Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon (8 page)

Margery lived out beyond the city walls, and as Alice passed through Ludgate she looked around her, hoping to find some trace of the faeries' revels. These fields, that stand of trees, the small stream running over stones in the distance—it all looked familiar, or nearly so. But where was the cottage? And where the hill where Robin Goodfellow had stood? And yet, look—faerie rings covered the grass as far as she could see.

At last she came to Margery's small thatched cottage and knocked on the door, but to her intense disappointment no one answered. Just as she was about to go she saw Margery coming up the path, asphodels in her upturned apron.

“Good day,” Margery said, opening the door.

Whenever she saw the inside of Margery's house Alice always thought that it looked bigger than she would have expected from the outside. Books and scrolls lay open everywhere, the books bound in cracked leather, in vellum or not bound at all. Vegetables and herbs and stones set in silver hung from beams in the low ceiling, and cobwebs fell from the walls. The floor was littered with the parchment Margery used for her calculations, and a scrying stone covered with dust lay half-hidden in a corner. Alice smelled flowers and cat dung and tobacco. The first time Margery had invited her in Alice had thought, Marry, all she lacks is a stuffed alligator to set herself up as an apothecary.

As they came in a plump ginger cat jumped down from one of the stools and yawned hugely, then curled up on a cushion and went to sleep again. Margery set the flowers in a pewter jug and lit fat candles from the fire. She moved a dish caked with what looked like the remnants of a failed experiment but was probably only her supper, and sat down heavily on the bench she had cleared. Alice brushed tobacco crumbs and fur off a stool and sat near her.

Margery said nothing. How do you ask someone if she'd attended the faeries' revels without her thinking you belonged in Bedlam? But just then Margery brushed back her tangle of black hair, and for a moment her face seemed to shine like the queen's. Alice closed her left eye and the light disappeared. “Did you—Were you—Was that you I saw last night, talking to the Queen of Faerie?”

“Aye,” Margery said. She picked up her tobacco-pipe from a pile of books and drew on it. Though Alice hadn't seen her light it a wreath of smoke soon covered her face. If the faerie-light had truly been there it was gone now.

“How long have you known her?”

“Oh, a long time.”

Alice had forgotten how difficult conversation with her friend could be. She rarely talked about the thing you most wanted to know but would lead you around it, through overgrown and twisting roads. And by the time you emerged into the light of day you had learned many things, each one stranger than the next, but never what you wanted to know. For the first time Alice wondered what sights Margery saw with her left eye, and if that was why she seemed so distracted so much of the time. When the people of Faerie crowded your vision you had little time for the rest of the world.

“What did you talk about?”

“She asked for my aid in something.”

“Your—aid? In what?”

“Ah, that I can't tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because many things are told to me in confidence. But be patient—I think you will learn more of this later.”

“When?”

“Soon, I think. Things hurry toward their conclusions.”

“Does it have something to do with the brownie in my house?”

Margery laughed. “Do you truly have a brownie? I've always wanted one.” She turned to look at the confusion around her. “Aye, it might have something to do with him, after all. Does he bring you luck? Would you like some mulled wine?”

“I would, thank you.” Alice looked on as Margery set out tarnished silver goblets and poured wine in a pot to heat it. Then she gave thought to the woman's other question, remembering the number of orders she had left at the printshop just an hour before. “I think he does. My business prospers, anyway. But why did he come to me?”

“Why do they come to anyone? But you must do all you can to keep him.”

“How do I do that?”

“Never thank him for his labors. Set aside a bowl of milk for him every night, but give him nothing else, or he may consider his wages paid in full and do no more work. Never offend him in any way.”

“Can you tell me anything more about the—these—”

“About the Fair Folk? They have not been in London long. An urgent errand brought them here.”

Alice nearly asked Margery what that errand was, but she felt certain the other woman would not tell her. “But what are they?” she asked. “They are not angels …”

Margery laughed. “Nay, not angels. But they are very old. The uncovenanted powers, folks call them now.”

