Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon (10 page)

“Good,” the man said. “We're spies too. I'm William Ryder, and this is my brother Geoffrey.”

Christopher stood up carefully. He could not imagine any two men who looked less alike. Could they truly be brothers? “Who are you spying for?” he asked.

“Ah,” the stocky man—William—said. “We must have a fair exchange of information, after all. Tell us who sent you to court.”

“Why? For all I know you're agents of King Philip of Spain.”

William laughed, as if Christopher had made a jest that pleased him. “Come,” he said. “We were heading home before we spotted you. We'll talk there.”

He nodded. Perhaps these men had contacts at court; perhaps he could work for them and so avoid odious Poley altogether. Their clothing certainly seemed rich enough. “I'm sorry about your head,” William said as they set off.

They continued to walk along the Thames. Dusk had come; they had only a few stars and the thin rind of the moon to light their way. A few minutes later they began to pass the great manors of the nobility. Could these men live here? Why would they waste their time on spy-work if they did?

Geoffrey stopped in front of one of the largest of the houses. It was one of the ugliest as well, made of thick slabs of gray stone that seemed to weep with moisture from the river. Bulky turrets and towers sprouted off from it at odd angles, and its windows were set almost haphazardly into the walls.

William watched him closely, no doubt hoping to see what he thought of the monstrous structure. “It's the sort of building that reminds you Caligula was an architect,” Christopher said.

“You should see our ghost,” William said as Geoffrey opened the massive wooden front door. “She's ugly as well.” He hesitated. “You're not frightened of ghosts, are you?”

“Nay. I don't believe in them.”

Fires had been lit in the rooms beyond but the house kept a chill that seemed to seep from the stones. They went inside. Geoffrey called for servants, and an old man and woman came to build up the fires and ask what they wanted for supper. Christopher noted that the servants called him Sir Geoffrey, and the informality of the brothers, the fact that they had not told him Geoffrey was titled, disturbed him:

“Our father spends most of his time on his estate,” William said, leading the way to a table before the largest of the fires. “He keeps us in London to take care of his business. Geoffrey is supposed to be studying at the Inns of Court.”

“And you? What are you supposed to be doing?”

William shrugged. “What are younger sons supposed to do?”

“Become involved in intrigue, evidently. You still haven't told me whom you work for.”

The servants returned with silver trays of cold meat and fruit and a bottle of wine. The manservant lit a few candles but the room remained dark, oppressive. The two men looked like children dining in the ruins of a giant's house.

William reached for a chicken leg. “Essex,” he said, his mouth filled with chicken.

“What?”

“The earl of Essex. We work for him.”

“What does Essex have to do with all this?”

“He's about to marry,” William said.

Geoffrey raised his head in alarm. “You were told not to mention that to anyone,” he said angrily.

“Nay, Geoffrey, the man's honest,” William said.

“And how do you know that?”

“He told us so himself. I asked him if he was following us, and he said he was. A dishonest man would have denied it. Can I go on?”

“Oh, surely,” Geoffrey said, sitting back wearily. “You've already given away all the secrets of state you know.”

Christopher thought quickly. Everyone knew the queen doted on Essex; everyone had heard of her anger when any of her courtiers married. If what William said was true then the queen's court would change soon, maybe change all out of recognition. He wondered what Poley would give to hear this news. But William had trusted him; he would not tell Poley unless he had to.

“Walsingham is very ill,” William said. “Well, you saw him today—there's talk he won't last the month. Essex hopes to become the new Principal Secretary. To do that, he has to have his own net of spies in place. We're it.”

“Of course there are others as well,” Geoffrey said, with another angry glance at his brother.

“Of course,” William said.

Christopher barely heard him. Walsingham dead! The Principal Secretary was the man responsible for the queen's web of spies, Poley's superior and ultimately his own as well. What would happen to him when the man died? Should he throw in his lot with these eccentric noblemen?

“Who besides Essex is there for the post?” he asked. He added sugar to the wine and took a sip.

“Lord Burghley hopes to advance his son,” William said.

“Robert Cecil,” Geoffrey said scornfully. “He's far too young, and a hunchback besides. The queen likes the men around her to be whole.”

“Aye,” William said. “We think she'll follow her heart in this matter. But Essex's marriage complicates things.”

“We have received information,” Geoffrey said. “There's a faction at court which hopes to overthrow the queen. If Essex can discover who these people are—if we can discover it for him—his chances are that much greater.”

Christopher nodded. The brothers' information matched his own. He decided to trust them, to tell them what he knew. “I'm working for Walsingham,” he said. “My name's Christopher Marlowe. I was instructed to find this faction as well. We can work together, share our information.”

William grinned at him, and he realized he had based his decision on nothing more solid than William's appealing smile. The realization surprised him; usually he favored men who had more of beauty about them. William seemed too much like his house, sturdy, a little wayward, but by no means attractive.

He leaned back and drank more of the brothers' fine wine, studying the two men before him.

6

The day dawned fair, but by midmorning a pelting rain fell over the churchyard. People threw cloaks over their heads and ran for the safety of Paul's or their homes. In five minutes the yard was deserted.

George caught up with Alice as she was closing her stall. “I'd like to talk with you,” he said, calling to her over the pounding of the rain.

She looked at him blankly. No doubt she wondered why he approached her now, when he had avoided her ever since his proposal. But no—she was motioning that she couldn't hear him. He called to her again and she nodded.

“The cookshop?” he asked.

“My house is closer.”

He tried not to look surprised. She had never invited him to her house; the rest of the company would have been scandalized. He thought that she wanted to make amends for the abrupt way she had treated him the last time they had talked, and he felt pleased to see it. It made his task that much easier.

