The English Agent

by Phillip DePoy

  Marlowe stepped on the man’s rapier. The man groaned, his left hand going to his wounded knee.

  “You broke my bones!” he said.

  “Your problem was that you said you wanted to kill me.” Marlowe shrugged. “You should never announce that sort of thing. If you want to kill me, just do it, don’t talk to me about it.”

  “Christ, my knee!” the man roared.

  Marlowe glanced at Babington. “Do you want me to kill this man, or will you take care of him?”

  Babington sighed. “Riley, do get on the cart.”

  The man passed out.

  Marlowe shook his head.

  “I do hope we shall meet again,” Babington said. “Did you tell me your name?”

  “I did not,” Marlowe answered.

  Without another word, Marlowe hoisted the message barrel onto his shoulder, and ambled back into the manor house. No need for anything further with Babington. He had doomed himself, he’d be dead soon enough. And Marlowe saw that he was telling the truth, saw it in the man’s eyes: he hadn’t gone to the Bell; he was not Leonora’s killer.

  Up in his room, Marlowe found his way into the false bottom of the keg where, as he had expected, there was a note.

  The code was simple enough, and Marlowe broke it in under an hour. When he did, the letter read:

  First, assuring of invasion: Sufficient strength in the invader from the Netherlands, now that Wm. is dead. Ports to arrive at appointed, with a strong party at every place to join them within the week. Second, the deliverance of your Majesty: my own men will take Paulet’s, and assure deliverance two days hence. Third, the dispatch of the usurping Competitor: only C.P knows the identity of the chosen assassin, but assurances are certain that he is someone at court, and close to the Royal Person. For the rest, rely upon my service. Your Lieutenants are in the Counties of Lancaster, Derby and Stafford: all fidelities taken in your Majesty’s name.

  Marlowe stared at the note as if it were a poisonous viper, and knew it must be seen by Walsingham with all haste. It confirmed an invasion through the Netherlands, making clear the reason for William’s death. It assured Babington’s role as key conspirator, the coordinator of the crime: it was written in his hand.

  Two vital questions had to be answered. Who was C. P., the only man who knew the identity of the appointed assassin? And who were the lieutenants in Lancaster, Derby, and Stafford?

  Marlowe lay the letter on his desk and set to work: copying Babington’s hand and composing a substitute note for Mary’s eyes. Something close enough to the truth to reassure her.

  First, as to invasion: Gérard has been eliminated, may have revealed our plans. Second, the deliverance of your Majesty must bide a while, Paulet’s men are redoubled. Third, the dispatch of the usurping Competitor: only C.P knows the identity of the chosen assassin, but assurances are certain that he is close to the Crown. For the rest, rely upon my service. Another message, same method, anon.

  That should further dampen her spirits, Marlowe thought.

  He placed the new note into the false bottom of the cask and took it once again on his shoulder. Down the dark hallways and narrow stone corridors he arrived at Mary’s prison rooms.

  Locks clicked, doors opened, and at the last one Mary stood waiting, dressed in a thick green robe with gold brocade.

  “I dared not hope for response so soon,” she whispered, “but I can only assume you bring me a—a new cask of ale.”

  Marlowe nodded, setting the keg on the damp stone floor.

  “I do,” he assured her. “There is your mark.”

  She glanced at it.

  “What does the note tell me?” she asked.

  “No idea,” Marlowe said, locking eyes with Mary. “I only know that the empty cask was taken last night, and returned full this morning. There may not be a note in it at all.”

  Mary held Marlowe’s gaze for a moment too long, and then sucked in a breath.

  “Agnes!” she snapped.

  The girl appeared at once.

  “There.” Mary pointed at the cask.

  The girl knew what to do. She took it up and disappeared into another room.

  “Shall I wait?” Marlowe asked.

  “I believe I would prefer my privacy,” she answered. “You will return in two hours.”

  Marlowe nodded and backed away.

  “Two hours, Your Majesty,” he said, lowering his head.

