A Prisoner in Malta (4 page)

Lopez noticed. “Are you ill, my friend?”

Marlowe sat up. “Not exactly. It's just—I don't like water. Where, exactly, are we going? I mean, when you say ‘the Privy Council'—”

“I see that you are in some distress,” Lopez said sympathetically, “so I will speak plainly. Her Majesty enjoys traveling from place to place, hence this coach for—what shall I say?—furniture moving. But she currently resides in the Palace of Whitehall, and that is where we are going.”

“We're
furniture
?” Marlowe swallowed. “I'm to see the Queen?”

“No, no,” Lopez said quickly. “You are meeting with Walsingham.”

Sir Francis Walsingham, principal secretary to Queen Elizabeth, was the man in charge of Her Majesty's foreign, domestic, and religious policy. His reputation was towering, and Marlowe found himself in reluctant awe. A rabid Protestant, he had, almost single-handedly, enabled exploration of foreign lands, established English colonies across the globe, and created the greatest navy in the world. He was also the man for whom the word
spymaster
had been invented.

“God's bleeding skin,” Marlowe whispered.

Lopez raised his eyebrows.

“If I were you,” he told his young friend, “I'd be very careful about how I used my words from now on. You're in London. Every ear can hear; every tongue can lie.”

“Yes.” Marlowe tried to make sense of everything, but failed.

“And let me remind you that London thoroughfares are made almost entirely of street brawls, quarreling, and knife-play.”

“I don't know how that's any different from every street in England,” Marlowe said. “Besides, I've just realized that I might get the chance to see Penelope. If Her Majesty is staying at the Palace of Whitehall, so, surely, are her ladies-in-waiting.”

“They are,” Lopez affirmed warily. “But do you mean Penelope Rich?”

“I mean Penelope Devereux,” Marlowe corrected. “I know she's married to Robert Rich, that bastard, but she's not his. She belongs to me. I loved her the moment I saw her. Her hair is better than gold, and her eyes—”

“Don't be ridiculous. She's in love with Philip Sidney, Chris. Always has been.”

Marlowe nodded. “I know. She hates Rich, loves Sidney, and occasionally wants me.”

“What are you saying?” Lopez asked.

“I'm trying to take my mind off what's to come,” Marlowe railed. “I'm trying to think of this as one of my
occasions
with Penelope. Christ! You never said I'd be meeting with bleeding Walsingham!”

“I didn't want to frighten you unduly, Chris,” Lopez answered. “But if I were you, at this point, I would be very much afraid.”

 

THREE

Side streets became back alleys under a moonless sky. The coach was taking a deliberately confusing route to get to Whitehall. Although he had been in London many times before, nothing looked familiar; everything had a dreamlike unreality. He might as well have been traversing streets in an imaginary kingdom. Few people were abroad, and those who were eschewed so obvious a royal conveyance.

At last the coach passed through a small archway, and the air seemed suddenly calmer, quieter. A lawn stretched out around the narrow road they traveled, and the way was less jolting.

There were no lights, no torches anywhere, so that when a building suddenly loomed beside the coach, its towering stone walls were startling.

“Out,” Lopez grunted before the coach had come to a halt.

Marlowe leaned forward and took the door handle.

“You'll introduce me,” Marlowe said hesitantly, “or, present me, or—”

“No,” Lopez interrupted. “Go on.”

“What? Alone?”

Before Marlowe could protest further, Lopez all but shoved him out of the coach. Marlowe tumbled onto the gravel path, nearly fell, and turned to demand an explanation. But the coach was already rumbling out of sight.

A sudden sound startled him, and he spun around, grabbing for his dagger, but his sheath was empty. He realized, just as he saw two men storming his way, that Lopez had relieved him of the weapon before tossing him out the door.

“Come along,” one of the men said calmly. “You're a bit behind your time.”

As the two men drew closer, Marlowe could see that they were guards of some sort, an elite corps. Both wore pistols; one had withdrawn his sword, but it seemed more ceremonial than a weapon. Both were dressed in a dark blue uniform that bore a patch, a flourish of red above a helmet and a solid red horizontal bar. It looked to be a family crest, possibly Walsingham's, though why the state secretary would have his own family guard and not the Queen's was a puzzle.