“Then they are not—not godly—”

“I don't know. I don't know what you mean by godly.”

Alice felt a small shock. How could Margery not understand a thing like that? She knew that Margery didn't go to church, and the knowledge worried her. In the small town where Alice had grown up the other woman would have been fined for her lack of attendance, might have even been accused of being a witch. Here, so close to the city, people's businesses kept them too occupied to notice her.

“I mean that it may be unlawful to deal with them,” Alice said. “Perhaps I should have nothing to do with them.”

“Nothing?”

Alice had forgotten Brownie. She felt her face grow hot under the other woman's shrewd gaze. But had that been all that Margery meant by her question? Or did she know something of the future? Had she guessed how strongly Alice was drawn to the splendor of the queen?

The wine had heated; Margery poured it out and handed her a goblet. It tasted a little odd, and she looked down to see cut tobacco leaves floating on top. And this was the woman to whom the queen had gone for help! But perhaps it was as she had thought: Margery's other sight kept her from noticing the things everyone else considered important.

“I hope you've spoken to no one else about these—these powers. If your talk should come to the ears of the Privy Council—”

“Do you think I've lost my wits? But no one listens to old women—you know that as well as I do.”

“We're not so old,” Alice said. “But you might be right. I'm rarely called on at the Stationers' Company meetings, and it's only when another printer repeats my suggestions that they're taken seriously. Someone tried to flatter me the other day by asking for my advice. I almost believed him—I wanted so much to be accepted by the rest of the company.”

The conversation turned to the gossip in the churchyard. “George has asked me to marry him,” Alice said.

“George? That foolish-looking man at Paul's?” Margery had met Alice when she had gone into London looking for a book. Later one of the other stationers had told Alice he thought the book Margery wanted had last been printed over a hundred years ago. Since then Alice had kept aside things she thought would interest Margery.

“Do you truly think he looks foolish? He seems to me just the opposite—a man who can never laugh at anything.”

“Aye, and that's what makes him a fool. I hope you told him no.”

“I did. I don't think I will ever marry again.”

“You can do better for yourself than George.”

“Didn't you hear what I said? I will not marry again. I'm too old for marriage, and I've grown too solitary this past year. I'm not suited to live with anyone.”

“Ah. But you don't know what fortune has in store for you.”

“Are you prophesying for me?” Alice laughed, but her heart seemed to lift a little. To marry again, to put an end to her loneliness …

“Do you want me to?”

“God forfend,” Alice said.

5

Evening had fallen by the time Alice got back to the churchyard. All over the yard stalls stood in shadow; from the gate she could not even make out her own station. Around her the other stationers were putting their books away for the day, closing their stalls, counting out the money they had made.

When she got to her station she saw that the young man who worked for her had gone. She unlocked her stall, curious to see what he had sold that day. Someone moved toward her from the shadows.

“Good day, Mistress Wood.”

It was Tom Nashe. How long had he been waiting for her? His manner seemed urgent; she guessed that he had something to tell her. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, an icy winter's wind blew through the yard, riffling the pages of her books. She shivered. “What is it, Tom?”

“I've found him.”

“Found who?”

“Your son. That is to say, I found him once. He's gone again.”

“My—son?”

“Aye. Arthur. He sits and talks with us sometimes at the Saracen's Head, but he never told us his name. He has red hair—”

“Aye,” she said softly, trying not to hope too much.

“And green eyes, with long lashes. But I fear—”

“What? What do you fear?”

“His wits—”

She had never known Tom to hesitate so much. “His wits are gone,” she said.

“Not as bad as that. But he calls himself king, speaks of certain prophecies made at his birth … I think his poverty has made him frantic.”

“That was always one of his fancies, even when he was a small child. He was a king, and we were to do his bidding.” She tried to smile. “Perhaps my husband should not have named him Arthur. But where is he?” She looked around as if Tom might have brought him into the churchyard.

