A Prisoner in Malta (32 page)

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.

“Pardon, 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.”

“The beauty of that particular story,” Marlowe acknowledged, “is that Rebec would only be telling the truth, allowing wagging tongues to do the rest.”

“There are several young men who might be suspected,” Frances said. “There is no dearth of ridiculous suitors at Coughton.”

“And by the time all those fine young men are accounted for and greater suspicions have grown,” Tin concluded, “you'll be in London, putting an end to this Throckmorton plot.”

Geordie looked down. He kicked the straw at his feet, sniffed, and nodded after a moment.

“Right, then,” he said. “It might do.”

“You're in no danger, father,” Tin said gently. “No one will suspect you had anything to do with this.”

“It's not me I'm worried about,” he said softly, still staring at his feet.

Before he could elucidate, the stable dog, which Geordie had stationed in the open courtyard, began to bark.

Everyone moved. Marlowe stepped into the next stall and began to dress the pair of horses there. Frances stood close by, squinting impatiently, as if to scold her servant. Tin headed for her tiny bedchamber behind her father's rooms where Frances's kit had been hidden. Geordie and Rebec went to quiet the dog who had, as it turned out, been barking at crows.

Within a quarter of an hour, Frances and Marlowe had gone off toward the west at a leisurely pace, Frances leading, her
groomsman
dutifully behind. Tin had loaded a pack mule with Frances's things and disguised them with blankets, heading in the direction of Northampton.

Geordie was in the stables, inspecting the right front shoe of a horse near the front entrance. And Rebec was sitting on the ground outside, petting the dog.

After a moment she glanced into the darkened stables because she heard what might be the sound of someone crying. She stood, brushed her hands on the front of her dirty dress, and tiptoed in.

She found Geordie in the first stall patting the horse and brushing tears from his eyes.

“What's the matter?” Rebec asked, wide-eyed.

“It's Tin,” he rasped.

“What about her?”

“I'll never see her again.”

“What?”

“She's gone to London,” he lamented, “and she'll never come back.”

“London?” Rebec said. “No. She's going to Northampton.”

“That's what she said, all right,” Geordie sighed, “but I know better. I saw that mule. She packed all of her things along with Miss Frances's kit. She's gone. My little girl is gone. I've lost my only daughter.”

He struggled mightily against an impulse to sob.

Rebec came into the stall and took his hand.

“Well,” she began tentatively, “my father is dead, and your girl is gone. Maybe we could come to some sort of an arrangement, you and me?”

Geordie looked down at the sad, expectant face. The dog wandered in and sat, the only audience to the scene. There was no further dialogue in that particular play, and eventually the dog wandered away in search of a warm place to nap.

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

LONDON AND COURT

Once again Marlowe found himself standing in a small room in the Palace of Whitehall. Unlike the others in which he'd met Walsingham, there were several chairs and a table, but no desk. This room was bigger, and all four walls were covered with matching tapestries, each depicting a larger-than-life-size musician playing an instrument. Represented were the sackbut, a lone viol, a small crumhorn, and a tilted virginal—an odd quartet.

It was impossible to tell how big the room was. Anything, or anyone, might be hidden behind those hangings.

Without warning Walsingham stormed into the room from behind the sackbut player. He had a sheaf of papers under one arm and a monstrously distracted scowl on his face. He stood behind the desk, staring down at something on its surface.

“So,” he boomed unceremoniously, not bothering to look at Marlowe, “you've found Pygott's killer.”

“Not exactly,” Marlowe began.

“Carier is a pestilence,” Walsingham interrupted.

“Yes,” Marlowe agreed hastily, “but I haven't found him yet.”

Walsingham looked up.

“He is in London,” Marlowe continued, “with Ingram Frizer, who is, I am convinced, primarily in the employ of the Spanish king. He may even be the Pope's man. He is certainly not your double agent.”

“Frizer is only a distraction,” Walsingham growled. “Carier is the game.”

“Yes,” Marlowe said, and took a breath.

But even his breath was interrupted.

“You've done well,” Walsingham said absently, looking down once more. “You solved your murder, and in doing so you've also discovered Throckmorton's instrument of assassination.”

