Walsingham looked down. “I have assigned Marlowe to take care of the matter. He’s going to Zutphen to assist Dr. Lopez. We think the assassin will be there.”
It wasn’t quite a lie.
“Good.” She stood. “Oh. Has Marlowe discovered the actual murderer of your—of the girl Leonora Beak?”
“Alas. But he is eager to return to that task.”
“Eager,” she said, rolling the word around in her mouth. “Does he fall in love with every woman he meets?”
“So far as I am able to determine,” Walsingham answered, “yes.”
The Queen turned to leave. “Well. That’s what young men are wont to do, is it not?”
“I fear I cannot remember that far back,” Walsingham sighed.
The Queen paused a moment. “Nor I,” she said softly, “tonight.”
TWENTY-FOUR
AT SEA
Marlowe stood on the deck of Her Majesty’s ship White Bear, feeling foolish in his ill-fitting uniform, watching the sun come up. It was an old full-rigged, forty-gun ship in need of rebuilding, but it was steady and perfect for the short voyage to Monster.
He was glad to have left from London instead of retracing his path from the Bell Inn to Mersea, even though it meant a slightly longer time on the ocean. He hated the water, but he feared what dreams might come to him the other way, what ghosts might rise up, taunting him for leaving a murder unsolved. He struggled to align himself with Walsingham’s wishes. His brain understood that the Queen was more important than anyone else, but his heart refused to agree.
As the waves rolled, he kept his mind on Sidney, and as far away from Leonora as he could manage. Mostly he wondered what sort of love would entice a man to kill a queen. He might betray a friend, or tell a lie to gain a woman’s heart. But what good was a heart that wanted murder?
Then he thought of Lopez. Even as the doctor was training him to kill, he counseled Marlowe against killing.
“Blood will always want more blood,” the doctor often said. “And if you ever find killing easy, you will know you have thrown away your compass.”
Further reflection was interrupted by Sidney, staggering toward him.
“Christ!” he complained. “My head!”
“You drank prodigiously,” Marlowe told him.
“And I slept on the floor,” he railed. “That cow Frances shoved me off my own bed!”
Marlowe smiled. If Sidney would only continue speaking in that manner about Frances, killing him would be easier.
Sidney made it to the rail where Marlowe stood and stared down at the sea. Marlowe marveled at the fact that he did not vomit. Marlowe had already done so three times. Some men were made for the salt, and some weren’t.
“We must speak carefully,” Marlowe whispered, only a little theatrically. “No one on board this ship must know our true goal.”
Sidney nodded wisely.
“I’ll find a way to thank you, Marlowe,” he said. “Getting me out of London has probably saved my life.”
Marlowe looked away.
“And the guise of joining Her Majesty’s troops,” Sidney went on, “is brilliant. It gets us to the Netherlands, and the safety of King Philip’s protection.”
“The logistics may be a bit daunting,” Marlowe warned. “We may actually have to join the battle on the English side of the line, at first.”
“Of course,” Sidney agreed.
At that Marlowe looked up, stared at the side of Sidney’s face, and wondered at the torment that lived in such a poet’s brain, that he could kill a queen, destroy a nation, and wreck his life for someone who would never love him.
“You know that Penelope is not in love with you,” he said to Sidney.
“Not yet,” Sidney answered confidently. “But she will be. My poetry is a lever that can lift the world; it will have enough power to win her heart.”
Marlowe stared.
Will I ever hold myself in such high esteem, he wondered.
Sidney stared out across the waves.
“I love the sea,” he boomed. “Don’t you?”
Marlowe was seized by the sudden recollection of nearly drowning in the Great Stour River that ran through the center of Canterbury where he was born.
“As a boy I fell into a river and died,” he told Sidney. “Someone dragged me out and brought me back to life. Since that time, all water looks like death to me. So: no. I do not love the sea. Although I sense a metaphor hidden somewhere here: drowning in love, love and death—something.”
Sidney nodded enthusiastically. “Good, good; I like it. You should keep working. You might have something.”
