The English Agent

by Phillip DePoy

  Then he flew to Lopez, kicking one of the Spanish attackers in the ribs. That man yelped and rolled away. A second later Marlowe saw why Lopez was still on the ground: he had a dagger sticking out of his chest.

  Marlowe stomped down hard on the second Spaniard’s foot, then bent down and sliced his throat, shoving him aside.

  “Get up!” he commanded Lopez.

  “Lung,” Lopez gasped. “Collapsed. Can’t breathe.”

  Marlowe, ignoring the battle around him, sheathed his rapier and dagger and helped Lopez up. Lopez threw his arm around Marlowe’s shoulders, holding out his rapier on the other side.

  “The large tent,” Lopez managed to say.

  Marlowe nodded and they headed in that direction.

  Halfway there two more Spaniards appeared out of nowhere, howling and flailing odd-looking sabers.

  Marlowe drew his dagger once more, took it by the point, and flicked it underhand, sent it into the neck of the closest Spaniard. At the same time Lopez, still holding onto Marlowe, flashed his rapier high, then downward in a half-circle, coming up under the other man’s sword hand and cutting his wrist. Then he stabbed the man in his gut. Blood exploded from the wounds. Both men went down.

  “Tent,” Lopez insisted.

  They staggered together the several yards toward the tent, and fell inward through the opening, both crashing to the ground.

  Marlowe was up again at once, blade to the door. Lopez got up more slowly and managed to get to the cot in the otherwise empty tent.

  “I can’t pull this damned knife out of me,” Lopez wheezed. “It’s the only thing stopping up the wound. But I have to get it out of my lung.”

  Marlowe backed toward Lopez, shifting his rapier to his left hand. His blood was up and his senses heightened. He took hold of the low corner of the doctor’s crimson cloak and held it to the wound, then grasped the handle of the knife in his friend’s chest. He waggled the blade as gently as he could. Lopez sipped his breath, but made no sound. Marlowe inched the blade up a little.

  “There?” he asked Lopez, his eyes still on the door to the tent.

  “Just—just a little more.”

  Marlowe eased the knife up a quarter of an inch more.

  “There, I think,” the doctor said.

  “You need a surgeon. Sew up that wound. But what about the lung.”

  “The lung heals very quickly.” Lopez winced. “And I can sew up the wound myself. Get back out there.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “You have to, Chris,” Lopez said softly. “You have to win this skirmish, and in that winning must lose Philip Sidney.”

  Marlowe stood for a moment, speechless and uncertain, but he knew that Lopez was right.

  Without another word Marlowe flew from the tent, feeling the wheel-lock pistol’s handle pressing into his back. The first thing he saw was Egun, back against one of the smaller tents, holding off a large Spanish soldier who was spitting and cursing and slicing back and forth with another of the odd sabers.

  Marlowe raced toward them, lunged, and stabbed the Spaniard with his rapier, withdrew, and stabbed again, deep. The man turned toward Marlowe, no life in his eyes, and continued to fight, slashing empty air. Marlowe stepped aside to let the man fall.

  “You’ve been shot,” Marlowe said to Egun.

  “Not bad,” Egun said, but his teeth were clenched.

  “Go to the large tent. Lopez is in there. He’s wounded. You could help him, and he you.”

  Without waiting for a reply Marlowe dashed away, looking for Sidney. The ground was strewn with bodies, mostly Spanish soldiers. The air was filled with curses and prayers and smoke.

  Marlowe caught sight of Sidney at the riverside, fending off three attackers. Marlowe rushed forward, catching Sidney’s eye.

  “I could use a hand,” Sidney called out happily.

  Marlowe ran, arrived, stabbed one of the soldiers in the back of the thigh. That one turned, pulled out a pistol, and took aim.

  Marlowe pressed, stabbed the man again in the belly, but the man refused to die. Instead he fell forward onto Marlowe; they both went down and began to roll, wrestling and grunting.

  Sidney was having an easier time with the two remaining soldiers, and Marlowe knew that the man on top of him was about to pass out. Kneeing the Spaniard in his privates, knocking the pistol away, Marlowe gained the upper position. He glanced at Sidney, who had his back to Marlowe.

