At once, with a single winglike move, the figure disarmed Frizer and then kicked his legs out from under him. Frizer’s knife went flying, and he landed hard on his back with a thud and a grunt.
In two more strides the figure was in the center of the room, arms wide. One rapier point was drawing a thin trickle of blood from Marlowe’s throat, and the other was pressed against Frances’s bosom, between two ribs, aimed at the heart.
All four stayed frozen in that tableau until the figure spoke.
“Hello, Ingram,” the girl’s voice said.
“What?” Frizer managed to growl, still flat on his back.
“And Richard,” the girl continued, staring at Frances.
Another single heartbeat of silence ticked by in motionless stupor.
Then, in a blur, Marlowe’s gloved hand grabbed the rapier at his throat and pushed it back toward its owner.
The girl in gray lost her balance and Marlowe took advantage of her twisted posture. He slid off the bed, raking his back on the frame, and kicked the girl’s shin as hard as he could.
She let out a yelp and her rapier came away in Marlowe’s hand. He rolled over Frizer and was on his feet with the girl’s own weapon in his hand. Without another thought, he thrust, and stabbed the fleshy part of the girl’s forearm, the arm that held the other rapier at Frances’s breast. That rapier clattered to the floor at once.
Frances produced her dagger and leapt. She held the point of it against the girl’s cheek, just under her eye.
“Don’t move,” Frances said, “or the eye is gone.”
“Wait,” Frizer called out, doing his best to sit up. “Hang on. Don’t go sticking that girl no more, the two of you.”
He grabbed on to the bed and hoisted himself up. He brushed the rapier in Marlowe’s hand aside, and elbowed Frances backward. He examined the girl’s wounded forearm. Blood had already soaked her sleeve. Then he pushed back her headpiece, exposing dirty blond hair and a fearless face. He kissed her on the cheek.
“Hello, Tin,” he said lovingly. “What brings you to Cambridge?”
“Tin?” Marlowe gasped. “This is the girl who’s been sending the messages?”
Frances pulled back her cowl and gazed into Tin’s eyes.
“You are responsible for saving my life,” she said to Tin. “If not for you, no one would have known I was in Malta. I’m sorry I did not recognize you. I am in your debt.”
“Richard,” was all the poor girl said.
“Yes.” Frances looked down. “I am heartily sorry for that particular deception, but you must understand—”
“I understand,” Tin said quickly. “I may understand this better than you do.”
“Tin?” Marlowe repeated, only a heartbeat behind the rest in his thinking.
“What are you doing in Cambridge, girl?” Frizer insisted.
“I’ve been following you for a day and a half,” she answered boldly. “I watched you at the baker’s, and came here with you, only a dozen steps behind. And as to my reasons for doing it, here are three.”
Tin reached into a pouch attached to her belt and produced a packet of letters.
“More letters from Mendoza?” Frances guessed.
Tin nodded.
“But why bring them here?” Frizer snapped.
Tin looked at Marlowe.
“I know these other two, sir,” she said to him softly, “but yours is not a face I recognize.”
“My name is Robert Greene,” he answered at once, “late of Corpus Christi College here in Cambridge, now of London, returned for the purposes of researching my latest play, Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay.”
“Friar Bungay?” she asked.
“It is a comedy.”
“Then what, may I ask, are you doing in a room where a student was found murdered,” Tin went on, “the room of one Christopher Marley, who killed that student?”
“That’s Marlowe,” he corrected before he thought better of it. “And Mr. Marlowe is, himself, a budding playwright. He was helping me with my play. I came calling, found these two miscreants in his room, and was about to summon the beadles when you made your overly dramatic entrance. Just stand there, and I’ll have all three of you arrested.”
It was a bold performance, and Frances stifled a smile.
Frizer nodded.
“True enough,” he said to Tin, “this gentleman found us here. But we was just about to explain to him the nature of our business.”
“Something,” Marlowe sniffed, “about saving the Queen. A fantastical elaboration.”