Sidney was drowning in his own love, Marlowe realized, and didn’t know it.
* * *
In no time at all the coast of the Netherlands presented itself, and a few hours after that, the ship set in at Monster.
Marlowe willed his brain away from memories of his last visit to that port, and instead concentrated on the mundane particulars: horses, food, directions.
He and Sidney were on their way quickly, fake orders in pocket, fake mission in mind. It would be a hard riding to get to Zutphen by the next day, and Marlowe did not relish the prospect of conversation with Sidney.
But Sidney would not be silent. The first two hours were consumed by his elegiac meanderings concerning the joys of Penelope’s face, uninterrupted by a single syllable from Marlowe.
But as the next hours dragged on, Marlowe realized what a purging, almost purifying effect Sidney’s monologue was having. It was like eating too much of a favorite food. He found he was sick of Penelope, which was a blessing. And he was beginning to find it in his heart to kill Sidney if only just to make him stop talking.
When evening drew near, they paused in Utrecht to eat.
Utrecht was a lovely, sophisticated town of wide streets and bustling business, very favorable to anyone in the uniform of England. The setting sun fired everything with gold.
A small inn near the outer edge of town seemed inviting, and so they stopped. The horses were taken, and they strode into the crowded public room. Many of the people there turned to see the strangers. Sidney smiled; some smiled back.
Marlowe saw the table he wanted, in a safe corner, back to two walls, good view of the entire room, and headed for it.
Sidney, grinning, followed a little too eagerly, and kicked a leg of the first table he encountered.
“Idioot,” a man at the table muttered.
“Sorry,” Sidney said, still smiling.
“Jij bent de reden waarom Willem is dood,” the man growled, beginning to stand.
Marlowe turned.
“Wait,” he called out. “Wait. We are not the cause of William’s death. Blame Philip, and Spain.”
“Wat?”
“Spanje is defect,” Marlowe answered.
“You speak Dutch,” Sidney marveled. “What’s he saying?”
“Spanje?” the man roared, coming to a full stand.
“Je dronken,” another man at the table said to his friend.
“Dronken?” the man railed.
“We’re about to get into a fight with a drunken Dutchman,” Marlowe sighed.
“Oh.”
Sidney drew his rapier at once, flailed its point quickly against the drunk’s chest and stomach, slicing up his doublet without drawing much blood. Then he scooped the tip of his blade neatly into the hilt of the drunk’s sword, pulled hard, and sent the man’s rapier flying upward into the air.
Marlowe took a single step to his right and caught the blade by the handle. He flourished it, thrust into empty space once, and nodded.
“Nice sword,” he said. “Mooi zwaard.”
The drunk blinked, then looked down at his torn clothing. His friend at the table stared up at him.
“Zeggen dank u en gaan zitten,” he advised his companion.
“Yes,” Marlowe agreed, “say thank you and have a seat.”
The drunk swallowed and sat. “Dank u.”
Sidney turned to Marlowe.
“You really are good at Dutch,” he said. “I’m so impressed.”
“I’m famished,” Marlowe answered, sheathing his blade.
Then he glanced once more at the Dutch rapier, shook his head at its owner, and strode to the table where he sat.
“I’m giving this back to you,” Marlowe said to the cringing drunk, “but if you draw it again, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
The man stared.
“Ik zal je te vermoorden,” Marlowe repeated.
The man stared down at his sword and nodded.
“You have to teach me some of the language,” Sidney said, following Marlowe to the corner table.
But all Marlowe could think about was how calmly, even joyfully, Sidney had dealt with the would-be assailant, how easily he’d taken the man’s sword away. And how difficult it might be to kill a man with those talents.
* * *
Hours later, just as the sun was setting, a small inn on the outskirts of Zutphen came into view. Past a slope and into a grove of downy birch trees, they slowed their horses.
“We’re supposed to meet our contact down there,” Marlowe said softly, inclining his head in the direction of the inn. “That public house.”