  Doors closed, locks ticked, and Marlowe was gone, nearly running down the halls toward the kitchen.

  There he loaded a small pouch with a bladder of ale, half a dozen oatcakes, three boiled eggs, and an entire loaf of manchet, relieved that Drake was nowhere in evidence. He slipped the keys back on the servant’s hook.

  With that he was out the kitchen door and striding toward the stables. He would be in London by nightfall.

  * * *

  Mary sat in a hard wooden chair, holding the note high enough to catch a ray of morning sunlight from a window too high in the wall. She read it for the third time, and shivered.

  A cup of ale sat untouched on the table beside her. Agnes stood nearby.

  “I must have a fire,” Mary said softly.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Agnes said slowly, “but if we burn our allotment now, there will be less this evening, and the nights are getting colder.”

  “I know.” Mary’s voice was hollow. “But I must have a bit of cheer and warmth just now. I’ll take to my bed early, and add an extra blanket tonight.”

  Agnes curtsied and left the room, silently thanking God for the kitchen fire.

  Another night sleeping on the kitchen table and breathing in the smoke, she thought, but at least it’s better than freezing to death in my room.

  As she lifted three meager logs from the small stack by the servant’s quarters, she heard a sound so rare that it made her pause in her work. It was the sound, softer than a sigh, of royal tears.

  TWENTY-ONE

  LONDON

  That same morning in London, in a small stone chamber filled with tables and herbs and burning torches, Belpathian Grem stood waiting. He cast his eye about the room, a maddening display of animal carcasses, deadly plants, thick books, loose papers, and magnifying glasses.

  Without warning, John Dee burst into the room.

  “Let me see it, let me see it, let me see it!” he shouted.

  He was dressed in a strange purple garment and an elaborate black hat. A white ruffled collar framed his gray beard, but his eyes were a child’s, wild with wonder as he took the manuscript from Grem’s hand.

  They made a strange pair, the mystic mage and the weird king. Grem was unwashed, still dressed in his knotted black clothes and bedecked with dried flowers. His normally spotless boots were city-worn, and smelled of London streets. His shaved head was a stark contrast to Dee’s elaborate hat.

  Dee was turning page after page of the wondrous manuscript.

  “I only saw this once, you know,” Dee said to Grem without looking up. “Rudolf let me hold it. I never wanted anything so much in my life.”

  “And now you have it,” Grem said, “thanks to the King of the Weird Folk.”

  Dee glanced up. “Yes. King of the Weird Folk. Ah. You do know that I’ve seen you perform. On the stage. You’re quite a gifted fool.”

  Grem’s gaze did not waver.

  “Right,” said Grem, “but which is the ruse and which the truth?”

  Dee paused. “I hadn’t considered that. Good. Good trick, either way.”

  And he returned to his manuscript, hungry eyes devouring every letter and picture.

  “What does it say, this book?” Grem ventured. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Dee looked up once more, grinning, eyes alive with joy.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” he said.

  Fancy that, thought Grem, me knowing something that the smartest man in England does not.

  “Not a single one of these plants is known to me,” Dee went on, “and I k
now all the plants of the earth. And these drawings of naked women in tubs and tubes? What could they mean? And look: a star chart! Is this not the most mysterious thing you have ever seen?”

  Grem looked down at it, unmoved.

  “I have seen so many strange things in this life,” he told Dee, “that my ability to distinguish awe from yawn has been disabled, as it depends on such a paltry thing as an arrangement of vowels. I am left to wonder at nothing.”

  Dee lost his smile.

  “Then you have my sympathies, sir,” he said curtly. “Your life is devoid of any genuine joy.”

  “Not quite,” Grem corrected. “I will be quite happy indeed when you cross my palm with the sum agreed upon.”

  Dee paused, sighed, and reached into a pocket in his arcane robe. He produced a rounded leather pouch.

  “There, sir,” he told Grem, “and I pray for your soul.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Grem responded, “and I believe I will count your money before I leave.”