“Oh, but it’s nonetheless true, sir,” Tin reported enthusiastically. “Our Queen is in danger from the Catholic devils, and these two, most especially this girl—they’re working for Lord Walsingham. Lord Walsingham himself.”
“Is this true?” Marlowe demanded in mock surprise.
“It is,” Frances said, straining to keep a straight face.
“Let me see those letters, then, girl,” Marlowe demanded.
Tin looked to Frances. Frances nodded. Tin handed over the pages.
Marlowe sat back down on the bare frame of the bed and read the letters quickly. They confirmed what he and Frances had discovered or guessed.
“These are indeed from Mendoza,” he said absently as he finished the second letter. “And the Duke of Guise is to lead an invading army, supported by Spain, to attack our nation within the month.”
“What?” Tin exploded. “It doesn’t say that!”
“Ah.” Marlowe looked up. “You’ve read these, have you?”
She nodded.
“But you’ve only read the surface of the letters,” Marlowe went on, “the words as they are written. You’ve failed to discern the Spanish code.”
“Spanish code?” Tin asked, a bit more subdued.
“It’s simple, really,” Marlowe said lazily. “Spanish is very much closer to Latin than is English. The code takes advantage of the relatively few Latinate words in our language, uses them to say things in Spanish when the letter, on its surface, seems to be in English, and fairly straightforward. This sentence here, for example, says, ‘I am anxious that you should try our newest liqueur, my friend, so I will send you a keg of Eudisse, which comes from Bilbao but is like the port which is popular in your own city of Portsmouth.’ Do you see it?”
“See what?” Tin said weakly, blushing.
“Our word anxious is derived from the Latin angrere, which means ‘to cause pain’ or ‘to choke,’ and keg of Eudisse is an all-too-obvious anagram of the words ‘Duke of Guise.’ Taken together with the syntax of the sentence, we arrive at the very certain message that the Duke of Guise intends to sail from Bilbao to Portsmouth, choke off all other port activity there, and ascend toward London, to cause our country the greatest pain.”
Tin looked to Frances. “Does it really say that?”
Frances nodded. “If he says it does. He’s very clever.”
“We’ve got to get this information to Walsingham at once,” Frizer said urgently.
“Agreed,” said Marlowe, jumping up. “You must take these letters to him.”
“Me?” Frizer said. “Not likely.”
“Has to be you, Ingram,” Frances admonished.
“Just tell him what I’ve said here,” Marlowe added, “and that these letters are in the first Spanish code.”
“Why don’t you do it?” Frizer asked. “I hate London and I have continuing business here.”
“No,” Frances explained, “he has to stay here to find Pygott’s murderer.”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” Marlowe added, “now that I know who did it.”
“What?” Tin looked about wildly. “Do you mean Walter Pygott?”
“It’s all right, he can’t harm you now,” Frances said soothingly. “He was murdered here. But thanks to you we know that Pygott was the one who betrayed me to the Pope’s men.”
“And thanks to my brief investigation here in this room,” Marlowe continued, “I surm
ise that the murderer was a Spanish or Basque man called Aldano Zigor. I have only to find him.”
“Who?” Tin asked.
“A compatriot of mine,” Frizer confessed. “But I’ve already told you he did not do the killing.”
“I disagree,” Marlowe said simply.
“You believe that he is the murderer because of something you found in this room?” Tin continued.
“Several things,” Marlowe answered. “A bloody bootprint and a bit of cloth encouraged me to believe that Frizer and his crew were responsible.”
“Bit of cloth?” Frizer asked.
Marlowe produced the torn bit of fabric he’d found in the room. It was an exact match for the missing patch from Frizer’s dirty brown overshirt.
“But when I learned,” Marlowe went on, “that Frizer is, in fact—wait, how much should I tell her?”
He glanced between Frances and Frizer.
“I would say that you could tell her everything. She’s probably guessed most of it anyway.”