“Who is it?” Sidney whispered. “Do you know him?”
“Our contact?” Marlowe responded. “Yes. I know him.”
He gently spurred his horse forward. Sidney followed.
There was a small rail to the side of inn where several other horses were secured. They headed for it.
Just as they pulled up to the rail: gunshots.
Marlowe was off his horse and running before the second volley sounded. Racing for the door, rapier out, he stopped short when a familiar figure in red burst out.
Dr. Lopez glanced at Marlowe, shook his head quickly, and then ran the opposite direction, toward a thicker grove of trees.
Marlowe stood very still.
Seconds later three men flew from the inn, weapons drawn, chasing after Lopez.
Marlowe was startled by a soft voice behind him.
“I hope that wasn’t our man,” Sidney whispered.
“I have no idea what just happened,” Marlowe answered. “We ought to find food and lodging elsewhere. This place seems a little busy.”
“Agreed,” Sidney said as he watched the men running into the darker woods.
They turned as one and walked quickly back toward their horses, but slowed their pace when they saw a dark-skinned young boy holding the reins to both of their mounts.
“Those horses belong to us, boy,” Sidney called out before Marlowe could speak.
“And yet,” the boy said in English, “I hold the reins.”
With that several dozen men, all oddly dressed in carnival rags and mummers’ costumes, appeared from around the corner of the inn. In the last rays of pale sunlight they were more a vision than a reality.
“I know Gelis,” Marlowe said simply, putting his rapier away. “And so do you.”
“And is there any other name you want to tell me?” the boy asked.
“I suppose that would be Belpathian Grem,” Marlowe sighed.
“Who in God’s name are these apparitions?” Sidney asked, his weapon still out.
“Our friends,” Marlowe answered warily, “at least for the moment.”
“Come along,” the boy said, turning and leading the horses into the woods. “This way.”
The other men stood staring, as if they could not move.
“I’m not going with them,” Sidney objected.
Marlowe reached over and lowered Sidney’s rapier with his hand. “Yes, you are.”
With that Marlowe followed the boy with the horses.
Sidney stood for a moment longer, shaking his head. Then he sheathed his sword and went along.
Not far into the woods, the smell of smoke assailed the air. Then: food.
Marlowe picked up his pace and caught up with the boy and the horses.
“Is that marmitako I smell?” he asked the boy.
The boy stopped.
“How would you know that?” he asked.
Marlowe turned to Sidney. “You’re in for a treat. They’re cooking a Basque fish stew: potatoes, onions, tomatoes, and peppers, unbelievably delicious.”
“You’ve had it before?” the boy wanted to know.
“I have,” Marlowe answered, picking up his pace. “Beside the names of Gelis and Grem, I should have mentioned Argi.”
The boy stopped dead still.
“You know Argi!” he cried.
“He took me to Malta a while ago,” Marlowe explained, still walking. “He’s a good and true friend. And possibly the best rifle shot I’ve ever seen.”
“Best there is,” the boy insisted, moving forward once more. “He is my uncle’s second cousin. Famous.”
“Yes,” Marlowe agreed distractedly, “walk faster.”
They arrived at camp and were greeted with cautious civility. Nine festooned Travelers’ carts were arranged in neatly staggered parallels. Smoke rose from the central fire, and its orange light gave the encampment a dreamlike glow. There was only one man in evidence, bent over the fire.
Marlowe went immediately to the cooking pot.
“He says he’s had Argi’s marmitako,” the boy told the rotund man dressed in green.
The man was sitting on a small ornate stool, stirring the pot with a long wooden spoon.
“Some of the best food I’ve ever tasted,” Marlowe said, staring into the pot.
“Second-rate slop compared to mine,” the man in green responded in a Scots accent.
“You know Gelis,” Marlowe said before he thought better of it.
The man looked up at Marlowe.
“Gelis is the reason I’m here.” He said. “The rest is with King Grem. We come on your behalf.”
“Why?”
