did not speak as they opened the door to a larger hall. Early morning sunlight streamed in through high openings in the stone walls, but the evening torches were still lit. The walls were hung with simple tapestries, and the floor was mostly bare. At one end there was an ornate chair, not quite a throne, on an elaborate red rug. It was the only place in the room to sit, and belonged to the Queen. Several women stood about, but fell silent when Frances and the two men entered.

  Frances looked about the room, found the person she wanted, grabbed Carier by the arm, and strode deliberately toward Bess Throckmorton.

  Bess stood motionless in a pale blue gown, her hair tied and looped in a remarkable, balance-defying coif that seemed impossible to maintain. She turned her head very slowly in the direction of the oncoming juggernaut.

  “Hello, Bess,” Frances said bitterly, “I believe this man has a present for you.”

  Carier began to drag his feet, and pulled his arm away from Frances’s grip.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Helping you to deliver your package,” Frances told him, staring at Bess.

  Marlowe’s hand was still on his dagger’s handle. Several guards in the room had already drawn their weapons, and one was moving quickly toward the commotion.

  “No,” Carier moaned, “you’re not!”

  “Go on,” Marlowe said, coming to stand behind Carier. “Give her your package.”

  “No!” Carier cried. “It’s not for her!”

  Frances spun around in the direction of the oncoming guard.

  “Please be so kind as to detain this man and Lady Throckmorton,” she commanded. “Fetch my father and let us examine the small bundle that has been brought into the palace for Bess to use against Her Majesty’s life.”

  “What?” Bess gasped.

  Carier’s face whitened and he looked around the room as if he were drowning.

  “Take this man,” Frances continued to the guard, “and hold him with this package until my father can examine both. I will accompany Bess into an outer chamber.”

  “Hang on,” Marlowe said softly.

  He had stepped away from Carier and was staring at Bess Throckmorton.

  “What is it?” Frances demanded.

  “Hang on a moment,” Marlowe repeated, his eyes boring into Bess’s.

  He read the truth in her eyes as if it were a book, and was certain of its contents. He turned to Carier, whose quaking threatened to shake loose his bones.

  “This package, Benjamin,” Marlowe said quietly, “is not for Bess, is it?”

  Carier could only shake his head, clearly not comprehending anything that was happening.

  Frances’s head snapped back. “You were not delivering this to Bess Throckmorton?”

  “N-no,” Carier stammered, his silver clothing beginning to show signs of dank sweat.

  Frances stepped closer to him, her face nearly touching his.

  “To whom, then,” she began very deliberately, “does this package belong?”

  “Lady Devereux,” he rasped, “Penelope Devereux. Like the other two.”

  “The other two?” Marlowe’s eyes flashed to meet Frances’s.

  “To Penelope Devereux?” Frances confirmed.

  Carier nodded. “Yesterday, and the day before.”

  Frances looked wildly about the room, and then back at Marlowe.

  “She’s not here,” she said.

  “I know,” he responded at once. “Where would Her Majesty be at this moment?”

  Frances grabbed the nearby guard by his sword arm. “Take him! Take him now!”

  The guard looked confused, but only for an instant. He sucked in a breath and shot in the direction of a small door close to the chair.

  “Go!” Frances said to Marlowe. “Follow him! I’ll hold Carier here!”

  Marlowe dashed after the guard just as Carier dropped to the floor and fainted dead away.

  Through two short hallways, another dark passage, and into a circular room painted white, Marlowe followed the Queen’s guard.

  In the white, windowless room there were two doors, the one through which they entered, and the one opposite, where the guard stood, tapping gently at the door.

  “Your Majesty?”

  There was no answer.

  “Go in!” Marlowe barked.

  The guard turned to Marlowe.

  “It’s a bit delicate,” he mumbled. “If the Queen is not answering this door at this particular time of day, she is doubtless in a second chamber—you see—attending to the royal morning—shite. Sometimes the half of an hour.”

  “She’s in there alone?” Marlowe asked tentatively.

  “Lady Penelope was in earlier,” he said. “Now it’s just the new chambermaid.”

  “New chambermaid?” Marlowe drew his rapier.

  “Started today, hang on,” the guard said hesitantly, suddenly realizing the problem.

  “We must go in immediately!”

  “No,” the guard said, startled, “that’s not permitted!”

  “Your Majesty!” Marlowe sang out. “You are in grave danger! I’m coming in!”

  With that he charged the door, knocking the guard aside. The guard plummeted to the floor, cracking his skull on the hard stones.

  Plunging into the royal room, Marlowe was confronted with a stunning array of mirrors and windows, and was momentarily blinded. It was obviously a dressing room, blazing with candles in addition to the morning sunlight. A table laden with makeup was the centerpiece.