  Marlowe drew the wheel-lock pistol from the holster on his back, looked down at the weakening Spaniard, and put his finger to his lips. The Spaniard squinted uncomprehendingly. Marlowe held his breath, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

  A second later Philip Sidney went down.

  Marlowe dropped the pistol next to the Spaniard, jumped up, and ran toward the startled Spanish soldiers standing over Sidney. He dispatched the first Spaniard with a single thrust to the chest. The second turned, and Marlowe cut his throat with the tip of his rapier. It wasn’t enough to kill the man, but he was bleeding and crying out—he’d soon be dead.

  Marlowe looked down. The pistol shot had caught Sidney in the thigh. It was a gaping wound, and had shattered the bone. But Sidney was alive.

  He blinked up at Marlowe.

  “You’ve saved my life,” Sidney said, shaking from the pain. “That damned Spaniard shot me, and his friends would have finished me off if it hadn’t been for you. I am in your debt, Kit Marlowe.”

  And then Philip Sidney passed out.

  * * *

  An hour later the fighting had ended. All the Spaniards were dead.

  In the big tent, Egun’s wound was patched, Lopez was wheezing in his sleep, and Sidney pitched forward on the ground, writhing in pain.

  A few of the Travelers looked at Sidney’s wound. They shook their heads. The bullet had gone through the flesh, shattered the bone, and blasted the muscle to tatters. There was no repairing it. He would lose the leg, or die.

  “It’ll be gangrene very soon,” one of the Scots Travelers said softly.

  Another man nodded. “Maggots.”

  The others agreed. It wouldn’t be long before the flies overtook the corpses. They only had to collect the maggots, place them in Sidney’s wound, and allow the creatures to consume the dead tissue, leaving the living alone. It was the common cure, and it would work. But a good portion of the thigh was gone. Sidney would never use the leg again.

  Marlowe paced back and forth in front of the tent, his face red and drenched in sweat.

  One of the Scots emerged and put his hand on Marlowe’s shoulder.

  “You did what you could,” he said to Marlowe. “Lopez is strong. He’ll be fine. Egun too. And you saved Sidney’s life. You should rest a while. The battle’s over.”

  But Marlowe’s brain was still battling, at war with itself.

  “Is Lopez awake?” Marlowe asked distractedly.

  The man shook his head.

  From inside the tent another Traveler called out, “We need water in here!”

  Without thinking Marlowe cast his eye about, found a large cooking pan, grabbed it, and ran to the river. Moments later he was back with the water, bursting into the tent.

  Lopez was still unconscious. Marlowe went directly to Sidney.

  “Here, Philip,” he said. “Drink this.”

  “Give it to Egun first,” he said, straining to keep his voice calm. “His need is greater than mine.”

  Everyone in the tent looked at Sidney with such reverence then that Marlowe couldn’t move.

  One of the men took the pan and handed it to Egun, who drained half of it and then handed it back.

  “Give the rest to Sidney for God’s sake!”

  Sidney was handed the pan; he gulped the rest of the water down, gasping. Then he looked about the tent.

  “Might I have a word with Marlowe in private?” he asked.

  The men all nodded, heading for the tent flap at once.

  Even Egun stood. “I’ll be giving you you
r privacy, Sir Philip.”

  Before Sidney could object, Egun stumbled toward the door and the other men helped him out.

  When they were gone, Philip lay back down on his pallet.

  “Our friends,” he began, whispering, “the agents we were to meet here: they’re dead, I suppose.”

  “They are,” Marlowe answered.

  “Well.” Sidney closed his eyes. “That’s it then. I can’t go to Spain without them, and I dare not return to England. If only the man who wounded me had been a better shot. I wouldn’t be in this fix.”

  “Philip,” Marlowe began.

  “Listen,” Sidney interrupted. “I know Penelope doesn’t love me. I know that. And I know I’ve done a foolish thing—several foolish things. What is love, that it makes us lose our wit and will and every noble notion? I’ve slaughtered all my better angels on the shabby altar of this false love.”

