Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon (32 page)

Robert hesitated only a moment. “Of course you did. How would I know it if you didn't tell me?”

“Nay, I'm certain I didn't.” He spoke slowly, putting his guesses together as he talked. “You knew because he was one of your agents, as I said. All those strange folk at the palace, the ones who told me they were petitioning for their ancestral rights, all of them were yours. And that voice I overheard, the one that sounded so familiar—that was your voice, I'm certain of it.”

“What are you talking about? What voice?”

“The one plotting to kill the queen.”

“Plotting—Nay, you have lost your wits. And why in God's name would I hire you to discover this conspiracy if I was a part of it?”

“Don't change the subject. Who were they? Were they searching for Arthur too?”

Robert's eyes widened; his guess had been correct. He pressed on. “Good. There were two conspiracies at the palace, then—the one I discovered and the one involving these other folks. Both of them wanted to overthrow the queen and set Arthur in her place; both were looking for Arthur to use him in some way. You were part of this second group, hurrying to find him before the first one did. But you used the first group, too, didn't you?—in case they got to him before you did. You encouraged them to think that the populace would rise up in revolt against the queen despite all evidence to the contrary. And if they got too close you knew you could always expose them. But nay—you couldn't expose them yourself because they trusted you, they thought you were one of them. If the queen didn't believe you you'd have to start all over again. So you hired me to do it. But Arthur got away from you, didn't he?”

“Aye,” Robert said. He was breathing heavily. “Where did he go?”

“What?” Whatever Christopher had been expecting it hadn't been this.

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.”

“I'm certain you do. You know too much about this business to be as innocent as you pretend. Cecil swears you're not working for him, and Essex has no idea what he's doing most of the time. So you have to be working for these people. But which side? Oriana or the red king?”

“The—red king? Who is he?”

“Oriana then. How close are you? Do you know where he is?”

“Which one do you work for?”

“The red king, of course. He pays me very well, far better than Oriana would.”

“Wait. Wait a moment. You work for this—this red king? Was it in the service of this man that you encouraged the plotters to kill the queen? They nearly did kill her, you know. It was only luck that saved her.”

“Let's abandon the pretense that you know nothing, shall we? You don't care what happens to the queen. You've as good as told me you work for the Fair Folk.”

The Fair Folk. First Tom and now Robert: this lunacy seemed to be a disease sweeping London like the plague. But Robert, unlike Tom, was a practical man, far too canny to believe in goblins. What was the agent hiding? Who were these people he had mentioned, Oriana and the red king? How far was he sunk in treason against his queen?

He was not done with spying after all. He would have to discover more. How much did Robert think he knew? What would he be willing to barter for information?

Christopher ran his hand through his hair. “The murdered man, the one who was killed the night we left the Black Boar,” he said cautiously. “Who was he? Which side did he work for?”

“He worked for the Catholics, actually. For John Bridges and his men,” Robert said.

Christopher tried not to let the other man see his exaltation. The gamble had worked; for the first time since he'd known him Robert had parted with information.

“He'd discovered the other plot, the folk working for the red king,” Robert went on. “He made the mistake of telling me about it. I had to have him killed.”

“That's why you were so anxious to leave that night. You didn't want me to see that you knew him, and knew his assassin as well.”

“Of course.” Robert looked at him condescendingly, as though he were a slow pupil who had finally come to understand that day's lesson. “But then I changed my mind—I decided I needed you at the court after all. So I forged the note I showed you—”

“You forged—Did you forge the blood as well?”

Robert showed his rotting teeth. It took Christopher a moment to realize that the other man was smiling. “Nay—the blood was real enough,” he said. “I didn't know if you would believe me—I had to pretend to be angry at you that day to keep you from suspecting anything. But you did believe it, didn't you? Enough to go to court and do the work I needed you to do. Though you needed the red king's men to help you every so often.”

“Aye,” Christopher said. He sat back, astonished. He had never left the maze he had entered at court, he realized; he had been wandering through its twists and turns for three years. And the end of it all was the same as the beginning, this smiling man here before him. Robert had had a hand in everything. He said slowly, “Do you know—did you know a man named Geoffrey Ryder?”

“Aye,” Robert said pleasantly. “Since we're being so open with each other I may as well tell you—I lied to you a moment ago. I did indeed have more than one agent at court. Geoffrey was the other one. How did you know?”

“You quoted Chaucer to him once. You heard one of the plotters speak a line from
Canterbury Tales
and you repeated it to him, probably without even realizing it. And he repeated it to me. That's why, I guess, he and Will asked me if I was a spy the first time we met—Geoffrey had heard about me from you and he said something to his brother. Or—” The next question proved much harder to ask. “Or was Will working for you too?”

“Will? He was Essex's man, wasn't he? Not very suited for this kind of work, I always thought.”

Christopher let out his breath in relief. He did not think he could stand more of Robert's double-dealing.

“Now it's your turn to answer questions,” Robert said. “I never give away knowledge for nothing. Who are you working for?”

What would Robert say if he told him the truth, that the man who employed him, Thomas Walsingham, wanted not information but a poem? Oh, he would have to be careful, very careful.

“I haven't done much at all since I left your service,” Christopher said slowly. “I know some of the old men, followers of Sir Francis, but I've been out of the game for a while.”

Robert watched him shrewdly.

“To tell you the truth, I miss it,” Christopher said. “Does this—this red king have anything to offer me? Who is he?”

“I told you,” Robert said. “He's king of the Fair Folk. Nay, why are you smiling?”

“The Fair Folk. It's—well, it's hard to believe, that's all.”

“I assure you it's true. Probably he would have a place for you, if you're interested. That is, if you're telling me the truth. How do I know you're not working for Oriana?”

“I suppose my word will have to be good enough. I can only tell you I've never heard of her in my life.”

