Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon (3 page)

“I don't pay you for your opinions. You are to finish the tasks I give you, no more.”

Christopher nodded. He had had to search through the yard at Paul's and beyond to find someone who had the book for sale. When he had looked through it he had seen no publisher on the title page; it had been printed illegally, by someone without a license from the Privy Council. He guessed that Robert was building a case against the publisher, who had stated that Elizabeth had no right to the throne.

Robert's silence on the matter galled him. The other man had once told Christopher that he traded in information, and information had to be hoarded to drive its value upward. To goad him into speaking Christopher said, “The man who sold me the book made some interesting points. He told me—”

“Don't tell me you spoke to him!”

“Of course I spoke to him. If I'm to buy a book I want to know what it's about, after all.”

“He's a traitor to the queen. When we find the publisher we'll take this man in for questioning as well. Good God, you could have been overheard—you could have been arrested for treason. Don't do anything like that again.”

“If I was arrested for treason you would have spoken up for me.”

“Would I?” Robert's eyes glistened in the candlelight. He smiled, revealing a row of rotten teeth. “Don't be too certain. I'm wondering how much I can trust you, after all. The last time I sent you on an errand I heard strange news about you.”

“News?”

“Aye, news. My informant told me your opinions are quite unorthodox, and that you show no fear of spreading them abroad. Don't think that because you work for me the Privy Council will protect you. If you're caught I'll be lucky to get away with my neck intact.”

Christopher waited. Robert would not have sent for him to read him a lecture, after all. At a neighboring table he heard someone say, whispering, “Five thousand soldiers, and whatever money he can raise …” Finally the other man leaned forward.

“There are rumors,” Robert said, lowering his voice. As always he gave out no names; he would never say more than “I have heard,” or “My informants tell me,” or “There are rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“You know from this book that some in London are speaking of an heir to the throne. Lately these stories have multiplied. Folks say now that there is a man who has come to save his country in time of need, or some such nonsense.”

“Who says this?”

“Many people. I'm surprised you haven't heard them. Once they start on their fantasies, these legends, they will talk of nothing else.”

“What sort of legends?”

“How should I know? Dreams and fables—that's your province. But all their talk is of the return of kings. In my opinion their mood is dangerous, very dangerous.”

“Do you think there is any truth to it?”

“That a man should walk out of legend—”

“That someone is abroad, speaking to people in the language of the old stories, claiming kinship with the heroes of antiquity.”

“Perhaps. If there is he will be brought in and questioned.”

“And what am I to do about it?”

“You are to watch for him,” Robert said. “You go to taverns, don't you? That's where our informers have seen him.”

Christopher nodded. Taverns, he thought. Doubtless the man's a poor drunk who doesn't realize what he's saying. But any errand from Robert Poley was welcome. Writing for the stage, even writing plays as successful as his were, paid very little. He needed the spy-work Robert gave him to stay alive in London.

Robert stood. “Where will you go now?” he asked. “Taverns,” Christopher said, smiling slightly. “I'm anxious to begin work.”

“Good. I'll walk with you.”

They left the Black Boar together. Robert had never wanted to walk with him before; the other man had always taken care not to be seen with him out-of-doors. Was Robert checking up on him? He hadn't intended to carry out the agent's task that night, to be truthful; instead he planned to go to the Saracen's Head and see if Greene had managed to escape prison once again.

They followed the twisted skein of the streets. The white moon shone above them, too high now to cast much light. Footsteps sounded in the dark street, and Christopher looked back over his shoulder out of habit. Few honest people walked abroad so late at night. He could see no one. “Did you hear that?”

“What?” Robert asked. “I heard nothing.”

“Someone behind us.” Robert turned. “Are you certain?”

“Nay. I must have imagined it.”

A few moments later the footsteps came again. This time when he looked back Christopher saw a young man slipping into a doorway. “There is someone,” he said softly. He put his hand to the dagger at his back. “And I saw him before, watching us at the Black Boar. He's been following us.”

Any of his friends would have dismissed his fear as an idle fancy, but Poley lived and breathed in the medium of plots and conspiracies. The agent stopped and stared back into the shadowy street. “Nay, there's no one there,” he said. “And it's too dark to see anyone, let alone recognize a man from the Boar.”

“I tell you, I saw him,” Christopher said. A second man turned into the street and began to run toward them. He stopped at the doorway Christopher had seen and gave a loud cry. Christopher and Robert moved back into the shadows of the street.

The man in the doorway shouted, “You! I thought—” Then they both heard the unmistakable sound of steel being scraped against steel as the second man drew his dagger.

The man in the doorway moved out into the street. He had not drawn his dagger; probably, Christopher thought, he had not gotten over the shock of being challenged by a man he obviously knew.

The other man struck. Finally the first man seemed to rouse himself. He jumped back, but his opponent had managed to cut deeply into his arm. He drew his dagger slowly, as if dazzled.

Now Robert and Christopher could see blood welling from the man's sleeve, a flat black against the white of the cloth. The second man moved forward to attack again and the first tried to parry, slashing out in front of him while his opponent slipped deftly to the right.

The first man turned quickly, but it was too late. The second man's dagger came up under him. He twisted to get away.

The second man thrust the dagger forward, into the other's chest. The first man fell slowly to the ground, a look more of surprise than fear on his face.

His opponent bent over him. Robert and Christopher saw the dying man try to speak. “Who—”

“We should leave,” Robert said. “Quickly. The watch will come, and they'll take us to prison before we can explain ourselves—”

“Nay!” Christopher said urgently. “He
was
following us. What did he want? Who is the other man?”

The second man looked up sharply. Had he heard them? The man looked back once at his opponent and then ran off down the street.

