A Prisoner in Malta

 

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Then let some holy trance convey my thoughts

Up to the palace of the imperial heaven

—
“Lament for Zenocrate,”
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE

 

PROLOGUE

1583, LONDON
IN THE PRIVATE CHAMBERS OF LORD WALSINGHAM, PRINCIPAL SECRETARY TO QUEEN ELIZABETH, AND HER SPYMASTER

“Get Marlowe.” Walsingham stood behind a small wooden table. His heavy burgundy coat made him larger than he was; the meticulously trimmed beard betrayed a ruthless attention to detail. “Get him and bring him to me. Today.”

“Today? It's too soon.” The man in red stood in a darkened corner. Even in Walsingham's private rooms, he was cautious. “He's not ready.”

“I know,” Walsingham agreed impatiently, “but it's time, nevertheless. This plot to murder our Queen is verified: her life is in peril. And I don't have all the facts I need to prevent it!”

Walsingham's gloved fist pounded the table.

“And I'm telling you that Marlowe's not your man!” The man in red took a step out of the shadows. “Not yet. I won't do it.”

“Listen,” Walsingham hissed, eyes narrow, “it's not too late for Her Majesty to retract her generous offer of making you her chief physician. And
never
too late to expose your family in Portugal.”

The man in red reached for his dagger. It was an instinctive reaction that he instantly halted. He had never once met with Walsingham without wanting to kill him, but he knew that the spymaster's death would mean the end of his wife and children.

Walsingham saw those thoughts play across the man's face and ignored them.

“I wouldn't send Marlowe out without testing him first,” Walsingham said, his voice calmer. “I want him to be ready as much as you do.”

“I know,” the man conceded. “You're right. What did you have in mind? To make him ready, I mean.”

“Before we send him up against the vermin Throckmorton, and God knows what other conspirators,” Walsingham explained, an uncharacteristic fear edging his voice, “I would set him a task that will be as instructive as it is vital to our cause. It will prove his mettle. But it must be done quickly. I have it on perfect authority that the Throckmorton plot is weeks from fruition. Our Queen is in dire peril.”

“Sir, a task is never instructive. Only a teacher.”

Walsingham smiled. “Which is why you will be with him. You may observe, firsthand, his readiness for the road ahead.”

The man in red sighed. “I see.” There was no use trying to stay ahead of Walsingham. He always won because he thought of everything.

“You must leave for Cambridge now,” Walsingham concluded. “It's nearly dawn. You could be there by midmorning. You'll be taking one of Her Majesty's coaches.”

The man in red didn't move. “And what is your task?”

“The coachman has a packet for you, it contains details. Don't reveal them to Marlowe, yet, but the core of it is this: one of our most valued agents has information vital to destroying the plot—information that must be given to me in person. You must take Marlowe and fetch the agent.”

“Why can't this agent come to you?”

“Because this agent is a prisoner on the island of Malta,” Walsingham answered tensely, “guarded by the Order of Saint John.”

“Guarded by the Knights of Malta?” The man in red took a deep breath. “That won't test Marlowe. It will kill him.”

Walsingham shook his head. “He can't die. Neither can you. This prisoner is too important. Without the three of you, our nation—I do not exaggerate when I say that our nation may be lost.”

The man in red lifted his chin suddenly, realizing a feint within this scheme. “The Island of Malta is filled with Jews.”

“Which is the other reason you were chosen.” Walsingham rapped three times, hard, on his desk.

The door to the chamber opened.

“Hurry, Doctor,” Walsingham said, looking down again.

The man in red stared at the top of Walsingham's head for a moment, and then turned, silently leaving the room.

The door closed.

And as it did, the wall tapestry behind Walsingham rustled, and the person who had been hiding there stepped into the flickering candlelight.

 

ONE

1583, CAMBRIDGE

Christopher Marlowe stared at the newly mown lawn, and the tower of St. Benet's Church reaching sweetly toward God in morning's light. In the old graveyard, roses were blooming, even though March was cold. The tower was the oldest building in Cambridge, and Marlowe did his best to appreciate the ethos of grandeur and nobility. But the beauty of the day overtook him, and all his thoughts were light. He was nineteen, standing in Cambridge, about to go to class. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. A boot-maker's son was a rarity at any college.

Everywhere students rushed; professors glided in stately manner. The grass, greener than a linnet's wing, collected sunlight against the advent of late frost: “nature's rarest alchemy, the golden bell of heaven's fire.”

