A Prisoner in Malta (7 page)

A voice behind them startled Marlowe.

“I believe the word I used was
foolhardy,
” Lopez said, “not
brave
.”

“It comes to the same thing,” the captain insisted, “in an enterprise such as this.”

Marlowe turned to see that Lopez, too, had not slept. The doctor's eyes seemed circled with charcoal, and his body was tense.

“But my friend Marlowe has a point, you see,” Lopez continued, speaking to de Ferro. “He would like to know why such an impressive ship would be following us if everyone in your crew is trustworthy.”

“
Someone
knows your mission,” the captain said plainly, “but not my men. They have no idea what you're doing.”

“Possibly.” Lopez glanced in the direction of the Spanish ship. “Although I am forced to ask: who else would give us away? Not our master, not you, not Marlowe or me. What other possibilities?”

Marlowe sniffed. “Endless. Someone at Cambridge, the coachman, the men who attacked us—”

“Yes,” Lopez interrupted, “we should have killed them.”

“I'll kill a man if necessary,” Marlowe snapped, “but not for mere convenience.”

“But if they were the ones who set this ship after us…” Lopez protested.

“It could have been any one of a hundred shadows at Whitehall, hundreds more at the Hastings docks and, lastly, as I was saying, it could be one of the men on this ship.” Marlowe turned to the captain. “How did it come to pass that Captain de Ferro's ship was waiting for us?”

“My ship has been at the ready for two days,” the captain answered.

“By royal order,” Marlowe asked, “or some other commission?”

“I'll show you.” The captain strode toward the steps. “The document is in my cabin.”

With a slight glance at Marlowe, Lopez followed immediately. Marlowe took a moment to study the Spanish ship once again, and then sped after it.

The captain's cabin was so grand that Marlowe was momentarily taken aback. It was really three rooms: an office of sorts, sleeping quarters, and a large closet for a chamber pot, stool, and washbasin. All were fastidiously tidy. The back wall was taken primarily by shuttered windows, and all the shutters were open, so that a view of the Spanish ship was amply displayed.

Captain de Ferro, his face stern, went to his desk and picked up a small golden cylinder. He uncapped it, withdrew a single page, and handed the page to Lopez.

Lopez unrolled the document. Marlowe stood close enough to see what was written there.

“Make ready your ship immediately,” it read. “Two passengers, a doctor and a student.”

There was nothing else on the page.

“Nothing more?” Lopez asked. “No money, no explanation?”

The captain shook his head.

Marlowe's eyes narrowed.

“Our captain has done this sort of work before,” Marlowe announced, taking a single step backward. “He has received other letters like this one. He recognized the handwriting. Or, possibly, that golden tube. No further words were necessary.”

All eyes fell on the tube. It was plain, a foot or so long, with caps at each end.

“May I?” Marlowe asked.

He moved toward the captain's desk without waiting for permission.

Captain de Ferro took a single step, blocking Marlowe's progress, and smiled.

“You may not,” he told Marlowe.

Marlowe nodded. “And that tells me as much as I need to know.”

“I've told you nothing,” the captain insisted, but his voice betrayed a small doubt.

“You won't allow me to examine that case,” Marlowe said pointedly, “I therefore conclude two possibilities. One: the container offers some evidence of Spain. Two: there is, somewhere about it, our Queen's royal signet.”

“I wonder which it could be,” de Ferro said without moving.

“If it is Spanish,” Marlowe went on, “he won't let me see it because he knows we are on Her Majesty's Secret Service. But if he thinks we're counteragents of the Pope, he won't let me see it because it belongs to the Queen.”

“Why would he think we're agents for the Pope?” Lopez asked.

“The three men who visited me in Cambridge,” Marlowe answered. “If Walsingham could know about them, others could too. The situation would be easy to misinterpret, don't you think?”

“It's a puzzle,” de Ferro said slyly.

“Wait!” Marlowe barked. “I have realized the obvious. Doctor, may I see the note again?”

Lopez handed over the document. Marlowe took only a moment to scrutinize it.

