Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon

by Lisa Goldstein

  No one would say anything about it during the ceremony, but everyone at court knew that Sir Philip had received his tax monopoly, and a gift of some land as well. There had been a certain amount of carping and ill-mannered jesting at this news, but none of the courtiers could say that Sir Philip did not deserve his good fortune. Potter, displaying the same flustered ignorance he had shown from the beginning, did not seem to notice the insults, and looked at everyone he met with the same expression of surprised joy.

  Finally the ceremony ended. “The air’s too close in here,” Will said. “Let’s take a walk outside.”

  Christopher showed Will the way he had taken following Russell: through the Great Hall, into the kitchen and finally down the corridor that led out-of-doors. “I’ve never seen this, in all the years I’ve been at court,” Will said. “How did you discover it?”

  Christopher said nothing. The hedge maze had a gaping hole in it, he noticed.

  “I heard you had something to do with the capture of these conspirators,” Will said.

  The man was as innocent as Potter sometimes, Christopher thought. He looked around him carefully, making certain they could not be overheard. “Aye,” he said. “But if folks should hear of it they’ll guess that I was something more than Sir Philip’s secretary. I won’t be sent out on any errands again. Have you passed on this rumor to anyone else?”

  “Nay, I won’t.”

  He didn’t, Christopher noticed, exactly answer the question. Still, it couldn’t be helped if he had spoken to anyone. They began to walk through the formal plots of the queen’s garden.

  “The queen said these men were Catholic conspirators,” Will said. “What could they have wanted with Arthur? Or was he Catholic as well?”

  “Nay, I doubt it. They wanted him because some people in London were willing to follow him, and were eager to see him as a king. Once he took the throne they would have been careful to keep any real power from him.”

  “But what about those strange men you saw? Didn’t they have something to do with Arthur as well?”

  Aye, probably they had, he thought. What had happened to the little man he had followed to the conspirators’ meeting? And what about the man he had overheard at the meeting, the one who had sounded so familiar? Christopher had heard the voices of all the conspirators and was certain this man had not been among them. And while he was asking questions, who was it who had helped him in the maze? And why had Geoffrey quoted the same line of poetry as one of the conspirators?

  He had never told Will any of this, though, and he did not intend to start now. Will would laugh and start to talk about goblins again, and he was as tired of the subject as he had been when Tom had mentioned it. His task here had ended; he had discovered the conspirators and would be well paid for it, and then he would go home. To imagine that the supernatural had anything to do with it was folly.

  “What must that be like, I wonder?” Will said.

  He had been so deep in thought he hadn’t heard the beginning of Will’s question. “What must what be like?”

  “Believing in something so strongly that you’re willing to give your life for it, the way these men believed in the Catholic cause.”

  “Don’t expect me to understand a fanatic. To my mind there’s little to choose between one religion and another. They could just as easily have become Mohammedan.”

  He expected Will to object, the way Robin and Tom did when he made some statement they considered outrageous. But Will would not be drawn into a debate. “What will you do now?” he asked.

  “Go home. Work on my play.”

  “Do you write plays? And poetry as well?”

  Christopher nodded.

  “Good,” Will said. “I’ll be your patron when I come into my inheritance. I’ve always wanted to be a patron.”

  Christopher laughed. “How do you know they’re any good?”

  “I don’t, really. I don’t know anything at all about poetry. You’ll have to teach me—you seem to know something about everything.” Then, to Christopher’s great astonishment and delight, he drew him close and kissed him on the mouth.

  There remained one final task before he could go home; he had to say farewell to Sir Philip Potter. The next day he visited the man in his rooms, watching as his servants packed up his belongings. There was a great tear in the tapestry between the windows, Christopher saw; he seemed, all unknowing, to have left a trail of destruction behind him in his short stay at court.