“Lord Walsingham,” Marlowe snapped impatiently, “I have done neither.”

Walsingham looked up once more. He set down the papers he'd been carrying. He sat.

“What are you saying?” he asked quietly.

“I am saying that I have suspicions, I have very few pieces of evidence, some gossip, and several dozen questions. That is, at the moment, the extent of my investigation.”

“But Frances has told me,” Walsingham snorted.

“I do beg your pardon,” Marlowe interjected, this time his turn to interrupt, “but I have not told Frances everything.”

The scowl on Walsingham's face became a threat.

Marlowe hastened to explain. “It must be obvious to you that I have a great affection for your daughter, Lord Walsingham—too great, in fact,” he said quickly, with as great an air of deference as he could muster, “and I would do anything to protect her from harm.”

Marlowe stood very still, letting what he'd said fill the air.

“What could you not tell her?” Walsingham asked.

Marlowe drew in a slow breath. He felt his face flush. A tingle of uncertainty edged the back of his neck.

“I could not tell her that you were the one who betrayed her to Throckmorton,” Marlowe said steadily, “and had her imprisoned in Malta.”

Walsingham glared, his eyes ablaze. It was an expression that might have murdered other men. But he did not disagree with Marlowe's bold statement.

“Of course you had no direct contact with Throckmorton,” Marlowe went on, staring firmly back at Walsingham's burning gaze. “You somehow had the idea planted in Walter Pygott's mind, so that he would believe he had discovered a spy. I knew something was amiss the moment I heard that. Walter Pygott possessed the observational skills of a dead vole. He couldn't discover the balls in his own codpiece.”

Walsingham sat back. His expression changed slowly. It was an oddly familiar one. It took Marlowe a moment to realize that the Queen's spymaster looked, at least a little, like Professor Bartholomew. It was the mien of a Socratic instructor.

“And why, in heaven's name, would I do such a thing as betray my own daughter?” Walsingham asked slowly.

“I can think of a dozen reasons.” Marlowe leaned forward imperceptibly. “You might do it to test her, though it would be a harsh father who could condemn a daughter to the place I saw on that island. It was more likely a feint to confuse Throckmorton, to make him believe that he'd discovered a spy, to allow him a false sense of safety. You had no idea that Frances would be taken to Malta. That's why you were in such a panic to rescue her that you turned to Dr. Lopez and his strange student friend at Cambridge.”

“Mr. Marlowe,” Walsingham sighed.

But Marlowe would not relent. His voice gained strength. “I suppose it's possible that you were testing the Pygott family, assessing their loyalties. It may even be that you sought to expose Frizer for the traitor he is. Oh, and by the by, I have suspicions about Bartholomew as well. You may have had them, too, which might have somehow figured into your bizarre shadow play.”

Walsingham stared at Marlowe for what seemed an hour.

“And you've come to these conclusions,” the old man said slowly, his voice thin, “based upon what evidence?”

“Pygott was not capable of lacing his shirt, as I say,” Marlowe railed, “let alone discovering a spy as cunning as your daughter! Also there is entirely too much fuss about Pygott's death. No one liked him. The warrant for my arrest is flimsy even by rural standards. His own father, as I have learned, doesn't actually care that he's dead, though someone is trying to make me believe he's hired a small army of assassins to kill me. Instead, these assassins work for a larger purpose, on the side of the Spanish. That they keep me from discovering Pygott's murderer is, to them, unimportant.”

Marlowe glared at Walsingham, daring him to disagree with anything he'd said.

“Please, do not fall silent now.” Walsingham nodded, encouraging Marlowe to go on.

“It has been brought to my attention by several people,” Marlowe continued more tentatively, “that you might be testing me.”

Walsingham sat still, as frozen as the musician on the tapestry behind him.

So Marlowe forged ahead. “For example, I do not know why you would choose me to save your daughter. No one seems to know. I can only assume that a great many of the things that have happened to me since Lopez fetched me from Cambridge and delivered me to you have been tests. The other possibility is that I was a pawn easily lost in the greater game. Who would miss an upstart student and the son of a boot-maker? You gambled with my life, and with the life of my friend Rodrigo Lopez. It was a devil's gambit that lost you Her Majesty's best physician.”