Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon (6 page)

“Here and there.”

“I heard someone say they thought you'd gone over to the Catholics.”

There was that rumor again. Christopher laughed. “Did you?”

“It's no jesting matter. And there were others who called you an atheist—Doesn't it worry you what people say about you?”

“Why should it?”

“Because—It's not right what they say about us, these men who call themselves wits. And it's dangerous besides. Someday Robert Greene will call you an atheist in the wrong company, and you'll be sent before the Privy Council to answer charges—”

“Robin speaks out of envy at my success, nothing more. And no one will call me before the Privy Council, I promise you.”

“And Tom Nashe insulted you in print last year, at the same time he insulted me.”

“Aye, and what of it?”

“What of it? Why do you remain friends with that man?”

“I don't know. I've forgotten what he said.”

“Sometimes I can think of nothing else. Do you remember what he wrote about me? Every word was chosen on purpose to hurt. He said I got my plays from reading English Seneca.
English
Seneca, as though I know no Latin! ‘English Seneca read by candlelight yields many good sentences, as
Blood is a beggar
, and so forth—'”

“You've memorized it!”

“I suppose I have. He's an evil man.”

“He means nothing by it—”

“Don't defend him to me! But he won't be allowed to get away with it. There's still justice, divine retribution—”

“Will it comfort you, then, to know that he's in hell?”

“I'm not talking about hell.”

“Then what—”

“There's earthly justice. Wrongs do not go unpunished here on earth. Every man gets his deserts.”

Christopher looked at Tom in astonishment. “Look around you, man,” he said. “Do you see any evidence that evildoers are punished? Ten thousand people were massacred in Paris on St. Bartholomew's Day and still the Catholics flourish there. Does this seem like divine retribution to you?”

“Even they will get their just punishment.”

“Look,” Christopher said. There had to be some way to make the other man see reason. “By your lights I'm an unrepentant sinner. I can't remember the last time I went to church. I lied to the authorities at Cambridge—under the terms of my scholarship I should have taken holy orders, but I had no intention of doing so—”

“I don't want to hear your sins, Kit—”

“I have so many questions about the truth of the Scriptures I can't even begin to list them all, I take boys into my bed—”

“Stop, please—”

“And yet I go from one triumph to the next. I was destined to be a cobbler like my father, but I escaped and went to Cambridge instead. I've written some of the most popular plays in London. I've met extraordinary people, I don't want for money—”

“Even you will be punished, Kit. If you don't give over your godless ways—”

“And you will be rewarded?”

“Aye.”

The finality in Tom's voice silenced him. Perhaps he should give over trying to question people's beliefs; not one person he knew would willingly change his opinions or come to see the folly of his ways. And now that he thought back he recognized this idea of Tom's running like a pattern through his plays, justice for those wronged, revenge carried out against evildoers. Earthly retribution. Who would have guessed that beneath Tom's habitually dour expression he held such strange beliefs?

And yet he had once held similar irrational ideas. He could not help but feel that a pattern ran through his own life, that someone or something looked out for his welfare. Just as he was contemplating with despair the idea of living out the rest of his days in Canterbury, of becoming a shoemaker like his father, he had gotten away to Cambridge. As soon as he'd realized his scholarship would not support him he'd met up with Robert Poley, the queen's agent. Three years ago
Tamburlaine,
his first play, had been performed to as much acclaim as he had dared to dream about, and he'd been only twenty-three. “I hold the Fates bound fast in iron chains,” he had written in
Tamburlaine,
a wildly ambitious student who'd known precious little about fate.

As he grew older, though, he somehow lost his belief in higher powers. Everything he had accomplished had been through his own efforts; there was no need to postulate spirits either benign or malign. Anyone with enough talent and wit could have left Canterbury. If, as he'd said to Tom, he would never be called up before the Privy Council, it was only because he'd begun to cultivate those in power, like Poley and the men who had sent the letter to Cambridge.