“Yes.” Marlowe looked up. “This was written by Walsingham. The captain is not a Catholic agent. He may be a spy, but he works with us, with Her Majesty.”

“Written by Walsingham?” Lopez asked. “Are you certain?”

“On Walsingham's desk I happened to see certain papers to which his signature was affixed, and made note of his handwriting. It's quite distinctive. Look at the capital letters
M
and
L
on this page.”

He handed the paper back to Lopez, who studied it for a moment.

“They are the same as you saw in the pages on Walsingham's desk?”

“Yes.” Marlowe stared at de Ferro.

The captain smiled. “Rodrigo, I trust you completely, but I do not know this boy. He's aboard my ship for an hour or so, and suddenly there is a Spanish war vessel following me. I know my crew, I know my friend—there was only one variable.”

“I.” Marlowe nodded. “You made the right decision. I would have suspected me too.”

“I still do,” de Ferro said.

“Yes,” Marlowe admitted. “Just because I recognize Walsingham's handwriting doesn't mean I'm not a Catholic spy. But my mind is at ease. I no longer suspect you, and, of course, I do not suspect myself.”

“You're very quick,” de Ferro said cautiously.

“But to the point,” Marlowe countered, “what do we do about that ship, the one that is following us?”

All eyes gazed out the windows at the Spanish vessel. It was clearly drawing closer.

“I plan to do what any smuggler would do with dangerous cargo aboard,” de Ferro said, his voice turned cold. “Get it off my ship.”

 

SIX

Half an hour later, with the Spanish ship close enough to make out men on its deck arming themselves and loading cannons, de Ferro stood at the wheel, along with the pilot.

All hands were on deck, all four masts were rigged, and all the sails were pregnant. The ship was careening wildly with the wind, and the coastline was visible on the leeward side. No one spoke. Most, including a sheet-white Marlowe, hugged a mast or a rail for dear life.

As they drew closer to land, the waves began to rise, and the ship became airborne, rising high and then crashing down with bone-crushing intensity onto the cold, marble ocean.

Lopez was steady, but he had wrapped his arms around the same rail that Marlowe clutched.

“You told me,” Lopez shouted over the raging chaos, “in the coach, on the bridge, that you did not care to be over water. I see now it's more serious than that.”

Marlowe nodded, soaking wet, eyes stinging from the salt. “I nearly drowned when I was a boy. In Canterbury we have the Great Stour River. It runs through the center of the city. I fell in. When I was dragged out, I was dead. A man sat on my stomach and pushed out the water. I awoke from my own death.”

“So it's not the water that you fear,” Lopez shouted. “It's death.”

“Oh, no,” Marlowe disagreed. “I'm fine with dying. It's absolutely the water that I hate. Let me die in a knife fight, not on the water. Not aboard a Portuguese ship.”

At that moment a wall of water washed the deck, and Marlowe's grip was tested as he sank to his knees, but terror was a strong glue. His mouth was filled with salt water, his eyes burned, his hands were numb, and he was certain that he felt his soul rising toward the morning sky.

The ship continued its battle with tides for another half hour. Then, slowly at first but with increasing relief, the sea turned calm once again. The ship had steered away from the coast, and the open water was, by comparison to the coastal madness, as still as the grave.

Soaked to the bone, shivering, and glad just to be alive, Marlowe and Lopez helped each other to stand.

The captain appeared before them, out of the sea spray.

“We've lost the Spanish ship, at least for the moment,” he barked. “The longboat is prepared: two men and supplies. You make for shore. Stow the boat out of sight, wait for dark, and sail the coast to Bilbao, as we discussed. The longboat has a folding mast and sail.”

“I hate this plan!” Marlowe howled.

“It's not ideal,” de Ferro agreed, “but we have friends there. One of the men I'm assigning to you, he is a Basque.…”

“No!” Marlowe bellowed, turning to Lopez. “I'm for abandoning the captain's plan and striking out on our own.”

“On our own?” Lopez coughed. “How?”

“Take the longboat by ourselves, set the sail and manage.”

“Can you sail a boat like that?”

