Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon (22 page)

She was not good at dissembling. He could see that she wanted to tell him, and that fear and caution stopped her. He had heard that she had been called before the queen's court, and that she had been nearly ordered to leave the Stationers' Company, and he understood that it would be dangerous for her to discuss these matters.

She could not talk to him, and Kit would not. He felt his need for information almost as a need for nourishment; he was famished for it. He would be discreet, he thought; he would show her that he was worthy of her trust, and she would begin to confide in him. Only that way could he answer to his own satisfaction the question of Arthur.

“I'll tell you if I discover anything,” he said.

As he turned to go he saw Christopher across the press of people. Kit nodded to him. He felt almost as if he had received an answer to his vow; here, in front of Alice, he could show how little he discussed Arthur with his friends. He nodded back and stood his ground, waiting until the other man made his way to the stall.

“What have you been doing?” he asked Kit.

“Working. And you?”

Talking to Alice Wood, he thought, but he couldn't say that. “I walked a little,” Tom said. “Wrote a letter to Gabriel Harvey.” He had, in fact, written the letter a few days ago, and now he grinned to think of it. “I was writing my pamphlet against him and his brother, and I thought to read some poems that he had written, so that I might better take aim against him. And I read one that had six feet to the line, and then suddenly, hey, presto!—it had seven. So I wrapped his poem around a louse and then wrote underneath it, ‘This verse has more feet than a louse,' and I sent it to him.”

“Why do you so malign that man? I agree with you that he is an ass—”

“An ass? That prating weasel-faced vermin? That cheesebrained idiot—”

“An idiot, then. But surely you have better things to do than to set your pen against Gabriel Harvey. Why do you waste your time—”

“Why? It is a cause of great disquiet to me that he breathes the same air I do, that he and I are both alive at the same time. I will never leave him as long as I am able to lift a pen.”

Christopher laughed. “You're back,” he said. “I'm glad to see it.”

“Back? What do you mean?”

“I mean that for some time you would talk about nothing but the land you claimed to have seen. It was almost as if you were ill. And now you're well again—you have to be well if you're back to plaguing the Harveys.”

“It wasn't an illness,” Tom said. “It's an enchantment. They've enchanted me.”

“You're fortunate I'm not your physician—I can see now I've misjudged your symptoms completely. You're as sick as ever. You've even got that silly flower in your hat.”

“Aye, and what of it? Where do you think this flower comes from? Why hasn't it faded in all these weeks?”

“I suppose because it's not a real flower.”

“Not a real flower? Look at it, man—”

“Nay, I already know what I would find. You've had it made by a skilled artificer.”

“Why in God's name would I do that?”

“I don't know. Why do you persist in this obsession?”

“You're the one who's obsessed. You're the one who thinks he knows the answer to every question. Who were those strange men you saw at the palace? You've never found out, have you? And yet I'll wager that those men had something to do with Arthur.”

“What if they did? I've finished with the task I was asked to do. Whoever those men were they had nothing to do with the conspiracy against the queen.”

“You're wrong,” Tom said, driven, once again, by the anger he seemed to feel these days whenever he saw his friend. “You can't possibly know that.”

“Nay—I can't talk to you in this mood,” Christopher said. He spoke calmly, rationally, and Tom found that more infuriating than anything he might say. “Let me know when you recover. Good day.” He left.

“You're not finished yet!” Tom said, shouting after him. “This thing didn't end—there's more here than either one of us knows!” But Christopher was lost in the crowd.

Suddenly he remembered Alice Wood. He had been aware of her at first, had seen her laugh a little when he talked about Gabriel Harvey, but in the heat of the argument he had forgotten her entirely. And what of his vow to say nothing to anyone about Arthur? No wonder she didn't trust him; he wouldn't trust himself, if it came to that.

He took his leave of her, and, feeling friendless and desperately unhappy, he turned to go.

Christopher walked back to his lodgings outside the city walls, thinking of his conversation with Tom. Why should his friend be so certain that his task for the queen hadn't ended? It had indeed ended, and in more senses than Tom knew: Christopher would never have to work for Robert Poley again. He was done with secret errands, done with the whole shadowy world of eavesdroppers and hedge-creepers.

He had gone back to court for his final payment from the queen's councilors, and while there had met a distant cousin of Sir Francis Walsingham's, a young man named Thomas Walsingham. The young man had heard of him and had enjoyed his plays, and had offered to become his patron, freeing him from the necessity of writing a play or two a year. With the money from Thomas Walsingham Christopher had had the leisure to begin a poem. It was almost enough to restore his old belief in the Fates.

But nay—there were no Fates. People made their own destinies. Why did Tom cling to his superstitious ways? Why was he so obsessed with this nonsense? He remembered what Tom had said, that he was under an enchantment. If he thought of himself as enchanted wouldn't the result be the same as if he actually were?

He shook his head. People were stranger than you'd ever guess. Will Ryder, for example. He expected to be liked not because he had lived a privileged life, with folks deferring to his wealth and station, but because he was genuinely likeable. He had read what Christopher had written of the poem and had said, with what seemed like real warmth, that he'd rarely seen better. He'd asked countless questions about the theater, about London, about growing up in Canterbury. And he'd talked about his own life with a straightforwardness Christopher had found unusual.

But he couldn't escape his upbringing, and it showed at odd moments. A few days ago they had gone to a dinner given by a friend of Will's, and halfway through the meal he had seen Will looking at him with an expression of mingled amusement and superiority. He couldn't understand why until he noticed that everyone else at the table was using strange utensils shaped like small pitchforks, that he alone ate his meat with his hand. “They're called forks,” Will had whispered. “An Italian custom.” After that Christopher had made it a point to leave his fork untouched, to cover his hands with as much grease as he could.