Christopher moved as if to follow, but Robert held him back. “It's none of our concern,” Robert said. “Let's go.”

“Of course it's our concern. Who was he?” But it was already too late; the man had gone. And perhaps Robert was right. The watch would certainly come to take them to prison if they stayed. Last year he had gone to Newgate Prison because a friend of his had killed a man in a duel, and he had no wish to repeat that experience.

“Our business is with the man I mentioned, the one who claims to be king,” Robert said. He had composed himself and now looked the way Christopher remembered him, controlled, untouchable by any calamity. But for a moment Christopher had seen a different side of the man, had seen him frightened. Now, watching him, he knew that something subtle had changed between them. Whatever it was, it would not soon be forgotten by either one. He walked home slowly, all thoughts of the Saracen's Head forgotten.

3

That night the folk who had been exiled to London met in Finsbury Field. To the north the field's three great windmills turned, making a doleful sound like a man groaning. During the day laundresses used the place to dry their clothes, and marksmen aimed their arrows at large paper heads painted like Turks, but at night the exiles shared the field only with a few beggars and vagabonds. It was the work of a moment to cast a glamour over these homeless men and women, and so render themselves invisible. But one of the men, driven mad by his long exposure to the elements, swore ever after that he had seen a tiny creature with wings like spiderwebs.

“Spring comes on apace and we are no closer to finding the babe,” the queen said.

“He is here in the city, though,” a horned man said. “I can feel him.”

“Others have been asking for him,” another said. “I have heard them.”

“We must get to him first,” the queen said. “Else all is lost.” She looked around her at the open space of the field, trying to find something that reminded her of home. They had no gift for planning; she knew that. And here in this strange place they had become confused, thrown off balance. The people around them knew how to plot great stratagems, how to lay plans that came to fruition years later. She did not like to think of what would happen if they found the babe first.

“A great change is coming,” said one who had not spoken before, the smallest of them. She had roused from where she lay, nestled in the brownie's palm, and now she spread her silken wings. Everyone quieted to hear her. “This world and all we have known will pass away. Trees and stone, wind and rain, will be as naught. It will be a world of artifice, of vast gears interlocking in one enormous mechanism.”

The windmills sighed, turning. The queen felt as if she had just heard their doom pronounced. “Will there be a place for us?” she asked.

But the smallest one's sister was singing now, and by custom they could not interrupt her. “Change and go, change and go,” she sang. “Twirl your partner, change and go.”

The smallest one caught her sister's fancy and sang with her. They rose, laughing, and skittered off into the night air like leaves. There would be no more prophecies: already the more giddy of the folk had joined in a circle to play and spin in their ancient dance.

The queen looked up at the moon for comfort, but it was smudged and nearly hidden by the fog. She felt very small and alone, and the time left to them was almost gone.

Alice was wise enough not to look too closely at the gifts of food left by her admirer, at the scrubbed hearth and mended clothes. Over the weeks she had become used to such things, almost dependent on them. The day never seemed long enough for everything she had to do and, unlike most of the stationers, she had no wife to cook and clean for her.

Edward Blount had once suggested she find an apprentice, but none of the men eager to learn the bookseller's trade had seemed willing to take orders from a woman. Often they would ask to speak to her husband when they applied for a job, and while she could let that go, understanding their confusion, she never felt that they would in time come to think of her as an employer. She'd kept the young assistant John had hired, but he was a little simple, unable to learn any but the easiest tasks.

So when she came out into her kitchen and did not see her usual breakfast of bread and beer she felt disappointed. Perhaps, she thought, she had offended in some way. Then she saw something move near the hearth.

It was of medium height and man-shaped, though she would have wagered her soul it was not a man. Fur the color of nutmeg covered everything but its broad seamed face. Its ears were pointed, and it wore a small red cap shaped like a triangle. Its feet—But some ancient superstition kept her from looking at the feet. She was afraid that she would find them hoofed.

The thing was asleep, she saw now, and she stepped back, not wanting to wake it. Almost she made the sign of the cross, the way her mother used to do when she was frightened or startled. It stirred and opened its eyes. They were a clear brown, like cow dung, and somehow strangely comforting. “Ho!” it said. “Wood and rock, what a night we had together in the fields. I met a screech owl coming home—”

Hearing it speak brought her out of her daze. She should run, get help, call George or Edward. But her movement seemed to frighten it, as if it suddenly recalled who and what she was. It curled back toward the hearth, trying to hide. Amazed at the thought that it might be as fearful as she was she stopped and held out her hand. “Are you the one I should thank for the labor done here?”

“No,” it said.

The old women in her village had told stories of such a creature, she remembered now. It would come into your home and do your work, milk your cows and churn your butter, but on no account should you thank it. If you did it would leave.

She nodded to it, trying to be matter-of-fact. “Good day to you then,” she said, and turned and left. The old women had called the man a brownie. They had been wise, but Alice thought she had a friend who was wiser. She would have to seek out Margery and tell her what happened: it had been too long since her last visit.

As she went from her house to the churchyard she smiled to think of her friend. Margery wore a ring on every finger, each with a different jewel, and had a drop of stone at her ear, like a man's, and her long black hair was unfettered by any cap. She lived in a crowded cottage out beyond the city walls. Inside the cottage a fine patina of cat fur lay over everything, and the smell of tobacco smoke hung in the air, for Margery also smoked like a man. Aye, certainly Margery would know what to do.

Paul's was filled with people as always, but at noon the crowd emptied out to hear a proclamation read on Cheapside Street. She closed her stall and went over to talk to George. “Care to take your dinner with me?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said.

As they walked together she wondered if she should tell George about the brownie. But before she could decide he said, “I have something important to ask you.”