  “There you are,” Sir Philip said. “I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done. You were the one who exposed the plotters, not I—don’t think I don’t know that. I tried to tell the queen that—”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Aye, I did. Why shouldn’t I? You deserved the credit as much as I did. But her councilors said that they would take care of everything. And did they?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good. Well, I’ll miss you. We had some merry times together.”

  Christopher smiled. Merry was not a word he would have chosen.

  “I’ll never forget seeing those guards come out from behind the tapestry,” Potter said. “Remember how anxious I was for them to arrive? But why in God’s name didn’t they tell us they were here?”

  “They didn’t trust us.”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t trust my story. It sounded too implausible—they thought it was something you and I had invented to revenge ourselves on the court, on these men.”

  “Revenge?” Potter said. “Revenge for what?” His face was as round and guileless as a pocket watch.

  Christopher sighed. “They wanted to eavesdrop, to see what we would do if we were left alone.”

  “Nay, you’re too suspicious. I think they wanted to make a grand entrance, like the knights of Order overcoming the vices. And so they did.” He looked around him. “I think I’m done here. Don’t forget the letter of recommendation I wrote you. You were the best secretary I ever had.”

  12

  Alice had spent the night unable to sleep. Why had she sent Walter away? Nay—why should she want him with her? What would the Stationers’ Company say if she had spent the night with him? A woman cleared of charges of immoral living could not give in to her whims so easily. It was good that he had gone. But wouldn’t it be better to have him here? She could tell him the truth about her son, and he could help her think what to do about Margery’s note.

  By morning she had decided to go to Margery. The message she had sent had sounded pressing. And by avoiding the churchyard she would be able to avoid Walter, too, to gain one more day in which she could decide what to do about him.

  It was snowing as she left the house, an unseasonable snow after a winter of mild weather. She went back to get her woolen cloak and continued on to her assistant’s house. He was home, God be thanked, and willing to work for her that day. Then she walked through the falling snow to Margery’s cottage.

  As she went up the path to her friend’s house she saw that Margery had built up the fire; a thin gray thread of smoke drew up from her chimney into the sky. “Come in, come in!” Margery said, opening the door to her before she could knock.

  After the cold Margery’s house seemed almost hot. The fire sounded loud in the small house. She shook off her cloak with relief.

  Margery handed her hot cider and pushed a protesting black and white cat off a stool. Alice sat. “You remember Agnes, don’t you?” Margery said.

  Alice nodded, trying not to feel annoyed. She had hoped to talk to Margery alone, to ask her pressing questions about her son and Walter. What business did the other woman have here? It was true she had delivered Arthur twenty years ago—but nay, that hadn’t been Arthur at all but his counterfeit, the boy she had raised, the Prince of Faerie. Did that old tale give this nosy gossip the right to pry into her affairs?

  But Agnes’s presence would not stop Alice from telling her news. “I must tell you,” she said. “George has had dealings with the man i
n black, the one who’s been asking after Arthur.”

  Margery frowned. “This is ill news indeed. How did you come to learn of it?”

  She told Margery the whole story—how George had denounced her to the Stationers’ Company, how Edward Blount and Walter James had risen in her defense, how Blount had mentioned the alchemist and counterfeiter who had spoken with George. Margery looked horrified at the charges that had been brought against her, and Alice wondered if someone had once accused her friend of necromancy as well. She realized, not for the first time, how little she actually knew about the other woman.

  Through it all Agnes watched her with undisguised interest. Because of Agnes, Alice passed over the play she had seen with Walter and the sleepless night she had spent afterward. When Agnes was gone she would confide in Margery again.

  “What can we do?” Alice asked when she had finished her tale. “If these men are truly counterfeiters perhaps we should tell the authorities, one of the queen’s men.”

  “Nay. We must not allow information about your son to come to the queen.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Haven’t you heard the news? There has already been one plot against the queen. Someone tried to kill her, and I heard stories that Arthur might have been involved. What—”

  “Arthur wouldn’t plot against the queen,” Alice said quickly. But would he? What did she know about him, after all?

