A Prisoner in Malta (29 page)

“And research tells you about our burial prayers?”

Marlowe nodded. “I will attend to these men if you leave quietly now.”

“Why?”

“Because then you will owe me a debt,” Marlowe answered.

The man looked away at last.

”My name is Fahd. If you kill me, I would like you to know it, as I know yours.”

With that he and his companion left immediately.

“What the hell was all that?” the landlord demanded after he was certain the men were gone.

“They tried to kill me,” Marlowe answered vaguely, already beginning to wonder how he would actually dispose of the bodies in his doorway.

“Well, I won't stand for it,” the landlord raged. “You pack off. Take them corpses with you.”

Marlowe sighed. “Yes. Let me get my boots on.”

He turned and went back into his room. The landlord came to the doorway, trying not to look at the bodies.

“And you get no refund, you see,” the landlord went on, still holding his musket. “Disturbing the peace is a crime in this town.”

“I didn't disturb the peace,” Marlowe objected, pointing to the corpses. “They did. I was asleep. Peacefully!”

“Well.” The landlord exhaled. “I see the truth of that. But you can't stay. And you have to get rid of this trash.”

Marlowe sighed and pulled on his boots. He was suddenly faced with the prospect of disposing of dead bodies, and the difficulty of that project gave him a new appreciation for the plight of the men who'd labored to deal with Pygott's body.

“Is there a field nearby,” he asked, “or a yard that's not too public? I mean to bury these men tonight.”

The landlord's first impulse was to renew his scolding. He raised a partial fist and sucked in a breath. But Marlowe stopped him with the two words.

“I'll pay.”

The landlord turned his head.

“I've got a small garden out back,” he said calmly.

Marlowe stood. “Well, then. I'll lug these guts downstairs if you'll introduce me to your shovel.”

*   *   *

After bathing his would-be killers, Marlowe said aloud the words of a prayer seeking pardon for the deceased.
Salat al-Janazah
was the collective obligation of all Muslims. If no one fulfilled it, all Muslims were accountable. After the words were spoken, he buried the dead men in the landlord's garden.

Several hours later Marlowe was on the moonlit road to Coughton Court, surprisingly well-rested, contemplating the man who called himself Fahd. He knew that Fahd would kill him if he had the opportunity, but it would be with reluctance, because they'd exchanged names. Fahd reminded him of the Jews he'd met on Malta. It was truly said that Jews and Arabs were only feuding cousins—family squabbles were the deadliest on the planet.

On a less philosophical note, Marlowe began once more to question everything about the attack at St. Benet's. Was Boyle somehow a part of that treachery? But Boyle, too, had been nearly killed by the brutes. Did Professor Bartholomew alert the killers? But the timing was nearly impossible, and the motive was absolutely opaque. Could the farmer, Tom, have been involved somehow? That man had, after all, been a part of the original band who attacked the coach to London. Marlowe's head swam with dozens more questions, and no answers.

Finally Marlowe settled once again on immediate practicalities. He began to develop a plan for his appearance at Coughton. Of course he would try to avoid Throckmorton himself, owing to the close relation with the Pygott brood. But he would have to alert Frances of his presence without being seen by very many people. His murder investigation had produced more questions than answers. He had a list of men who had not killed Pygott, and only conjecture to say who had. Maybe Frances had discovered something. It would also be important to confirm suspicions of Throckmorton's direct interaction with the Spanish ambassador, Mendoza, if the message in the Bible was the reason for Pygott's death.

The best hiding place would be with Tin and her father in the stables. Marlowe might even masquerade as an ostler. He knew horses. It might work. Yes. Assume the role of a carefree ostler for a week or two. It might even be a welcome moment of calm, even respite. As he considered it, he grew happier with the idea.

The day dawned. The road widened. Narcissus were suddenly everywhere in the clear light. Green buds filled the trees and called to his mind a line of poetry: “leaves that differed both in shape and show, like to the checkered bent of Iris' bow.”