  “The heart never heeds the brain,” Marlowe said.

  “My brain,” Sidney groaned, thrashing. “I have no idea what’s in it now. I have set in motion a thing that cannot be undone, a man who will not be stopped, and I do not know what is right, or if I should stop it. But listen to me now! Penelope is no more in league with the Spanish than am I.”

  “I know,” Marlowe said gently. “She only resents being forced to marry Robert Rich.”

  Sidney writhed for a moment gasping, then went on. “No, you misunderstand me! Penelope has been provoked to rash behavior by entreaty and threat from her brother!”

  Marlowe swallowed. “Robert Devereux is involved in this attempt to kill the Queen?”

  Sidney nodded, wincing. “God! My head is on fire!”

  Sidney’s eyes closed and he dropped into unconsciousness. Marlowe touched Sidney’s forehead. It was burning.

  A soft voice in the tent said, “If only the man who wounded him had been a better shot.”

  Marlowe turned. Lopez was up on one elbow, shaking his head.

  “Yes,” Marlowe whispered, dropping his head.

  “Troubling news about Devereux,” the doctor said softly.

  Marlowe could only shake his head and wonder what madness was at work.

  Lopez sipped a breath. “What did Sidney mean when he said he’d set things in motion?”

  “Not certain.” Marlowe stood and took a deep breath. “But I believe that he has orchestrated the Queen’s murder during the performance of a theatrical distraction at Hampton Court—and soon.”

  “Do you know the details?” Lopez whispered more urgently.

  “A few of them. If I were in London I could find out more.”

  “Does Walsingham know about this?”

  Marlowe nodded. “But he may think that the plan is foiled since Sidney is removed from the scene. My fear now is that Sidney has assigned the task to—to others. The plan is still in force.”

  “Then you must go,” Lopez said, sitting up. “You must return to England now!”

  Marlowe glanced down at the sleeping Sidney.

  “What about him?”

  “Leave him to me,” Lopez said. “It may be in our best interest to keep silent about his wound at the moment.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If the other conspirators believe that Sidney escaped to Spain, or is at least alive and fighting in the Netherlands, they will continue with their plans, and you may discover the entire nest of vermin.”

  “You’ll tend his wound.”

  “I will,” Lopez said. “But he will die. It’s only a matter of when—and when we release the news that he has died. I may wait for some time to do that, but at least until you have accomplished your work.”

  Marlowe clenched his jaw. “I would prefer that he didn’t suffer.”

  “And I would prefer that he hadn’t betrayed our Queen,” Lopez answered.

  Before Marlowe could respond, Egun peeked into the tent.

  “We really ought to go back across the river,” he said. “The men are feeling exposed here. The Spanish will send other troops here, they think.”

  “They’re right,” Lopez agreed, swinging his feet over the side of the cot.

  “Can Sidney be moved?” Egun asked.

  “We’ll have to move him, won’t we?” Lopez reached out for Marlowe. Marlowe took hold of him and helped him toward the door.

  Egun signaled and several men came in, took up Sidney’s pallet, and hoisted him, still sleeping, between them.

  “When we are back to our encampment on the other side of Zutphen,” Egun said to Marlowe, “I’ll have a moment to thank you properly for saving my life, and Sidney’s. We’ll have some outstanding French wine tonight!”

  “Mr. Marlowe won’t have time for celebration,” Lopez interjected. “He’s heading back to London this morning.”

  Egun stared at Lopez, but knew better than to question his pronouncement. If Lopez said that Marlowe was going, then Marlowe would be gone.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  LONDON

  Marlowe was more tired than he had ever been in his life. His horse walked slowly past the woods outside of London where the Travelers’ camp had been. They were gone, and not a trace of the encampment could be found.

  The sun was down but the sky was aflame over the western horizon. A full moon, pale as a ghost, tried, and failed, to illuminate the night.

  The prospect of reporting to Walsingham that he had failed to kill Sidney, just as he’d failed to save William the Silent, was an iron stone in his stomach. The thought of saying the name Robert Devereux to Walsingham in the same sentence as the phrase murder the Queen made Marlowe’s head swim. So, as London Bridge came into view, he considered stopping his horse and finding the nearest public house.