“Ah. And so we're back where we started.” Robert called out a word Christopher didn't catch. Something sharp pressed against his neck.

One of the little men moved into his sight, still holding the sword to his throat. The man grinned widely. How had he gotten into the room without Christopher hearing him?

“Your clothes are too fine,” Robert said. Christopher turned back to him. “Who's paying you? I don't believe you're as much out of the game as you pretend.”

“I—I have a patron now. Thomas Walsingham. A cousin of Sir Francis.”

“I know who he is. Why didn't you mention him earlier? And why do you need work from me if this man pays you so well?”

Christopher thought quickly. What could he say? That he hadn't said anything because he suspected Robert of treason?

“You work for Oriana, don't you?” Robert said. “Is that what Walsingham hired you to do?”

“Nay!” The sword cut deeper into Christopher's skin and he tried to back away. “Listen. Listen, Robert. You've been deceived. There are no Fair Folk—this is all folly. This man who calls himself the red king convinced you of his powers but it's a lie—it's all lies. He's tricked you.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Of course. What proof do you have of anything supernatural? These folks have led you astray, have caused you to betray your queen.”

“Proof?” Robert said. “Oh, I have proof enough.”

The little man flared, became a spire of flame. Heat radiated from him, scorching the sleeve of Christopher's doublet. Then, just as quickly, he returned to what he had been, a small unearthly man grinning widely from ear to ear.

“There will be a battle soon,” Robert said. “A great battle. He would fight in that form, but his enemies can turn to water just as easily. Do you understand? There's your proof, if you need it.”

Christopher barely heard him. What had happened? Was it true then, all of it? Did Tom really journey through that strange land he talked about? Was Arthur really a king? Robert had challenged everything he believed in, called into question all he knew. He could not ignore what he had seen, but it was something so far removed from his experience that he could hardly bring himself to take it in.

“Do you believe now?” Robert asked.

“Nay, I saw nothing. Why should I believe you?”

“Nothing! Why, man, he turned into fire before your eyes. How can you say—”

“Did he? I didn't see it.”

“What is this folly? Do you only believe things you see with your own eyes?”

“Aye,” Christopher said, his voice level.

“Is this something you learned at Cambridge?” Robert said angrily. For a moment no one spoke.

The man blazed outward again, becoming fire. This time Christopher was ready. He stood quickly and drew his dagger, then knocked over the table and placed the dagger at the agent's throat. The flame darkened, solidified, became a man again.

“Call him off,” Christopher said harshly. The little man looked from one to the other of them, uncertainty in his eyes. “Do it or I'll kill you.”

“I—I will,” Robert said. “You heard him. Put away your sword.”

The little man returned his sword to a sheath almost as big as he was.

“Good,” Christopher said. “Now—” He tried to think, but the wonders Robert had shown him kept crowding into his vision. Things he had denied had proved to be real. What else had he been wrong about? The world had shown itself to be a far stranger place than he had thought.

Robert called out a word he didn't understand. The window opened, and little men slid through like a fall of leaves, grinning and calling to each other. Several held swords out in front of them. Christopher turned, but he was not quick enough. One of the men knocked the dagger from his hand.

“Nay—” Christopher said, backing away.

Robert motioned to the man. Christopher headed for the door but another man stopped him: Christ, they were fast! He spun to face Robert.

“I can't let you leave,” Robert said. He sounded almost regretful. “I don't know what your business is here, or who you work for.”

“I told you—I don't—”

Robert signaled to the first man again. Christopher turned toward him quickly, looked wildly between him and Robert. His mouth felt dry. The little man leapt to a bench. His sword came up and pointed toward Christopher's right eye. He looked for his dagger but it was too late. The man thrust the sword forward.

Thomas Kyd knocked loudly on Thomas Nashe's door, knocked again when no one came to answer. Finally the door opened and Nashe looked out at him. Though it was midday he seemed to have just gotten out of bed.

“What half-wit plucks me from my naked bed?” Nashe said, misquoting Kyd's play
The Spanish Tragedy.

Kyd scowled at him. He had come prepared to offer sympathy, but now he realized, angrily, that Nashe had no feelings of compassion at all, that there was nothing he would not turn into some sort of joke. “Your friend's dead,” he said.

“Friend? Who?”

“Kit Marlowe.”

Nashe turned pale. “Lord have mercy on us!” he said. “Was it the plague?”

“Nay. He was stabbed.”

“Stabbed?”

“Aye. He went to dinner with some friends of his, and there was an argument over who would pay the bill. Kit took a dagger away from one of the men and made as if to stab him, and the man turned his hand and drove the dagger into his right eye.”

“Where did you hear this?”

“It's all over town. Where have you been?”

“With a patron.” Nashe paused, as if trying to collect his thoughts. “You're out of prison, I see.”

“Aye. They let me out a few days ago. They had to—I've done nothing wrong.”

Kyd had expected the other man to joke about his time in Bridewell but Nashe said nothing. He looked distracted, at a loss for words. Perhaps the news had affected him more than Kyd had thought possible. Well, it didn't matter. Kyd made his farewells and turned to go.

Nashe spent a restless night. He had not slept well since the brown woman had given him the flower; sometimes he thought he might be haunted by her the rest of his life. And now this dreadful news Tom Kyd had brought kept him awake. Could it be true? He had never known Kit to argue about a bill before; of all of them his friend seemed to have the most money, though where he got it had always been a mystery. At last Nashe passed into a sort of half-sleep, and he began to dream.

It was not like any dream he had ever had. He saw nothing, could only hear a witless, idiotic voice speaking in the darkness, droning on and on. After a time he became aware that he could make out the words.

“Left, right,” the voice said. “Day, night. Front, back—have, lack. Right, wrong—short, long.”