Marlowe lamented that the beauties of spring were lost on him. More urgent matters had supplanted nature's effort. It suddenly seemed to him that spring and passion ought to be all there was to life, and he ardently wished to rekindle the simpler longings of a young man in May.

But just as he thought that, his horse came to the top of a small rise in the road, and Coughton Court came into view.

Its entrance was reminiscent of the grander one at Hampton Court, with two towers on either side, but the surrounding buildings and gardens made the place more a home than a castle. The immediate grounds stretched in every direction, more than twenty acres, and beyond them: untold miles of property.

Though it was just after dawn, working men were about. Marlowe slowed his horse, sat for a moment studying the estate. He did not dare brazen his way in for fear of being recognized as Walter Pygott's killer. He would have to find Tin and her father, which meant he would have to find the stables. To find the stables without attracting too much attention, he would have to assume another disguise.

He slid down from his horse, pulled off his doublet, turned it inside out, and put it back on again. The gray linen lining was a bit worse for wear, but once the collar was turned down and the sleeves pushed up, it could almost pass for a servant's garment.

He took off his rapier and secured it to the saddle, slightly hidden. Then he tucked his dagger away under his doublet, invisible to anyone.

Next, he looked around for a stone.

Finding a small round one, he took out the dagger.

“Sorry,” he said to the horse, patting its neck, “it'll only last a moment or two.”

With that he pried a small gap between the front left shoe and the horse's hoof and wedged the pebble there.

“Right,” he whispered to the horse, “let's go. The sooner we get there, the quicker we'll get that out.”

He put his dagger away, ran his fingers through his hair, setting it awry, and then began to walk toward a side entrance to Coughton, leading the limping horse.

As he drew near he assumed a pained gait, altering his body, appearing much older than his nineteen years. He was noticed as soon as he came within five hundred yards of the gate.

Two men looked up from pulling weeds, another stood staring, his weight on one leg.

Marlowe soured his face a little, nodded at the men once, and took in a deep, rattling breath.

“The master's horse is got a limp,” he wheezed. “I'm told to see Tin's father, the stable master here. And to be quick about it. The master's up the road, impatient as ever, and looking to take it out on me.”

The standing man nodded. “Tin's father, is it?”

“If you please,” Marlowe said wearily, lowering his voice. “Otherwise I've got the notion the old man's riding
me
back to Northampton.”

The men kneeling on the ground laughed at that.

“He's from Northampton, your master?” the standing man asked suspiciously.

“No,” Marlowe answered, “he's from Cambridge.”

“I see,” said the man, “and what's his name, at all?”

Marlowe's eyes narrowed. “His name? It's not to be bandied about by the likes of us. Do you want me to walk this poor horse back to him and say I was turned away?”

“He knows Tin,” one of the men on the ground said reasonably.

“Well,” the standing man sighed.

“I thank you,” Marlowe said, headed for the gate, “and the horse thanks you double.”

“It's just to the right and back as you go in,” one of the men on the ground called out.

“Many thanks,” Marlowe answered back, his voice deliberately exhausted.

Once inside the gate, the yard and the grounds and the general appearance of the home were all remarkable. Everything was astonishingly clean and well-kept. Even the stones in the courtyard seemed scrubbed and washed.

Marlowe's nose led him to the stables. As he drew near them he had the distinct impression that they were a tiny kingdom all their own. Tin's father might be considered Yeoman of the Horse rather than a more common stable master, which would mean he was in charge of acquiring most of his own goods and services. And if that were true, he might hire Marlowe without much fuss, and Marlowe could take care of his business at Coughton more quickly.

Marlowe came to an open doorway and stood quietly, petting his horse's neck.

After a moment a voice came from within.

“What is it?” the gruff man asked.

“I'm sent,” Marlowe replied with just the right degree of growl.

“Sent?”

“The master's told me to take this horse to Tin's father. It's come up lame, he says.”

Out of the shadows a sleek otter of a man emerged, gray hair full and wild atop his head. He wore work clothes, but they were immaculately clean. His face was like the leather on the saddle Marlowe's horse wore: brown but smooth, aged but soft.