“No,” said Marlowe. “
You're
the one from the proud race of circumnavigating sea folk!”

“I'm a doctor!”

“I'm a student!”

“Gentlemen.” Captain de Ferro's voice boomed. “I understand your concern, but you need Gaspar. He's from my own hometown, and I trust him with my life. In the second place, you need Argi Zabala. He's a Basque, as I've said. He'll get you out of Spain in secret, with his countrymen.”

Without waiting for a response, de Ferro hauled himself along the rail to help his men lower the longboat.

A second later a small dark man dressed all in blue tugged at Marlowe's arm. The man was the marksman who had set the barrels of oil aflame.

“We go now,” he said. “I am Argi, the Basque.”

With that he turned and strode away. Marlowe and Lopez followed him to the longboat. The captain stood by, head down.

“You'll make it to Malta,” the captain assured them. “You may even be early. Walsingham should like that.”

“Walsingham,” Lopez said. “I don't trust him.”

The captain looked away. “Beware of him, Rodrigo. With that man, nothing is as it seems.”

“I know,” Lopez answered.

“Go,” de Ferro said, still not looking at Lopez or Marlowe.

In the next second Marlowe and Lopez were over the side and the longboat was dropped into the sea. It hit the water before Marlowe turned to look at the other man in their quartet, Gaspar. He was older than Argi, wrapped in a thick brown blanket. His hair was long and disheveled; his eyes displayed a keen intelligence. And he was smiling.

The waves were high but rounded. Argi took one oar and Gaspar the other. They pulled with their entire bodies, and the longboat flew over the water. Before long they could hear crashing waves: the shore was fast approaching. There was no sign of either ship at sea.

As the longboat hit the sand, Marlowe jolted forward.

“Welcome to Spain,” Lopez whispered.

*   *   *

On board the Portuguese ship, Captain de Ferro stood at the rail with the pilot.

“I've had enough of this,” de Ferro said to the pilot in Portuguese. “Let's go. I did as I was told. I got them off my ship—exactly as Walsingham directed me to do.”

“Why did he put them on this ship,” the pilot asked, shaking his head, “only to take them off again?”

The captain could only shrug.

“What about your friend, the doctor?” the pilot asked.

“I gave him Gaspar and the Basque,” de Ferro shot back defensively, “what more do you expect? Now take the wheel, come full about, hug the coast, and put as much water between us and these damned English spies as you can before sunset.”

The pilot nodded once. “The Basque will get them through, and you'll see your friend soon enough.”

“Take the wheel!”

The pilot stood for a moment, staring at the captain, then moved up the stairs to the aftcastle and turned the wheel gently but steadily until the ship was headed north.

Captain de Ferro felt the wind shift. He glanced once toward shore, where the longboat might have landed. Then he turned his face into the wind, and his mind toward other matters.

 

SEVEN

PORT OF VALLETTA, MALTA

The merchant ship
Ascension,
belonging to the English gentleman Mr. Cordal, moored at the port of Valletta early on October 9, a Sunday. Men were already throwing bags of grain at a pallet on the dock by the time the ship was tied up.

The plank was lowered, and five Jewish men of business descended slowly, with a cold air of great dignity. All were dressed in black save for a white prayer shawl around the neck tucked into a buttoned cloak. Their heads were covered and the shawls obscured their faces. Their hands were out of sight, their eyes stern and cold. They moved as one, close together, and caught the eye of the Customs and Revenue Officer of the Knights of Malta almost instantly. He was a tall man, almost skeletal, dressed in a red tunic emblazoned with the white cross of the Knights.

He approached them with two armed men at his side, but the businessmen did not stop, nor did they even acknowledge the officer's presence when he began to speak.

“Gentlemen,” he announced sternly, “there is a matter of—gentlemen. Every ship in from Marseilles must pay the extra—stop!”

Only one man stopped. The rest kept moving. The man who had stopped handed the officer a heavy leather pouch, opened it, and glared at the officer. Without waiting for another word, the man turned and rejoined his companions.

The officer was left staring down into the pouch. He had never seen so many gold coins. By the time he finally looked up, the Jews were gone.