  A lone figure stood at an inner door, the royal chamber-pot closet. The sudden light made it impossible for Marlowe to see clearly.

  But the voice was familiar.


  “Mr. Marlowe?” Tin said.

  Marlowe’s eyes adjusted to the light, and there stood Tin, dressed in a dull brown frock, hair tied tightly behind her head, holding towels and napkins.

  “Tin?” Marlowe kept his rapier point in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” Tin stood her ground.

  “I might ask you the same question.”

  “I’m attending to the Queen,” she said firmly. “Frances placed me here, said I was the only one she trusted.”

  Marlowe stood, assessing the situation. On the one hand it was a good plan since all other chambermaids and ladies-in-waiting were suspect. On the other hand, Tin might be a Throckmorton ally, trained at his home to kill the most powerful monarch on the planet. Because everyone was suspect.

  “Step away from that door,” Marlowe said carefully.

  Tin shook her head. “No. I have a dagger under these towels.”

  “I wouldn’t like to kill you, Tin,” Marlowe said, beginning to move toward her slowly.

  “And I wouldn’t like to die,” she answered steadily, “but if I must, in service to the Queen, I will, protecting her with my last breath.”

  Marlowe stopped.

  “You think you’re protecting the Queen from me?” he asked.

  “I know about your dubious loyalties.” Tin tossed several of the towels to the floor, exposing the dagger she had in her hand. “Your sympathies are Catholic.”

  Marlowe lowered his rapier a bit, reassessing the situation.

  “Someone will attempt to poison Her Majesty this morning,” he said, failing to keep the urgency from his voice. “Frances sent me here to prevent that from happening. If you would save the Queen and serve our Lady Walsingham, tell Her Majesty what is afoot, and get her to safety. Now.”

  Tin stood, trying to decide what to do.

  Before any decision was reached, the guard Marlowe had disabled outside rushed into the room, sword drawn.

  He glared at the two others, trying to make sense of the scene.

  Tin sucked in a breath.

  “Is the Queen always in this chamber at this time of day?” Marlowe asked the guard.

  Still confused, the guard nodded. “Every morning of the year. She sits in here for an hour or more, attended by at least one maid or lady. She has a single cup of wine to start the day, and then is off to break her fast.”

  Marlowe glanced toward the table. His eyes having adjusted to the light, he could see a golden goblet of wine where the royal right hand could find it easily.

  “This is it, then.” Marlowe nodded. “That wine. This is where the villain will strike.”

  “No one gets in here,” the guard objected.

  “Except for maids and ladies-in-waiting,” Marlowe corrected, “as you’ve just said.”

  “Well, yes,” he admitted.

  “That is why I believe the deed will be attempted here, and soon,” Marlowe explained. “Is there a close exit other than this door?”

  The guard nodded. “Other side. Blind hallway.”

  “Then go,” Marlowe told the guard urgently, “meet us at that exit, secure that hall!”

  And the guard was gone.

  “Go to Her Majesty now!” Marlowe told Tin.

  “Once we’re gone you should hide in this closet,” she answered, “better to catch the assassin. There’s a peephole. Do you know who is coming here to do this? The poison?”

  “Yes.” But he would not say more.

  He’d been wrong about Bess Throckmorton, but it was impossible for him to believe that Penelope Devereux would be the assassin. The most beautiful face in England could not be a mask.

  Tin disappeared into the closet. Seconds later she tapped from the inside.

  “It’s clear,” she whispered.

  There was a rustle and a click and then silence.

  Marlowe opened the door and stepped inside, trying not to think about where he was. There was, indeed, a peephole. Marlowe held his rapier at the ready, blinking through the small hole that looked like a knot in the wood. He did not have to wait long.

  He heard the door to the Queen’s chamber open, watched it swing in slowly. But what he saw stopped his heart; froze his blood.

  There was a flash of red and the flourish of a crimson cloak.

  THIRTY

  Rodrigo Lopez went immediately to the Queen’s dressing table, leaned over, and examined the goblet of wine. He sniffed at the rim, then reached into some inner pocket and produced a small leather bladder. He opened it, let slip several drops into the Queen’s wine, and stepped back.

  Marlowe’s thoughts were racing, and his heart began to beat again. Buried doubts about Lopez erupted into his consciousness once more. Lopez had orchestrated the murder of Pygott to get Marlowe out of the way. Every thought of Lopez as a friend and hero seemed to be met by an equally believable fear that Lopez was a spy and a traitor.

  Frizer had said as much: “Lopez is a double agent.”

  That might be discounted, owing to Frizer’s dubious allegiance, but what had Argi said? “Dr. Lopez was not the man you thought he was. His entire life was a secret, a lie.”