  * * *

  The sun was going down behind the western horizon when Marlowe walked his horse over London Bridge. He remembered crossing the bridge with Lopez on his first trip to visit Walsingham, a lifetime ago.

  Where was Lopez? What was more important than uncovering the plot against the Queen? Only then did it occur to him that Lopez had been his instructor in the art of poison, and Leonora Beak was clearly an adept at that art. She had wielded powders and potions the way a man might use a sword, and to equal effect. Was there a connection between the two? Had they only pretended to be strangers when they’d met at the Bell?

  Puzzling out such thoughts, Marlowe arrived, through the secret back entrance, at the door to one of Walsingham’s small conference rooms. Two familiar guards stood grimly watching him approach.

  Before he was close enough to address them, young Leviticus appeared out of the shadows. He was dressed for court, a silver suit and black shoes, the heels nearly five inches, giving the boy a bit of extra height.

  “Mr. Marlowe,” he whispered. “You are not expected.”

  “I have in my possession something that Lord Walsingham must see immediately.” Marlowe kept walking.

  “I would like very much to tell you something before you go in there,” Leviticus whispered more urgently.

  Marlowe slowed and stared at the boy. “What is it?”

  “Since your revelation to me that I may be the son of John Dee’s new wife,” the boy answered, “I have been observing Dee with great care. I think you should know something that no one else knows: he has purchased a manuscript from a fairy king!”

  Marlowe stopped walking. “Why do you say this?”

  “Because I’ve seen it all! Seen the fairy, and the manuscript. It is more wondrous than you can possibly imagine, with fairy writing and strange pictures of naked women!”

  “And you have told no one?”

  “I fear that John Dee may use the manuscript and its magic,” Leviticus told Marlowe, “against me, or my mother—the woman I think is my mother.”

  “Do you know where the manuscript is now?”

  “I do.”

  Leviticus was about to go on but Marlowe began walking again.

  “Tell no one,” he said to the boy. “I must speak with Walsingham on another matter, but I think it is related to your discovery. When the time is right, will you take me to the place where the manuscript is hidden?”

  Leviticus nodded, eyes wide.

  “Good.” Marlowe stopped several feet from the guards at the door.

  Leviticus instinctively took the horse’s reins but otherwise did not budge.

  “I have urgent need of Lord Walsingham,” Marlowe said to both of the guards.

  One nodded. “You’re to go in. You may sit. His Lordship will be a while in coming.”

  With that the door swung open.

  Marlowe glanced at Leviticus.

  “Thank you for taking care of the horse,” he told the boy. “I will see you before I leave.”

  Leviticus nodded solemnly and was off, leading the horse behind him.

  An hour later Marlowe was jolted from his seat in Walsingham’s conference room by a sudden sweep of the door.

  Walsingham strode in, a small cup in his hand. His robe was black, as was his cap, and he was decked in his chain of office, the insignia of the Secretary to the Queen.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded to know. “Who is watching Mary?”

  Marlowe took a breath. “I am here because I have astonishing information, and your man Drake is watching Mary!”

  Walsingham set down his cup and glared at Marlowe.

  “Do you imagine that yours is a tone one takes with the Secretary to the Queen?”

  “The matter is urgent!” Marlowe answered. “Invasion through the Netherlands within two weeks, Mary’s liberation two days hence, and armies sympathetic to Mary’s cause in Lancaster, Derby, and Stafford! I must show you this missive!”

  Walsingham’s face contorted. “Do you mean to say that you have a new communication between Babington and Mary?”

  “Yes!” Marlowe insisted.

  He reached into his doublet, produced two folded sheets of paper, and thrust them toward Walsingham.

  “So soon,” Walsingham muttered.

  “I was able to gain Mary’s confidence at once,” Marlowe snipped. “The note on top is the coded message in Babington’s hand, the second is my translation of it.”

  Walsingham read the translation quickly, then went over the original note very carefully.

  “You left out the revelation that there is an assassin at court,” Walsingham said softly, still staring at the page.