He appreciated the irony of it at the very moment that his play
Dr. Faustus
was being performed on the London stage he had lost his belief in devils, and in God as well. Yet the feeling was not terrifying, as he had thought it would be; instead he felt liberated, free to create what he wanted of his life.

“Now you sound like Robin,” he said to Tom.

“I sound like any man who believes in God's justice—”

A loud voice interrupted him. “Who sounds like me?” Christopher looked up to see Robert Greene and Thomas Nashe coming toward them.

“—that is to say anyone in England,” Tom said, finishing his thought.

“Listen to this man,” Christopher said to the two newcomers. “He counts Nemesis as one of the nine muses.”

The others laughed. Tom Kyd turned to him quickly, looking angry and a little hurt. Was he so thin-skinned, then, to resent any small jest at his expense? He should have grown up in Christopher's large contentious family, where arguments begun over dinner frequently carried over for days, the winner being the person who could outshout and outlast everyone else. His father had won most of the quarrels, but when he'd come home from the university for visits he'd surprised the old man a time or two.

“I said only that those who do evil are punished,” Tom Kyd said.

“Aye, that's true enough,” Robert said as he and Tom Nashe took seats at the table. They carried beer and plates of hot chicken and bacon, and as he smelled the food Christopher realized how hungry he was. He looked around for the host or one of the serving-women but they were all busy, carrying out trays of beer or lighting candles.

One of the serving-women dropped a large stack of pewter plates, silencing all conversation for a moment. Then everyone laughed and the talk resumed. A man called loudly to Tom Nashe from across the room; Tom always boasted that he knew everyone in London. He ignored the man and turned to answer Robert.

“Is it?” Tom said, tearing off a chicken wing and wiping his hand on his breeches. “Then the devil's reserved the hottest corner of hell for you, Robin. You've kept none of the vows you made a month ago. You gamble, you dandle the wenches on Holywell Street—”

“Can you tell me you do none of those things?”

“Certainly I do, but I never repented of them.”

“Well, what of it? There's still time to change my ways. And these things are but trifles. Far worse would it be for me to have the taint of atheism on my soul.”

He glanced at Christopher as he spoke. The other man smiled a little but made no answer. “Do you believe in God, Kit?” Robert asked, raising his voice. He gazed out over the tavern as if playing to an audience. Or perhaps, Christopher thought, he hoped to find an informer sitting nearby.

Tom Kyd was looking at him, his expression pleading for caution. But why should he have to remain silent, when Robert was free to spread his opinions in any company he chose? He reached over and took a sip of Tom's beer, then pushed his hair back and looked directly at Robert.

“We've had this argument before,” he said.

“Aye, and you've proven yourself to be a thorough atheist.”

“I'm only trying to make men see reason—”

“And what makes you imagine you see more of it than other people do?”

“Because other people don't see reason at all. They terrify themselves with superstitions, with bugbears and hobgoblins—”

“Hobgoblins,” said a scornful voice behind him. “What do you know about hobgoblins?”

He turned around. A red-haired man with eyes the color of young green leaves had come into the tavern.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” Tom Nashe said, as the other man sat with them. “It's true we know very little about hobgoblins. But perhaps Your Monarchship knows more.”

“Your Majesty?” Christopher asked, intrigued. Could this be the man Poley sought? Here was good fortune indeed!

“I see you have not yet met my friend, Your Brightness,” Tom said. “This is Christopher Marlowe. Kit, the man before you is your king. You may rise, or kneel, or what you will.”

“The king?”

“So he told us, the last time he was here.”

“Ah. And by whose authority is he king?”

“He would not tell us that. By his own, I think.”

“But maybe there are stories about him?” Christopher said. “Stories—or legends?”

“Aye,” the man said. “Many stories have been told about my birth. And more will be told when I come into my kingdom. But you were speaking of hobgoblins. Perhaps you would be so good as to tell us about them.”

