A Prisoner in Malta (37 page)

“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 careened 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.

“I may not kill you now,” Marlowe answered. “You'll be just as dead when this final betrayal is reported to Walsingham.”

That, of all things, seemed to puzzle Lopez.

“What will you report?” he asked. “To whom?”

“What will I report?” Marlowe repeated incredulously. “That you attempted to poison the Queen! And Walsingham will report that
to the Queen
.”

“Ah,” Lopez sighed. “Let us begin to unravel the fabric of your confusion.”

“I am not in the slightest confused.”

“You left me on the beach. You were subsequently told I died. I did not.”

“So I see.”

“Don't interrupt,” Lopez chided gently. “After you left, Argi and I were set upon by the strangest of assailants: Moorish
hashishim
. We would surely have been lost but for Captain de Ferro. He and his men were close at hand. They were able to kill most of the attackers, and bind our wounds. We sailed at once with five hundred of Her Majesty's troops, including the contingent of Basque separatists you encountered in Cambridge—they told me about you. Together we upended the Spanish invasion in secret. Of course, we had to do that without alerting Parsons. Am I correct in assuming that he still thinks his plan is in place?”

Marlowe swallowed.

“I thought as much,” Lopez continued. “Without going into great detail, we were able to prevent the Duke of Guise from mustering his Spanish legions. That part of the Throckmorton plot has been dismantled.”

Marlowe knew better than to believe Lopez. A man at the point of a rapier would say almost anything to escape it.

“I saw you put the poison into the Queen's cup,” Marlowe accused. “There's a peephole in that closet.”

Lopez closed his eyes. “That's not poison, Chris.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Hand me that pouch and I'll prove it.”

Marlowe's eyes flashed to the small leather pouch that Lopez had dropped on the floor. That proved to be a mistake. The instant Marlowe's eyes were averted, Lopez moved his head half an inch backward and swatted Marlowe's rapier away.

Marlowe recovered, but it was too late. Lopez sank to the floor, rolled, and retrieved his own weapon. When he was standing once again, he was also holding the leather pouch.

“Now,” he said.

Without hesitation he drank from the pouch.

Marlowe gaped.

Lopez's face contorted.

A second later, he said, “It tastes terrible. But it's not poison. Quite the opposite, in fact. Will you put your sword away?”

Marlowe continued to stare.

“Well, at least do you mind if I put mine away?” Lopez sheathed his rapier while he was asking the question.

“What is in that pouch?” Marlowe managed to ask, lowering his blade.

“Something I concocted,” Lopez answered, “to detect the presence of poisons in food or drink. It has proved quite useful to Her Majesty and, incidentally, saved the lives of several of the royal food tasters.”

“It's not poison,” Marlowe said slowly.

“It
detects
poison,” Lopez told him.

Marlowe looked to the Queen's goblet. “And?”

“Oh, that wine has definitely been poisoned. Have a look. It's turned a lovely shade of green.”

Warily Marlowe moved to the Queen's table and stared down into the goblet. The liquid there was, indeed, the color of light jade.

“Someone has already poisoned this wine,” Marlowe said slowly.

“Yes.”

“But how did you know Her Majesty was to be poisoned this way? I only learned—”

“I've been testing everything the Queen eats or drinks for some time now,” was all Lopez would say. “Who else was in this room when you came in? One of the ladies?”

“No, only the—it was—Christ!”

Marlowe would not believe it, but some voice in his brain forced him to say it: Tin
had
attempted to poison the Queen.

“Through here!” Marlowe shouted. “Her majesty's with a chambermaid and a single guard.”

He tore into the closet, through the room, and out the opposite door. He could hear Lopez behind him. They burst into an outer hallway. It stretched fifty feet in either direction.

Lopez brushed by Marlowe.

“This way,” he whispered. “The guard would take them to an eastern gallery. Lots of light.”

Not quite knowing what that meant, Marlowe dashed after Lopez. Down several more long corridors, their boots echoed against the bare stone walls. A final turn presented them with an open gallery crowned with high windows. Light was everywhere. The walls were covered with blazing tapestries, images of fire and phoenix, and the floors were softened by large rugs of Arabian design. There was no furniture, nothing else in the room.

The Queen was not immediately in evidence, but the guard who'd been standing outside her dressing chamber was at the door, sword drawn. And next to him was a young man in gray costume. Its headpiece obscured all but the eyes.

Marlowe knew Tin at once, and stopped short.

Tin was armed, rapier and dagger. She threw her head back and the cowl fell away, revealing her face, and the fire in her eyes.

“I couldn't maneuver in that damned dress,” she complained.

The guard shrugged. “I have no idea what this is all about, but this person and I stand alone guarding Her Majesty.”

Lopez moved into the room, sheathed his rapier, and went to the tapestry of a phoenix warring with a dragon. There was a grating of stone and wood, and then silence.

Marlowe stared at Tin. She met his gaze with equal strength. He was utterly unable to read anything in her eyes. His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a chaos of noise coming down the outer corridor. Marlowe turned immediately and stepped in between the guard and Tin, ready to defend the entrance to the room with his life.

Frances appeared from around the corner, dragging Carier in one hand and Penelope Devereux in the other. They were both complaining, but unable to extract themselves from Frances's iron grip. Behind that trio were several guards, Walsingham's personal men.

As Frances drew closer, she saw Tin, and slowed.

“You must stand aside,” she said to the guard, not looking at Marlowe or Tin. “I would see the Queen.”

Marlowe was the first to sheath his weapons.

From behind he heard the grating of wood and stone once more, and then the booming voice of Lopez.

“Her Majesty is unharmed,” he announced rather formally, “and it is her wish, Lady Walsingham, that you should enter this room with the baggage you have in tow.”

The guard stood aside. Marlowe acknowledged with a flourish of his right hand that Frances and her prey must precede him into the room. Tin, weapons still drawn, stood amazed.

As Frances strode through the room, pulling her captives with her, the guard who had followed her came to Tin. She realized then that she must put away her weapons.

Clearly at a loss, she began to speak, but Marlowe ignored her, following Frances into the room beyond the tapestry. The guards escorted Tin behind him.

Instead of the Queen, Lord Walsingham emerged from behind a heavy wooden table. He was dressed in a long flowing deep blue robe held at the neck by a crisp white frilly collar and crowned with a black skullcap. His beard seemed carved from black and gray stone.