  “My prayer is that you might know the identity of ‘C. P.’”

  Walsingham looked up.

  “Charles Paget,” he sighed. “You have heard me speak of him.”

  “Paget!” Marlowe realized. “He was involved in Throckmorton’s attempt to murder the Queen.”

  “He vanished,” Walsingham muttered, “but he had, as you know, an accomplice in court.”

  “Penelope,” Marlowe said aloud before he could prevent the name from escaping his lips.

  “Yes.” Walsingham set the pages down on his desk. “One wonders if she might not have been so innocent as her words and demeanor protested.”

  “Why do you say that?” Marlowe asked.

  “Because of her discontent with her husband, Robert Rich, and her simultaneous attentions from the poet Philip Sydney. She is a duplicitous woman by nature.”

  “Hating one man and being beloved of another is not an indication of duplicity,” Marlowe protested. “It’s the evidence of a passionate heart. You only speak this way because your daughter Frances is married to Sidney.”

  “And you only speak this way because you love Penelope.”

  “Penelope is no conspirator,” Marlowe insisted.

  “Because she is young and beautiful?” Walsingham shook his head. “Had we the time, I would argue that notion out of your head within the hour, but this business is of the utmost urgency. And so I must send you to Paget. I am told that he is in London as we speak. I will send word to Sir Amias that he is to double his guard at Chartley, and close the bridge across the moat. And how fares Queen Mary?”

  “She is cold,” Marlowe answered.

  Walsingham’s face betrayed the hint of a smile.

  “There is another matter,” Marlowe said quickly. “John Dee is in receipt of a coded communiqué from the Emperor Rudolf. I believe this means that John Dee is the assassin mentioned in Babington’s note. He is at court and close to the Queen. He has access to many poisons, which subject has been greatly on my mind of late. And let us imagine that someone has discovered his wife’s bastard son, Leviticus. Might that be used as leverage to encourage Dee?”

  Walsingham nodded once. “I had considered that—all of it.”

  Of course you had, thought Marlowe; why else would you have set me on that path in the first place?
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  “Where is the communiqué?” Walsingham continued

  “Here in Hampton Hall,” Marlowe answered. “I believe it is hidden in Dee’s laboratory, but as luck would have it, young Leviticus has knowledge of its exact location.”

  “Good. I will have Dee under constant surveillance from this moment forward. In the meantime, you must still meet with Paget. Under your continuing guise as a Catholic sympathizer to Mary’s cause, you will needle from him the identity of the assassin—Dee or someone else.”

  Without another word, Walsingham strode toward the door.

  Marlowe scrambled. “Where might I find Paget, then?”

  Walsingham slowed but did not stop or turn around.

  “I understand that he wears a distinctive red cap,” he told Marlowe, “and is often found at the theatre.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The Curtain Theatre was crowded and noisy. Afternoon sun slanted perfectly, lighting the stage and warming the air. Marlowe was stunned to see no less than Edward Alleyn, the foremost actor of the day, take bare stage.

  “There is beyond the Alps, a town of ancient fame,” Alleyn began, “whose bright renown yet shines clear: Verona is its name. And there one Romeus, who was of race a Montague, upon whose tender chin, as yet, no manlike beard there grew, found Juliet, a Capulet by hap, whose beauty, shape, and comely grace, did so his heart entrap.”

  From there Lyly’s play proceeded more or less in accord with Brooke’s poem of the same name. And there was Ned Blank in the part of Romeus, upon whose chin, indeed, no manlike beard there grew.

  Marlowe stood in the dirt and shadows at the back of the open theatre, along with a hundred other groundlings, his eyes searching the boxes that encircled them for a man in any sort of red hat. He considered going backstage, confronting Ned, but thought better of it. For all his faults and idiocy, Ned deserved this night: a chance to prove himself in a male role. How Ned had convinced Gelis to let him go—or how he’d escaped the Travelers’ camp—was a puzzle not worth attention at the moment.