“I—” Tom said. “I know very little.”

“Tell us.”

“Very well,” Tom said. Christopher knew his friend could never resist an audience. “They tell this story in Suffolk, where I was born. Once a brownie captured a young woman, and forced her to get up on his horse, and rode off with her as night was falling. ‘Ride not by the old pool,' the woman said, ‘lest we should meet with Brownie.' ‘Fear not, woman,' he said. ‘You've met all the brownies you'll meet tonight.'”

Everyone laughed but the king. “Why did the brownie capture her?” he asked.

“Ah,” Tom said. “She was a midwife, you see, and he was taking her to the Queen of Faerie, who was about to be delivered of a child.”

The other man nodded graciously, as if satisfied with his answer. His manner reminded Christopher of the only time he had seen Queen Elizabeth, when she had ridden to St. Paul's to proclaim victory over the Spanish Armada. He looked magisterial, used to command. And Tom had responded without thinking to his order. Could there be something in his claim after all? Was that why Poley had been so interested in the man? London had never lacked for rumors about Elizabeth and one or another of her courtiers.

“You've never told me your name, Your Kinghood,” Tom said.

“Arthur,” the other man said.

“Why—But then you're Mistress Wood's son!”

“Wood?” The man who called himself Arthur looked confused.

“Aye, Alice Wood. She has a stall in the yard of St. Paul's. You know her, Kit, her station's next to your friend Edward Blount.”

“Nay, I know no one named Alice Wood,” Arthur said.

“She's been looking all over London for you. And there's another man too, she says, who's been asking questions … Come, tomorrow I'll go with you to the churchyard. I know she's been worried about you.”

“Alice Wood is not my mother. My mother was a queen.” Arthur looked angry, dangerous; his hand strayed toward the dagger at his back.

“If you won't come with me I'll ask her myself if she knows you. Perhaps if you see her—”

“I'll hear no more of this talk,” Arthur said, rising and heading for the door.

“Wait!” Christopher said. He followed Arthur out into the street. The moon was hidden and the night had grown very dark; he had to strain to see. Where had the man gone? There was only blackness in front of him. He put his hand out before him but could feel nothing; it was as if the world had vanished. In the strange absence of color his eyes began to play tricks: gold sparkled against the night. The shimmer of gold moved off a little, and he followed.

Tom Nashe's friends had all gone home by the time he left the tavern. He stood and pissed against the tavern wall, thinking of the strange questions Christopher had asked. What was the man playing at?

Tom had heard rumors that Christopher did intelligence work for the queen. Could that be true? Tom prided himself on knowing the latest news, the secrets of the highborn and low, of being on intimate terms with nearly everyone of importance in London. It galled him that there was something he did not know about his friend.

And what of the man who had called himself king? Was he truly Mistress Wood's son? Would it be better not to raise her hopes if he turned out to be just another of London's many lunatics?

“Ho!” a voice said. Tom adjusted his clothes and turned around. Arthur stood behind him. “You—the man who knows so much about brownies. Come with me.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“‘Ride not by the old pool,'” Arthur said. He pitched his voice higher so that it sounded uncannily like a woman's. “‘Lest we should meet with Brownie.' I'll show you brownies, if you like.”

Arthur's natural authority was compelling; Tom wanted nothing more than to go with him. He forced himself to stare the other man down. “Where are they? How comes it that you know them?”

“In Finsbury Field. I've seen them.”

Arthur set off and Tom followed him. He felt a little unsteady and looked up at the stars to anchor himself. Good—they were still there. No one walked the streets so late; he heard nothing but the soft pad of Arthur's boots and his own breath. It seemed that something miraculous might happen, that wonders were about to unfold before his eyes.

They reached Finsbury Field moments later. “Look,” Arthur said, breathing the word. He pointed.

“Look at what?” Tom said. “I see nothing.”

“There. And over there—look! The faeries are dancing. Do you see them?”