  “Maybe not. But Arthur is important to a great many people. Imagine what the queen would do if she heard of a man in her kingdom who had been born into the old race.”

  “Would she use him in some way?”

  “Perhaps. But probably she would have him killed, especially if he made claims to the throne.”

  “Then what can we do?”

  “Do? Just now we can do nothing but wait.”

  Margery lit her pipe and sat back. Why had her friend sent that urgent note if they could do nothing? Alice wanted to shake her, to force her into action. If the weather cleared she should go back to the churchyard. Why had she come?

  “We must wait until evening,” Margery said finally, smoke blowing from her mouth. “There will be a battle tonight, in Finsbury Field. As I said, they have decided not to wait for your son.”

  Did Margery read her thoughts? “Battle? But what does that have to do with us?”

  “Arthur may be there. We know that he is drawn by these folk, and rightly, since they are his true heritage. And your son may be there as well.”

  She felt as if she had been stabbed to the heart. Would Margery never stop surprising her? To see her son, after all these years …“And what then?” she asked. “Will they let me speak to him?”

  “I don’t know. We can only wait and see.”

  They spoke of inconsequential things after that. Margery showed Agnes through the small cottage, the books and the scrying stone, the herbs that hung in bundles from the ceiling: yarrow, vervain, saxifrage, adder’s tongue, hellebore.

  They began to talk about illnesses, which herb was best for the cough, and Alice realized that Agnes, as a midwife, must have her own small store of knowledge. She felt irritated, even jealous. Margery had never spoken to her like this about the medicines she used. And surely they could spend the time better; surely they could make some plan, devise some way that she could see her son. She might even be able to steal him away from Oriana and keep him for herself. What would he be like after all these years among the Fair Folk? No matter—he was hers, after all, and not one of them.

  Finally Margery set out a small supper, cold chicken and leg of mutton. Alice ate hungrily: she had had nothing since breakfast. But Agnes outdid her, eating everything that was put before her, her wide mouth in constant motion. What good will she be tonight? Alice thought again. Why is she coming with us?

  Margery set down food for the cats and the women left the cottage. It was still early, not yet five o’clock. But darkness lay over the streets in front of them, an unnatural blackness caused by the low gray clouds overhead. A light snow still fell.

  “This mild winter,” Margery said, as they walked through the dirty slush of London’s streets. “I wonder if it was caused by the Fair Folks’ presence here. And if it snows now because of their displeasure at not finding Arthur.”

  “I wonder,” Agnes said. She had taken an apple from the cottage and was eating it as they went.

  Their walk took them halfway across London, from Ludgate in the east to Moorgate in the north, a distance of nearly a mile. As they passed Paul’s Alice saw that the stationers had gone home early, and the gallants and lawyers and tailors as well. She had never heard it so quiet. The stores and stalls on Cheapside had closed, and in the smaller streets the houses were unlit, shut tight for the evening. It was almost as if folks anticipated something, as if they knew not to be on the streets this night. Only the waxing moon, shining momentarily through the clouds, showed them their way.

  At last they came to Finsbury Field. All of them were panting slightly, and Alice nearly laughed. What good did these three old women think they would do tonight?

  Alice saw nothing on the field but old archery targets. She closed her right eye but the field remained, plain, substantial, unchanging. She looked at her friend, puzzled. “Now we wait,” Margery said.

  The evening grew colder. Alice shivered inside her woolen cloak, and Agnes rubbed her arms and stamped her feet to keep warm. How long would they have to wait? Could Margery be wrong, could they have made the long journey for nothing? She thought of the wearisome walk back to her house and she sighed. Her breath showed silver in the air.

  Margery touched her shoulder. “Look,” she said. Someone moved across the field.

  Alice closed her eye again, but no light emanated from the man walking toward them. “George,” Margery whispered. Surprised, Alice opened her eye.