“Tin!” he roared.

“Sh!” a voice immediately behind Marlowe insisted.

Marlowe spun around, reaching for his dagger. He came face-to-face with Tin. No longer dressed in her gray man's costume, she wore a plain green linen dress. Marlowe found it a significant garment: the Queen's Sumptuary Laws allowed both lower and upper classes of women to wear that particular color. It meant that Tin could move as freely in the household as she could in the stables.

Marlowe tried his best to maintain a slightly contorted face. Tin stared into his eyes. After a moment she smiled.

“Let us go into the stall here, sir,” she said with great amusement to Marlowe, “and see what might be done for your master's horse.”

Once in, she closed the stable door.

“Father,” she whispered, “this is Kit Marlowe. He's arrived at our door as Frances predicted he would.”

Marlowe completely failed any attempt to mask his astonishment.

“How—but,” he stammered, “the last time you saw me—I mean, I had a beard!”

“You were Robert Greene,” she agreed. “Only Robert Greene was in London at the time, living with his whore, the very sister of Cutting Ball, in Shoreditch.”

“Cutting Ball?” Marlowe asked, befuddled.

“A common criminal,” Tin answered dismissively.

“But how did you know me?” he rasped.

Her face softened, and some of the light left her smile.

“I looked into your eyes when first we met,” she answered, sighing. “You may recall that I pronounced us
doomed
when I saw the pain there. We are in love with the same thing: an elusive shadow that we can never hold.”

Marlowe nodded, determined to avoid further discussion of that particular subject.

“So if you know who I am,” he said quickly, “you know what I've come for.”

“Only in part,” she admitted.

“Would someone mind telling me who the hell this man is?” Tin's father asserted.

“I've told you,” Tin shot back, exasperated as only a daughter can be with a father, “it's Kit Marlowe, the man who killed Walter Pygott!”

“Christ,” the father whispered.

“No,” Marlowe began.

“Let me shake your hand, if you'd not mind, sir,” the father interrupted. “You did what doubtless hundreds of others wanted to do, including myself. The name's North, Geordie North.”

Without waiting for further conversation, the man seized Marlowe's hand and squeezed it tightly.

Marlowe shook the man's hand and looked him firmly in the eye.

“While I will agree that many men wanted to kill him,” Marlowe insisted, “I must tell you most emphatically that I am falsely accused and did
not
murder Walter Pygott. Though I will find the man who did.”

Geordie stepped back, confused.

“There is a warrant about for Mr. Marlowe,” Tin told her father quietly. “We must not say his name too often.”

“Right,” Geordie replied, tapping the side of his nose with his finger. “Then what should we call you?”

“Can't be Robert Greene,” Tin warned. “He's known.”

“Why not
Kit
?” he said as if he were resigning himself to an uncomfortable fate. “Frances already calls me that, though God only knows why. And it matches Tin, which is surely not your given name.”

“It's Christina,” Geordie said, “but she hates it. Her mother, rest her, took to calling her Tin when she was four or five. It stuck.”

“God, I hope I don't get stuck with
Kit.
” Marlowe sighed.

Without another word, Marlowe patted his horse on the neck, pulled up the left front leg, and popped the irritating pebble out of its place between hoof and shoe.

“Again,” he whispered to the horse, “sorry.”

The horse set his hoof down gingerly, tested it, and seemed to offer up a sigh of relief.

“Now,” Marlowe announced, “I must speak with Frances at once.”

“
At once
may be difficult to manage,” Geordie said. “She's not up yet, is my guess. The rich, you see, don't have honest labor to ward off the sin of sloth.”

“Frances is not lazy,” Tin bristled.

“But Miss Elizabeth, her so-called friend in the house, is.” He glanced at Marlowe. “Don't get up sometimes to near midmorning!”

“I see.” Marlowe looked around. “So, in the meantime?”

“Ah,” Geordie said, “I take your meaning. Well. Let's put up your horse, get you an apron, and pass you off as an ostler. What do you know about horses, Kit?”