All in black, Marlowe was nearly invisible in the shade, though his smile was brighter than sunlight. He wore his hair deliberately shorter than the fashion; it was a great source of aggravation for his tutors. Most of that ire was obviated by the fact that Marlowe's mind was the best in his class. His bright demeanor had endeared him to most of his fellow students as well; his eyes existed only to beguile.

Suddenly those eyes were distracted by the flair of a familiar crimson cloak.

“Doctor,” Marlowe called out, stepping into the light to greet his old friend.

But just at that moment a voice behind him shouted, “Whoreson!” It was followed by the sound of running footsteps.

Marlowe spun around, and there was Walter Pygott, dagger in hand, face red with ignorant rage. Marlowe had been expecting this encounter for weeks. Pygott had battered or threatened nearly everyone else in the new class at Cambridge, and was widely regarded as a grotesque waste of skin. Worst of all, he behaved with impunity because his father had donated money to restore a window in St. Benet's Church. This had been done not by a doting parent, but by a man who sought to rid himself of his son's revolting company.

Unable to achieve any other sort of notoriety, Pygott quickly turned to picking fights and insulting his fellows. Easily seventeen stone, the bully used his weight more than his wits in every skirmish. He was a ridiculous figure in his ill-fitting green tunic and bright red codpiece, hair slicked down with butter.

“Christopher Marlowe,” Pygott sneered, “I've been looking for you, you contemptuous base-born
callet
!”

“Callet?” Marlowe turned only slightly toward the cur.

Pygott planted his feet. “You heard me.”

Marlowe smiled.

“The Scots use the word
callet
to mean a prostitute,” Marlowe explained. “I will tell you plainly: that is not true of me. I never accept money for my favors—though I often deserve it. If, on the other hand, you meant the original French definition—that I am a frivolous person—I will assure you that I am among the more serious persons you will ever meet. Keep your dagger pointed at me and find that out. Or you could ask my friend, the man in the red cape just to your right. Am I correct in saying that I am a serious person, Dr. Lopez?”

“Hello, Chris.” Lopez shoved back his cape and smiled.

Lopez had come from the street beyond the library. Black hair, dressed in red, he did not look old enough to be a royal physician, though he was nearly twice Chris's age.

“Dr. Lopez?” Pygott jeered, recognizing the famous name. “The Portuguese Jew bastard what made poisons for Robert Dudley?”

“You've read a pamphlet on the subject,” Marlowe said disdainfully. “Surprising. Wouldn't have taken you for a reader.”

“That pamphlet?” Lopez added. “Pure libel, I assure you. I was entirely exonerated of any wrongdoing.”

Without warning Pygott jumped, crashing into Marlowe with the dull force of a falling boulder. It took Marlowe by surprise, and both men tumbled to the ground. Rolling, Marlowe kicked, but Pygott came out on top, and put his dagger in Marlowe's face.

The point of Pygott's blade was so close that it nicked Marlowe's eyelid when he blinked. Still, Marlowe was smiling.

“What have you got to smile about, cobbler-son? I'm about to stick this knife in your eye!”

Marlowe flicked his own dagger and Pygott flinched, feeling a sharp pain under his codpiece.

“That's why I'm smiling,” Marlowe explained amiably.

The full measure of his predicament settled slowly over Pygott's face as he realized exactly where Marlowe's blade was resting. Pygott tried very hard not to move.

“I could live quite cheerfully with an eye patch,” Marlowe went on, still smiling. “It would make me dashing. But what's your life going to be without this?”

To emphasize his point, Marlowe pressed his blade slightly forward and drew a single drop of blood from the larger man's flesh.

Pygott tossed his dagger away instantly, eyes wide, lower lip trembling. His pale green tunic began to show signs of sweat.

“Now apologize,” Marlowe insisted.

Pygott swallowed and began in a weak vapor of a voice, “I am heartily sorry, Mr. Marlowe, for calling you a contemptuous base-born callet and a—”

“Not to me, you idiot,” Marlowe said. “Get off me and apologize to my friend before I lose all my patience.”

Pygott lumbered to one side, careful not to lose his balance and fall onto Marlowe's knife. He managed to stumble to a standing posture.

Marlowe leapt up. His blade stood out in the slant of late-afternoon sunlight. Pygott stared at it and began his speech.

“I—I am heartily sorry, Dr. Lopez,” he stammered, “for calling you a Jew bastard, and for insulting your island and the entire Portuguese race.”

Marlowe looked at Lopez.