  George came closer. Now she could see that he had three other men with him. “Who are they?” she whispered.

  “Is that the man in black?” Margery said.

  Aye, it was indeed. She marveled that her friend could make him out on such a dark night. But as she started to say so she heard Margery hiss, a long breath drawn in between her teeth. “Paul Hogg,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “An evil man. I wonder what his business is here. And who is the fourth?”

  Paul Hogg motioned to the others at that moment, and they headed toward the three women. Alice pulled her cloak closer around her, trying not to feel afraid. Don’t be foolish, she thought. Margery’s here. But Margery had seemed worried by Hogg as well.

  “Well, well,” Hogg said. “What brings three old women out on such a cold and desolate night? Or can it be that you have nowhere else to go? Have your fortunes changed so much since I last met you, Margery?”

  “There speaks one who knows all about homeless women,” Margery said, addressing not Hogg but George. “He won’t have told you, George, but his profession, before he became a wonder worker and cozener of the innocent, was turning people off their farms. Oh, he was famous for it—landlords all over England would seek him out if any of their tenants gave them trouble.”

  “Aye, and what of it?” Hogg said, unperturbed. “It’s a livelihood, the same as any other, a service rendered for money. But what of you, harridan? How many of the poor have you gulled, taking their hard-earned pence and promising them fortune, health, happiness? How many folks dying of the plague have you promised to cure? For how many lonely women have you pretended to see love in that dusty scrying ball of yours?”

  “What have you told George of this night’s errand, Master Hogg? Does he know why he’s here, why you seek Alice’s child?”

  “Does she?” Hogg said, turning to Alice. “Do you know the plans Margery has for your son once he’s found? For years she has meddled in things beyond her understanding, trying for some small measure of power. She hopes to find Arthur and exchange him for that power, for knowledge. Do you understand? Whatever she’s told you is a lie. She
plans to barter with your son’s life.”

  His voice sounded low and deep, almost plausible. Could what he said be true? Was Margery using her? Why had the other woman taken such an interest in her, in Arthur?

  The cold wind whistled around them, breaking his spell. Nay—what was she thinking? Margery was her friend; she knew it. George had proved faithless but that didn’t mean that all her friends would betray her. “That’s not true,” she said, and was pleased to hear that her voice sounded steady.

  “Alice, why are you here?” George said. “Why do you listen to this woman, this witch? I warned you at the stationers’ meeting that you put your soul in peril by talking to her.”

  Alice nearly laughed. “You warned me? Nay, you did more—you nearly sent me to the stake. But I might ask the same of you—why do you keep company with this man? Surely you, who claim to know all the dangers to the soul—”

  “What Master Hogg does is lawful,” George said. “Those he keeps company with are the children of light, and no demons. But you, Alice—all your friends are the children of darkness. Hogg told me so himself.”

  Margery laughed. “And you believed him? George, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for.”

  George opened his mouth to reply. But at that moment the fourth man touched Paul Hogg’s shoulder. “There,” he said.

  They all turned to look. The moon had pierced the clouds, and by its light Alice could see the Fair Folk coming onto the field. Four of the horned men led them, wearing silver mail and carrying silk banners that rippled like water. Behind the men walked Queen Oriana, shining in the moon’s light, and even George gasped to look at her. How can he call her a demon? Alice thought. But then she remembered what Oriana had done to her, to Arthur, and she wondered if the queen’s fairness hid an ugliness within. Could she and Margery be on the wrong side? Nay—they were not on any side; they were here only to see if Arthur came. Oriana could lose the war for all she cared.

  Behind the queen came more horned men, their mail glittering like fish scales in the moonlight. Some of them were mounted, and all bore swords. The winged creatures Alice remembered flew among them, and behind them walked Robin Goodfellow, carrying his staff. And look—there was Brownie. Her heart turned to see him, so unprotected among the other warriors. Would he fight along with the rest of them? But he was made for dancing and merriment, not for battle.