  It had certainly been a lie that Lopez was dead.

  Marlowe stilled such thoughts. He needed every nuance of his abilities to survive a deadly encounter with Lopez. Ignoring the certainty that Lopez could not be killed, Marlowe held his breath and shoved open the door to the closet.

  Lopez dropped the drinking pouch, drew his dagger and rapier, and danced backward in a single elegant move.

  He paused when he saw that his assailant was Marlowe.

  “Chris,” he said hesitantly.

  Marlowe knew that Lopez would attempt to win the battle before it started, win it with words. He mustn’t let Lopez speak. He knew Lopez’s methods, and most of his gambits. That realization gave him heart, and some small advantage.

  Without another thought, Marlowe lunged.

  The tip of Marlowe’s rapier actually touched Lopez’s doublet before Lopez slapped it away with a gloved hand. Lopez lunged and thrust his own rapier directly for Marlowe’s right shoulder.

  Marlowe easily parried and launched a blinding riposte, nearly nicking Lopez’s dagger hand.

  For a few heartbeats their blades snapped and clicked, dazzling faster than the eye could see. That exchange ended with Marlowe moving the tip of his blade under Lopez’s, twirling it to slip underneath Lopez’s weapon.

  The ploy worked, and Marlowe struck Lopez in the side, the left of his rib cage.

  Lopez smiled.

  “I had almost forgotten how good you are,” he said to Marlowe.

  “Your second-best student,” Marlowe answered.

  “Ah.” Lopez nodded. “You mean Frances. Yes. She’s the best.”

  Another ploy, Marlowe realized. Undermine confidence.

  Willing himself not to think, Marlowe jumped. He flew forward without warning and crashed into Lopez. It was a wild and unpredictable move that shoved Lopez backward into the stone wall next to the outer door. The thud knocked the breath out of Lopez and Marlowe bashed the side of Lopez’s head with the hilt of his dagger.

  Lopez crumpled, but Marlowe did not press the advantage, wary of the move he had learned from Frances. If Lopez was on the floor, he intended to use the surrender motif, and strike Marlowe unaware.

  Lopez seemed dazed, but Marlowe knew better. Keeping his distance, he moved slowly to Lopez’s wounded side, just out of reach of the rapier point.

  Lopez did not move his head, but his eyes followed Marlowe.

  “You won’t survive,” Lopez said softly.

  “You’ve come back from the dead,” Marlowe answered, smiling. “Maybe I can learn that trick from you, the way I have all your others.”

  Lopez pushed himself up, using the wall at his back.

  “You haven’t learned all of my tricks,” he said.

  In the next instant Marlowe saw Lopez’s dagger flying directly toward his face. At the same time, Lopez c
areened forward, rapier lunging at Marlowe’s heart. It was as if two men were attacking at the same time.

  Marlowe moved his head just enough to avoid the dagger. He was not so fortunate with the rapier. He parried wildly, but only managed to spoil the aim, not the thrust. The point of Lopez’s sword sank into Marlowe’s flesh, tearing through his side just below the rib cage.

  Pain once more brought the moment into crystal focus. Marlowe watched as Lopez withdrew his blade, took a single step backward, and prepared to strike again.

  Marlowe’s rapier was all the way down, tip touching the floor. Lopez would deliver the death blow before his rapier could rally.

  Marlowe blinked, without expectation, without emotion. He was exactly as the point of the rapier: at the instant between life and death.

  Feeling his hand floating, as if coming up from under water, Marlowe grabbed his dagger. Gripping it low on the hilt he aimed not for Lopez but for the point of Lopez’s rapier. He watched, in detached appreciation, when the point of the rapier passed through the filigreed hilt of his dagger, like catching a bird in a trap.

  Normal time engaged once more, and Marlowe flung his dagger wide, whipping the sword out of Lopez’s hand, caught in Marlowe’s hilt.

  Lopez only had time to gasp before Marlowe thrust the tip of his own rapier into Lopez’s dagger hand, piercing it through and through.

  Lopez’s dagger clattered to the floor; his rapier bounced against the wall next to the Queen’s dressing table. Marlowe put the point of his rapier under Lopez’s chin, ready to thrust upward into the traitor’s brain.

  Lopez stood frozen.

  “That’s new,” he said after a single breath, “that trick with the hilt.”

  “You chastised me in Cambridge for having such a visible weapon.”

  “Did I?” Lopez answered. “I don’t remember.”

  Marlowe stepped forward slightly. It gave the illusion that he was pressing his rapier forward, though he was not. Lopez did not flinch.

  “You may have some questions for me,” Lopez said steadily. “And I for you.”

  “I’m not interested in speaking with a corpse.” Marlowe laughed.

  “I’m not quite dead yet,” Lopez argued.