Marlowe did not speak, suddenly aware of Lopez's advice to be careful with his words.

The two men strode quickly along the wall to a dark wooden door. The man with the sword suddenly became more vigilant, scanning the night for any sound, any sign of movement. The other man produced a large skeleton key and unlocked the door, then drew out his pistol.

“In you go, sir,” he said to Marlowe.

Marlowe peered in. The room was dimly lit. A single taper burned on a small table. Otherwise the room appeared empty.

“Quickly, if you don't mind, sir,” the man with the sword whispered.

Marlowe stepped into the room. The door closed and locked behind him. There was a moment of profound silence.

Then, out of the shadows, a man emerged. He was tall. His black skullcap and starched white ruff accentuated his face, especially the eyes: sad, penetrating, brilliant. His beard and mustache were so coiffed that he appeared more a character in a play than a ruler of the country. A long burgundy robe concealed the rest of his body.

“Marlowe,” he said.

His voice was unexpectedly melodious, like the low notes of a viola da gamba.

Marlowe nodded once and, with some effort, held his tongue.

“We require your services.”

Marlowe swallowed.

“The Queen and I,” Walsingham continued.

“I—I'm not certain—sir,” Marlowe stammered.

“My men have been watching you for two years,” Walsingham interrupted, “in Canterbury and in Cambridge. You are a remarkable young person. We believe that you have certain talents which will serve your country well.”

“Talents?” His voice sounded strange in that room.

“You are unsurpassed in your ability at using words to persuade,” Walsingham began, “and if your words fail, you are likewise adept with a dagger and a rapier. You rarely exhibit fear. You never avoid confrontation. Your theatrical talents make you a man able to play many parts. Your amorous exploits are legendary among your companions. And you are a spectacularly convincing liar.”

Marlowe smiled, regaining a bit of his usual flair.

“I believe, sir,” he said confidently, “that you have just described your perfect agent.”

“Indeed.” And while Walsingham did not smile, his eyes brightened noticeably.

“I assume I have little choice in this matter.”

Walsingham tilted his head ever so slightly. “If you did, would you refuse the adventure I am about to propose?”

“It would be unduly coy, sir, for me to say that it depends on the proposal,” Marlowe admitted, “but I am already flattered beyond measure.”

“I have not flattered you,” Walsingham said curtly. “You have the arrogance of youth. That alone provides you with all the flattery you need. I merely catalogue your abilities.”

“My amorous exploits? What have they to do with—anything?”

Walsingham looked down. “Many a secret whispered in bed eventually topples a nation.”

“I see, sir.”

“You do not,” Walsingham countered. “But now we arrive at a delicate moment in our conversation. I am loath to tell you more than I want you to know, but if I do not, you will not understand the immeasurable gravity of the situation which brings you here. How to proceed?”

Marlowe took a breath. Against his friend's advice and the instincts of his better angels, he spoke his mind.

“I am, sir, all of the things you have enumerated. I am a playwright, a musician, a steadfast friend, and a mortal enemy; bold, pleasant, and resolute. Now and then, when occasion requires, I will stab. I am my father's son, but I have rejected his church, as I rejected the Pope's men, as I believe you know, when they desired that I betray the law. This above all: there is nothing I would not do for my country, for my Queen, and for my honor. Nothing.”

Walsingham allowed Marlowe's words to hang in the air a moment.

“A brave speech,” Walsingham said at length, “and spoken with the fervor one might expect from a Cambridge man. But I must not forget that you have admitted, in that very speech, that you are a liar.”

“
A spectacular liar,
” Marlowe responded instantly, “is what you said.”

“Dear me,” Walsingham said without the slightest distress in his voice, “however will I know when you are telling the truth?”

Marlowe shrugged. “I don't even know myself most of the time. But my heart is good, I always mean well, and in the end I never fail to be honest with a true friend.”