And Will was young, too, and sheltered in a way Christopher hadn't seen since Cambridge. The world of intrigue was new and exciting to him; his assignment from Essex, he had said ingenuously, was his first. He asked endless questions, and he gave away Essex's secrets with a profligacy Christopher found endearing.

The light began to fade as Christopher walked. He should be thinking about his poem. It would be evening soon, and he had added nothing to the poem since yesterday. Perhaps he was no true poet after all; perhaps he should stay with the stage, with what he knew. He had it in mind to write a play based on the life of Edward II from the
Chronicles,
based too on his discovery that people were much more complicated than they seemed.

But nay—hadn't Will said he liked the poem? He watched as dusk came down over the street before him. Will would be waiting for him at his lodgings. He hurried on before darkness fell.

September, 1592

14

The summer of 1592 was the hottest folks could remember in a long time, and the heat lingered on into September. The Thames dried up, and Alice heard of people who walked from shore to shore on the muddy bottom. At her station in the churchyard, looking out at the sparse crowds, she wondered if the Fair Folk had chosen this way to show their displeasure. Two years had passed since the battle she had witnessed and they had still not found Arthur.

But people had other worries beside the heat, for the summer had also brought the plague. Funeral processions, held late to discourage crowds, passed her house nightly; one had been for her assistant, who had died a week ago. In the neighborhood of Paul's alone she had counted four households with red crosses painted on the doors, a warning that those inside were infected. People with red wands, the sign of someone attending a family stricken with the plague, walked up and down the streets, knocking at doors.

Those who could leave London to visit friends or relatives had done so, and the ones who stayed rarely ventured out of doors. When they did they had identical stricken looks, as though they feared some great disaster were about to crush them, and they carried oranges stuck through with a stick of cinnamon or handkerchiefs drenched in white vinegar for protection.

Thomas Nashe, who knew everything, had told her that 1600 people died each week and warned her to leave London. Then he had followed his own advice and gone away, along with all the other poets who could find patrons in the country. She had stayed on, reasoning that if the plague had not killed her when she had nursed John she might be safe from its attack. But she had other, more complex, motives for staying. Arthur might return, and Brownie needed her help. And Walter was still in London, working at his stall.

Walter. She looked over to where he stood, as lacking in customers as she herself was. They had gone to plays over the years and had shared a few meals at the cookshop, but it was as she had thought—he did not seem interested in deepening their friendship. And with the playhouses closed by the city authorities because of the plague they had not seen much of each other recently. But she still sometimes felt a looseness, an excitement, when she saw him. It seemed to her that she had an illness even worse than the plague, worse because it would not end but lingered on year after year.

Anthony Drury, dressed once again in severe black, came into the churchyard and went over to talk to George. She frowned. George had been seeing much of the man, and she wondered if they still looked for Arthur. She thought that no good could come from George's association with Anthony, but she could not help but notice that his business prospered, that he had bought new copyrights and had hired a great many young men to work at his station. And with his prosperity had come a new authority; folks listened to his opinions more, and he was often called upon to speak at the stationers' meetings. There was even talk of making him an officer in the company. She wondered if he had persisted in his accusations against her. Sometimes when she passed through the churchyard she thought she saw people glance in her direction and then grow quiet, and she felt that some of the stationers had cooled toward her. But perhaps she only imagined it.

Anthony and George left the churchyard together. It might soon be time to leave herself; no one had come by her stall in the past hour. She glanced over at Walter one last time, then packed up her books and went home.

The air in the house was hot and stale. She opened the windows in her front room and then went to the kitchen. Brownie lay by the hearth, his triangular cap pulled down over his face.

He had been weak for months after the battle, but his wound had healed finally under her careful treatment. Afterward, though, he had become sullen, uncommunicative, almost unfriendly. In the mornings she sometimes found her hair plaited into elf-locks, or her butter rancid, or mounds of dust behind her bed. Once he had even turned her sideboard against the wall. She had needed the help of three strong men to turn it back again, hired men, for she had not wanted anyone from the churchyard to see it. He did almost no work, and while she hadn't rescued him to be her servant she could not help but resent him a little for it.

Now he sat up, his red cap dropping to the floor. He made no move to pick it up. She wondered if he expected their roles to reverse so that she became the servant and he the master, and she thought sharply that if that was the case she would throw him out into the streets to fend for himself. She had enough to do on her own.

“Ho,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Home so early?”

She had not heard him speak so much in a long time. To keep him talking she said, “Aye. Trade was bad today. Bad this entire summer, for that matter. Everyone's gone because of the plague.”

“Plague?”

She looked at him in amazement. But the Fair Folk didn't become ill, didn't die, as far as she could tell, unless they were killed. The plague that caused her and her neighbors such fear and dread, that nearly ruled her life, meant nothing to him. Once again she thought of how much Brownie was like Arthur, but this time she understood why she made the comparison.

“Aye, the plague. Thousands have died already. You have to have heard something of it.”

“Nay. I haven't left the house for a long time.”

Perhaps it was the memory of John and how he had died that made her suddenly grow angry. “Nay. You stay in my home and do nothing but sour my beer. Why don't you go back to Oriana? You're certainly well enough.”

To her surprise Brownie became angry too. “By wind and rain, did you think I wanted to be here? Did you think it was my idea? I would a thousand times rather be in the woods or fields, dancing with my friends.”

“Then why do you stay?”

But Brownie had turned silent again, and she saw that he had given away more than he wanted. She pressed him. “You're not a help to me here. Don't think that I would miss you if you left. Truly it would be easier for me if you went away. George has told the other stationers that you're a demon.”