“I'm trying to tell you. I looked for him all day today, but he's gone. I'm afraid he might have left because of something I said. When he told me his name I asked him if he was your son, and he grew angry—I had never seen him so angry. He swore to me he was a king and no son of yours. I said I would bring him with me to the churchyard. I think that's why he's disappeared.”

“Then he is alive. But so changed—even when he played at being a king he always knew he was my son. Please let me know if you see him again.”

“Of course.”

“What tavern does he frequent?”

“The Saracen's Head, in Shoreditch.”

“Ah,” she said. Arthur, alive—she could barely credit it.

Tom took his leave. She nodded to him absently, but all the while her mind was on Arthur. Perhaps she could get someone to go with her to the Saracen's Head. Her son would know her when he saw her, she felt sure of it.

“Alice Wood?” someone said, and she looked up in alarm. A man dressed in the livery of the queen stood in front of her stall. She had been so deep in thought she had not even seen him approach.

“Aye?” she said warily. What did he want with her so late in the day? All her books had been licensed and recorded in the stationers' registry; he could have checked that for himself.

“I have a warrant summoning you to court.”

“A—warrant?”

“Aye. The queen wants to ask you certain questions.”

What questions? she nearly asked, but she found that she could guess the answer. If Tom had heard Arthur boast he was a king then others had certainly heard him as well. But where was Arthur now? Did the queen's men have him? “What—does this concern?” she asked cautiously, careful not to give anything away.

The man shrugged. “I don't know.” He looked down at the warrant and began to read, “… by virtue here of to bring her to Court …” He looked up, seeming to realize only at that moment where he was, surrounded by books of every sort. Probably most of the men and women he summoned to court could not read. With a gesture almost of apology, he handed her the warrant and left.

She looked at it, the words blurring before her in her anxiety. Who could she turn to? Not George, certainly, and Margery was too unworldly to be of much help. What had Arthur done that Queen Elizabeth herself should take an interest in her?

She had never been in trouble with the law in her life. She would have to ask Margery for her help, she realized; she had no one else. With a heavy heart, she closed her stall and left the churchyard.

A week later Christopher stood in the queen's Council Chamber, looking around him in satisfaction. Busts of great men stood in the corners and carved gold cherubim flew against the ceiling. Two fireplaces faced each other from across the room, each burning what looked like a small tree. Paintings and tapestries lined one side of the hall. Blocks of light, like gold ingots, came through the tall windows on the other side, and as the courtiers stepped into the sun their clothing blazed with color.

A young man walked by dressed in silk hose, a cloth-of-silver doublet, a velvet jerkin and a monstrous starched lawn ruff, all of it white. His jewelry, pale silver chains and pearl earrings, had been chosen carefully to match, and he wore a large white feather in his hat.

He seemed a marvel of moderation compared to the people surrounding him. Now a woman came into the room wearing a black velvet gown embroidered with gold satin, and sleeves of silk striped in purple and gold. She carried a fan of peacock feathers, and her bosom was bare. She started toward the man in white, but before she could reach him a brindled terrier that had been lying by the fire ran to him and leapt up, its tail whipping back and forth with excitement. It left a muddy paw-print on the man's immaculate jerkin. Christopher tried not to laugh.

There was color everywhere: marigold, popinjay blue, peas porridge tawny, the pale tan called dead Spaniard. Some of the men had even dyed their beards purple or orange, and everyone displayed jewelry: brooches, medallions, rings, rubies, diamonds, pearls. The men padded their round hose and sleeves, and stuffed bombast into their doublets, far beyond what the gallants wore in St. Paul's. Christopher watched it all with interest. Someday he too would be able to dress as fine.

Two women entered the hall, both dressed as if in deliberate contrast to the splendor around them. The taller of them wore a plain petticoat, a skirt of russet and a green bodice, and had covered her hair with an unbleached linen kerchief. The other, he thought, would have looked out of place in nearly any company; she was dressed all in black, with fantastic jewels winking at her fingers and earlobes. She did not seem to have combed her black hair, which hung in tangles to her waist.