“That may present a problem, in that I have neither the time nor the patience to cultivate a mutual friendship with someone possessed of so much youthful exuberance.”

“I would never presume to achieve so lofty a friendship as yours. I was referring to—that is, I had in my mind a bond which already exists, one that ties me to this enterprise, no matter what it is.”

“Dr. Lopez.”

“Dr. Lopez,” Marlowe confirmed. “I would do anything for him.”

“Good. We had hoped to hear you say that.” Walsingham turned to the shadows at the far side of the room. “Had we not?”

Lopez stepped into the dim circle of the candle's light.

“Yes.”

Marlowe jumped, but only slightly.

“Then,” Walsingham sighed, “we shall have chairs.”

Without warning several men appeared out of the darkness bearing chairs. Walsingham sat immediately at the table, then Lopez.

“This is why you sent Dr. Lopez,” Marlowe realized aloud. “You knew that I would trust him; you suspected that I could not lie to him.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Walsingham mumbled impatiently. “Sit. I must tell you quickly what needs to be done. We have little time to save our country from deceit of the highest magnitude; disaster and destruction.”

Still partially stunned, Marlowe sat. Walsingham had a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“These hideous pages are the result of dangerous work by certain members of my staff,” he began, sotto voce. “What I am about to reveal, the content of these statements, must never be discussed outside this room. Do you swear it?”

Marlowe nodded quickly.

“These vile papers were discovered in May of last year,” Walsingham continued, “and are from the Spanish ambassador himself.”

“Mendoza,” Lopez whispered, in case Marlowe was unfamiliar with the diplomatic roll call.

“Yes, Bernardino de Mendoza,” Walsingham sneered. “They were addressed to certain persons in Scotland, and tell of a Papist plot to invade England, to displace our true Queen, and to thrust onto the throne of our country the Scots Catholic, Mary.”

While it was certainly no secret that Mary had tried for a decade and a half to claim the throne of England, Marlowe could scarcely believe that she would be so bold as to take control by force.

“Surely Her Majesty Queen Mary would realize that she could never rule England,” Marlowe blurted out.

Walsingham rubbed his temple. “She has supporters in our country. The plot calls for an invasion from without coinciding with insurrection from within.”

“Surely you—surely the Privy Council would not take such a threat seriously. Who could possibly think that such a mad plan would work?”

“Francis Throckmorton,” Walsingham said solemnly.

Marlowe did not believe his ears. Sir Francis was a nephew of Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, one of Her Majesty's diplomats and a close friend of Walsingham's, so such an accusation would not have been an easy one for the old man to make.

“Francis has been traveling abroad these three years past,” Walsingham continued, his voice a bit less spry, “meeting in secret with Catholic malefactors. We know he saw Paget and Morgan in Paris. Now we believe that he was the intermediary for these vile communications.”

“I do beg your pardon,” Marlowe interjected, “but the names
Paget
and
Morgan
are unknown to me.”

“Charles Paget is a Catholic conspirator,” Lopez intervened. “A Cambridge man himself, some twenty years ago. This summer he traveled in secret from Rouen to England, under the name of Mope. He is somewhere in the country now, arranging for this Spanish invasion.”

“Thomas Morgan,” Walsingham continued, “is an out-and-out spy, a secretary to the Scots Queen.”

“I can see that you take these papers and their threat in deadly earnest.” Marlowe bowed his head. “It's just that I am struggling to believe it all.”

“I assure you, young man,” Walsingham said, “that I take these issues more seriously than you can possibly imagine. I must. Alas, these are only hints. Allegations. Innuendo.”

“Has Francis Throckmorton been arrested; questioned?” he asked at length.

Walsingham sighed and sat back.

“We are on the brink of that action, yes,” he answered, “but it requires the utmost delicacy. Francis is the nephew of a member of the Queen's diplomatic corps.”

“And you have a friendship with his uncle,” Marlowe said absently.

“Marlowe,” Lopez snapped. “You may
not
speak in such a familiar tone!”

Before Marlowe could rouse himself to apologize, Walsingham raised his hand slightly.