“Do you mean the bit about Ingram’s being a double agent?” Tin piped up. “I knew that.”
“How could you—” Marlowe began, then shot a look to Frances. “And by the way, Richard: I am the one who saved your life. This girl sent a letter to London. I sent myself to Malta, killed a man, dragged you out of a hole, and undressed you onboard a ship.”
“I see your point,” Frances said softly. “I really do. But I think you have no idea what it takes to produce valor of a similar sort in a woman.”
“And although I am a woman, sir,” Tin said firmly, “I will not be slack playing my part in Fortune’s pageant.”
“No doubt,” Marlowe agreed, “and I have seen the power of a woman’s will in these past weeks.”
“But that is something I’ve known for a lifetime,” Frances said gently, “not just a few weeks.”
Frances turned to Tin then.
“I am heartily sorry for deceiving you when I was at Coughton,” Frances said. “I had no intention of encouraging your affections, you know that. You have taken great pain to help a person who does not exist. You cared for a shadow. Richard was an insubstantial thing, a player on a stage. He is not here.”
Tin lowered her head, then took a single step closer to Frances and spoke in a voice so soft that it was barely audible.
“Do you really think,” she began, not looking up, “that I did not know what you were? I loved you on the first day I saw you, because I knew you to be the bravest woman I would ever meet. Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”
Silence overtook the room for the span of several heartbeats before Marlowe’s sigh blasted the air.
“God, Tin,” he whispered, “that’s the same thing that happened to me.”
Tin looked to Marlowe then. Her eyes were filled with tears.
“I know,” she said, her voice still barely making a sound. “I could see it in you the moment I walked into this room. I recognized a fellow sufferer. We are doomed, you and I, Mr. Greene, to love this shadow.”
And although Marlowe did not quite understand what the girl meant, he nevertheless felt a stone sink in the pit of his stomach, and knew that she was right.
SEVENTEEN
Downstairs in the public house not five minutes later, the strange trio took a table by the door, Tin disguised in gray, Marlowe claiming to be Greene, and Frances with her hood pulled so far over her head that she appeared to have no face at all.
Frizer slipped out the back with the letters from Mendoza, and was on his way to purchase a horse with money Frances gave him. Walsingham would have the information before dawn.
After a moment, one of Pinch’s daughters wafted her way to the table and winked. She was the one who had attended him before.
“Look at this,” she said to Marlowe. “You’ve already made friends here in town. And mysterious ones at that: a lady hiding her face and a young boy spitting-ready to kill someone. Better have some ale, eh?”
“Three, please,” Marlowe said, smiling.
“By the way,” she said more confidentially, “I’m sorry about the fuss before.”
“Your mother was right to protect you.”
“You’re a gentle soul,” she said, nodding.
With that she was off.
“Frizer attacked that girl,” he explained under his breath, “in sight of everyone here.”
“He was drunk,” Tin surmised. “He does that when he’s drunk. Tried it with me. Once.”
“And I’m certain that he learned his lesson there,” Frances said quietly.
Tin nodded.
“Do you really think that this Basque/Spaniard will show his face?” Frances continued.
“I do. I think he may have heard what happened to Frizer. That kind of news travels fast. And he’ll want to know if Frizer gave anything away in his stupor. He’ll be here, and he’ll be asking questions.”
“Possibly,” Frances agreed.
“It’s what I’d do,” Marlowe explained.
They sat watching. As he often did, Marlowe saw the public house as a stage, the men and women making their exits and entrances. How many parts had he played in the past weeks: a schoolboy, a soldier, and now a bearded leopard, waiting to pounce?
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Marlowe saw Aldano Zigor, the Pope’s assassin; he was obvious. Zigor slipped into the relatively crowded room through the side entrance and stepped into the shadows next to the door. He wore a woolen hat and a short leather cape, as if to call attention to the fact that he was a foreigner. He was searching the room as if his life depended on it.
Frances cleared her throat softly. Marlowe nodded once.