The man shook his head. “Gelis owes you, Grem likes you, we hate the Spanish, the Dutch were kind to us, William the Silent was lenient with Travelers, the fishing’s good in these rivers this time of year. Take your pick.”
Sidney caught up and stood beside Marlowe.
“What in the name of all hell is happening here?” he asked.
“Too much to explain on an empty stomach,” Marlowe told him. “But these people are here to help us.”
Without a word the man in green reached for a large wooden bowl, spooned it full of stew, and held it out.
Marlowe grabbed it and sipped, burning his lips and tongue.
“Well?” the man in green asked.
“Too hot to tell,” Marlowe said, looking around for a place to sit. “You’re a strange amalgamation of characters, here. Some are Basque, some are Grem’s men, obviously from their dress. You’re with Gelis and his family. Are there other Scots with you?”
The man looked away. “You’re asking that because you fear it’s many a Scot would support Queen Mary. But Mary’s a Catholic, you see. And the Inquisition were no friend to Travelers like me. Not never.”
Sidney stiffened.
“But Travelers keep their own customs,” Marlowe said quickly. “They have no specific beliefs.”
The man in green looked between Sidney and Marlowe, read Sidney’s discomfort and Marlowe’s warning, and nodded.
“We keep to old ways,” is all he would say.
“You have got to try this stew, Sidney,” Marlowe said quickly.
After a moment, Sidney’s stomach commanded his brain, and he accepted a bowl of marmitako.
Several other well-wrought stools were presented. Marlowe and Sidney sat around the fire with several other men, slurping the stew without talking.
At last Marlowe set his bowl on the ground.
“All right,” he called out good-naturedly, “you win. This is better than Argi’s; just don’t tell him I said so!”
The men around the fire laughed.
“Yes, excellent!” Sidney pronounced. “Now. What are
we all waiting for?”
Everyone looked at him.
“Well, I can tell we’re waiting for something,” he went on.
Without warning a red shadow emerged from behind one of the nearby carts with a flourish of the crimson cape.
“You’re waiting for me, Sir Philip,” Lopez said clearly, striding toward the fire. “And here I am.”
TWENTY-FIVE
The moon was high by the time Lopez concluded his discourse on the battle outside Zutphen.
“The fighting began when William was assassinated and chaos prevailed.” Lopez sighed. “Now we deal in small skirmishes. I fear a greater battle is yet to come. Sometime next autumn, I imagine.”
“There would be no battle at all,” Sidney railed, “if Elizabeth had not taken the Netherlands under her protection, sent infantry and cavalry to the Low Countries, and made Dudley the Governor-General of the Netherlands! That’s what started all this, not William the Silent!”
Marlowe put his hand on Sidney’s arm.
The rest of the men around the fire stared motionlessly.
“We are here at the Queen’s behest to do her work against the Spanish,” Marlowe said solemnly. “And we will give full measure.”
Sidney glanced around at the circle, realized he’d spoken rashly, and gained control.
“Of course,” he said contritely. “We give full measure.”
Lopez stood. “And now, Marlowe, will you walk with me? I have news from your father.”
Marlowe nodded, eyed Sidney pointedly, and followed Lopez out of the circle of light and into the more moonlit woods.
“I’m very glad to see you,” Marlowe enthused as soon as they were out of earshot of the rest. “Do you know that Leonora Beak has been murdered? And do you have any experience of a man called Belpathian Grem? And did you know that John Dee is in league with conspirators against the Queen? Also—”
“Marlowe,” Lopez interrupted softly. “I was sad to hear the news about Miss Beak, there is no such person as Belpathian Grem, and John Dee is a foolish scholar, nothing more. Tell me why you and Sidney are here.”
“That news from Walsingham has not yet arrived?”
Lopez stared into Marlowe’s eyes.
“All right,” Marlowe sighed. “You’ll never believe it, but Philip Sidney, possibly our greatest poet, is also our greatest traitor. He has contrived to murder our Queen. He’s the assassin in this plot.”
The English Agent Page 21