  But Walsingham would know. Walsingham knew everything. Except that the Queen’s newest lover—everyone knew that she and Devereux shared a bed—was part of a plan to have her killed in her own home.

  Shoreditch streets swelled with noisy rabble. Not so far from Marlowe’s side of the bridge lay The Curtain Theatre. Would Ned still be there? Would it be worth a quick diversion to stop by? Question the boy again? To what end? It was unlikely that he knew anything about Devereux.

  Once again deciding that Walsingham had eyes everywhere, and would already know that Marlowe had returned to the city, Marlowe took a deep breath and headed across the bridge toward Hampton Court.

  As he rode he tried to force his brain to assemble the pieces of a puzzle that would make clear the roots of betrayal. What sort of person would profess love for someone, and then plot their murder? What sort of person would lie about love?

  But as he rode his head refused to form answers, and his eyes began to close. He fell into half-slumber, still astride his horse. And in that dreamlike state he roamed his wild memory more than the streets of London.

  He was a boy drowning in the Great Stour River near his home. And as death wrapped his cloak around his sinking body, Marlowe saw, quite clearly, the faces of angels. They had no features, not like human faces. They were made of light and longing: they begged the boy to come along with them. But just as Marlowe was about to ride their radiance to some other place, a rough hand took hold of his shirt, snatched him back from incomprehensible beauty, and made him vomit water.

  Marlowe’s eyes snapped open.

  He was awake, lost on a strange London street, and shaken by a bizarre realization. He had always supposed that his death experience had liberated him from a fear of dying. Now he was suddenly seized by the certain knowledge that he resented being alive. He was filled with indignant anger at life. Knowing what lay beyond it made all the world a shabby place, a theatrical set, peopled with ridiculous actors, men who forgot their lines and staggered on, women who lied as easily as they drew breath.

  Just then his horse nudged a man carrying two sacks of grain.

  “Watch where the hell you’re going, you bleeding pustule!” the man growled.

  Marlowe looked down at him. With a single flick of his dagger he could cu
t the man’s throat and ride on. Few on the street would know what had happened; none would care. Marlowe fingered the handle of his knife.

  But just as he was about to draw out his blade, he smiled.

  “Apologies, friend,” he told the man. “Here. Sling your sacks on the front of my saddle and let me hoist you up behind. We’ll carry you.”

  The man stared upward. His face was a diverting entertainment filled with confusion, exhaustion, suspicion, and need.

  Without waiting for a response Marlowe took up one of the sacks of grain and put in front of him, on the horse’s neck. The man hesitated, then handed the other over. Marlowe took it, secured it, and then offered his hand. In seconds the man was riding on the back of Marlowe’s horse, unable to find the words he wanted to say.

  “Now,” Marlowe said, not looking back, “Where are we going?”

  The man mumbled incoherently, and then cleared his throat. “The White Gull,” he said, “just two streets up and one over.”

  “Ah.” Marlowe urged his horse forward. “As luck would have it, I know the place.”

  “Do you mind my asking your name, sir?” the man asked softly. “I’d like to know what name to include in my prayers tonight.”

  Marlowe smiled. “I am in great need of prayer, friend,” he said. “It’s Marlowe.”

  “Marlowe,” the man repeated. “You’re not from London—too much manners.”

  “Canterbury,” Marlowe acknowledged. “Although I’m a student in Cambridge, Christ College, just now.”

  The man nodded sagely. “Student.”

  “You work at The White Gull, then?” Marlowe went on amiably.

  “Worse,” the man lamented. “I own it.”

  “My condolences to any man who makes a living dependent on the peregrinations of a whimsical public.”

  “Amen to that,” the man groaned.

  In no time they stopped at the door of the man’s public house.

  “You’ll come in,” the man said, sliding off Marlowe’s horse. “You’ll have ale and food on the house.”

  “Alas I am called hence,” Marlowe said, handing down one of the sacks. “But I’ll come back soon, I promise you. And I’ll pay.”