They left the yard together, hurrying through the rain. Alice lifted her skirt and petticoat and ran through puddles, laughing. Churchyard gossip said that she had been to court the day before, though no one knew why or what had happened. Some even said she had spoken to the queen.

It had probably gone well for her there, he thought; he had not seen her so free of care since before John died. Almost he wished that she had been put in more danger yesterday, that fear would make her turn to him as she had after the death of her husband. Instead she acted as though the day were a holiday, the rain a gift.

It was not good to be so frivolous, and he turned to tell her so. She laughed again when she saw his face. He could not talk to her now, with the rain drowning out all conversation. When she was his he would be able to teach her moderation.

Alice let him into the house, shaking the rain from her cloak as she entered. “Care for something hot to drink?” she asked.

“Please.”

He followed her to the kitchen and sat while she poured wine into a pot and set it over the fire. He looked about him, curious to see how she lived. The room was small but neat, with her few good pewter pieces displayed on wooden shelves. It pleased him to see her so industrious, so modest. He watched her in silence, unable to think of anything except that which was uppermost in his mind, the small earthenware jar like heavy gold in his purse.

At last the wine had warmed enough. Alice added spices and sugar and poured out some for each of them. “Come,” she said. “We'll sit at the table, and be at our ease.”

She took the goblets into the front room. As he followed her he lifted the jar from his pouch and held it cupped in his hand. His heart beat loudly. How was he to give it to her?

His chance came when she turned away for a moment. He pried the stopper out of the jar and poured the contents into her drink, his hands shaking slightly. The elixir was colorless, he saw, and there was very little of it. Both those things pleased him. He had just enough time to thrust the jar back into his pouch before she sat at the table.

“Good cheer,” she said, lifting her goblet.

“Good cheer.” He watched closely as she drank. How would it happen? Would it be sudden, or would she come slowly to warm to him, a little more as she took each sip, until finally she agreed to marry him? He hoped it would be sudden, so that he would know if the thing had worked. Nay, better if it happened slowly, so she would suspect nothing.

“Ah, that's good,” she said. “And it's good to be out of the rain on a day like this.”

“Aye.” He thought he saw color coming into her cheeks, red and white mixed, like roses. Was that how it started?

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Nay. You look—” But he couldn't tell her how beautiful she looked, not until she had declared her love for him. Once she was his he would never have to hazard his feelings again.

“It's good to see you again, George,” she said. “I missed the talks we had together.” She looked happy, almost giddy.

He heard a noise from the kitchen. “Ah,” she said. “He's back.” Who was she talking about? “George, come and look.”

He followed her to the kitchen. Something moved by the hearth, and at first he thought she had gotten a dog. Then he saw that it walked upright, and that it was scouring the pot Alice had used for the wine. Brown fur covered its body. Without meaning to he stepped back. “What is it?”

“A brownie.”

“Nay.” He shook his head. “It's a demon.”

The thing by the fire had stopped working. It set down the pot and looked from Alice to George, thoughtfully, as if trying to decide something.

“Brownie, this is George,” Alice said softly. “He's a friend.”

The brownie shook its head. It seemed to have made up its mind; now it looked regretful, infinitely sad. “Ah, Alice,” it said. It reached for a triangular red cap hanging on a hook near the fire. “We could have had such merry times together.”

“Wait—” Alice said.

The brownie took no notice of her. It put on the cap and left the kitchen. George shrank back a little as it went past him. Then it opened the front door and was gone without another word. As it walked the rain around it seemed to turn the color of pearls.

“What on earth—” George said.

“I've lost him.”

“Alice—”

“Margery told me I must not offend him in any way. But I didn't think he would mind being introduced to you. Now I'll never see him again.”

“Alice, what is this talk? Don't you know a demon when you see one? How did it come to you?”

“I don't know.” She looked desolate. “Margery said I was not to ask such questions.”

Margery. Now he understood, and he did not like what he saw happening to Alice. “Margery is that madwoman who sometimes comes into the churchyard? I wonder how it is she is allowed so near a holy place. Does she take you to her witches' sabbaths?”

“Nay!” She looked shocked. “Margery is not a witch.”

“What is she then?”

“A wise woman.”

George laughed mirthlessly. “There's little to choose between the two of them, I fear. Perhaps she's too wise to tell you her true profession. Does she take you to a deserted field late at night, then, and have you perform certain rites?”

“George, you know nothing of this! She is—”

“Does she?”

“Nay!”

“But she gave you your familiar.”

“Brownie? Brownie's not a familiar, he's—”

“Aye? What was he? Not a man.”

“Nay.”

“And certainly he was not one of the angels.” George laughed a little. “Therefore he was a demon.”

“Margery said—”

“Margery! All your talk is of Margery. Why do you listen to that addled old woman?”

“She said that these things are old, far older than we know. That they are—”

“Aye, the demons are old, and subtle, too. Subtle beyond your power to understand, it seems.”

“You know nothing of this. I have seen—” She stopped, as if she hadn't wanted to reveal so much. “What? Seen what?”

“Faerie revels.”

“Faerie revels? Is that what they call them now? I would call them witches' sabbaths instead.”

“Nay, they weren't—they were beautiful—”

“Aye, so they would seem, to you.”

Alice said nothing. Had she changed so much since he'd known her? What errors had she fallen into without his experience to guide her? How could she not see that her eternal soul was in peril?

“It's not good to make these kinds of bargains, Alice. Everything has a price, and you would have had to pay this one in the end.” He remembered something Anthony Drury had said to him. “There is a play, about a man who signs a contract with the devil—”

“I made no bargain. Brownie was unlooked for, unsought. I did nothing to deserve him.”

“Has Margery so cozened you that you believe this thing a faerie? Or is your innocence only pretense?”