Just then the serving girl returned with three tankards and momentarily blocked the man from their view.
“Let’s make it a penny for all three,” she said, winking, “and call it a reward for a gentle soul.”
Marlowe smiled at her and handed her a coin. “Let’s make it a shilling,” he said softly, “and call it an apology from Ingram Frizer. Not all men behave that way.”
“What in God’s name?” she began, staring at the coin.
Before she could finish, Tin stood and strode with great speed toward Zigor. Zigor saw her coming and stepped back through the side door to the alleyway.
Marlowe was up instantly, brushing past the girl and flying to Tin’s side.
Frances stood more slowly.
“We’ll be back at the table in just a moment,” she promised warmly.
Bursting into the alleyway, Marlowe thrust his dagger just in time to stop Zigor’s small knife from slicing Tin’s hand off. Tin had that hand around Zigor’s throat.
Zigor took three quick steps backward and produced a cinquedea. It was short, more than five times thicker than a rapier, with a ribbed double blade as well as its deadly point. It was an odd weapon for a Basque mercenary, a bit antiquated, and almost certainly Italian in origin.
Tin drew her rapier, as did Marlowe.
Zigor licked his lips, then spoke.
“My English is not good,” he began, his eyes darting quickly between his adversaries. “I wish to be finding Ingram Frizer. He is my friend. I have see you with him.”
To make certain they understood his point, he pointed in Marlowe’s direction with his little knife.
“He’s gone,” Marlowe said simply.
“Dead?” Zigor asked.
“No, I mean gone away. Not in Cambridge.”
Zigor appeared to take the news badly.
“Where?”
“Where did he go?” Marlowe asked. “I have no idea. But since he accosted the daughter of this establishment, his reputation isn’t worth much in Cambridge.”
“I see. Yes.”
From behind Marlowe, Frances, standing in the doorway, spoke quickly and in Portuguese.
“Assassino,” she whispered, “o que é que vos levou a fazê-lo?”
“Do what?” he asked, but his eyes were cold.
�
��Pygott,” Marlowe said simply.
“You think I kill that boy?” Zigor laughed.
“That’s what Argi told us,” Frances continued.
“Argi?” he asked, his face affectless. “Who is Argi?”
“You know very well who he is,” Frances pressed. “He sails with Captain de Ferro, and he murdered Rodrigo Lopez.”
That took Zigor by surprise. He lowered his formidable sword an inch or two, and blinked.
“Lopez is dead?”
He seemed genuinely weakened by the news.
“You knew him?” Frances asked.
“No. But he is—a great man, no?”
“He was,” Marlowe said softly.
“But about Pygott?” Zigor asked, deliberately changing the subject.
Marlowe started to speak, then stopped, reached down into his boot, keeping his eyes locked on Zigor’s, and produced the silver earring that had been secreted there.
“I think this is yours,” Marlowe said to Zigor, holding it out for him to see.
Zigor glanced down at it. “It might be. I lost one like it.”
Marlowe examined the man’s ears, then. The twin to the object Marlowe had in his hand was resting in Zigor’s right ear.
“It does seem to be a match for the one you have there,” Marlowe said. “I found it in the room where they say Pygott was murdered.”
“No—wait.” Zigor was obviously trying to collect his thoughts.
“Maybe you ought to tell us everything,” Marlowe said grimly.
Then, taking a gamble of his own, Marlowe put away his weapons and took a step closer to Zigor.
Zigor took in a single breath and sheathed his blade as well.
“Where I should begin?” he asked.
“Maybe we should go back inside?” Tin suggested.
“Better out here for the moment,” Marlowe answered absently, staring at Zigor. “Too many ears inside—one way or another.”
“Tell us about killing Pygott,” Frances said. “That’s what’s pressing most.”
She moved her cloak then, only briefly, but long enough to reveal that she was holding a pistol in each hand. After a second, they were gone and she stepped into the alleyway beside Marlowe.
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