Thomas Kyd walked through the deserted streets toward Paul’s. Today, he thought, he would buy himself a book. Not a history book to base a play on, and not something written by one of his friends, but a book to read solely for enjoyment.
He smiled a little as he walked, thinking of the luxury he was about to allow himself. He had sold his play Soliman and Perseda before the closing of the playhouses, and for very nearly the first time in his life he felt he had enough money for his modest desires.
A woman carrying a basket and a red wand hurried down the street and stopped in front of a door marked with a red cross. The door opened, and a breath of rank contagion came from inside. Tom crossed the street quickly.
He turned to watch as the woman went inside the house, delivering food to those quarantined by the plague. What would it be like to minister to folks who were ill, to have to come in daily contact with the infection? Like living in London during the plague season, he thought, and abruptly his good humor vanished.
He had some money, true, but it would not stretch far enough to take him away from London. If he had a patron he could be out of the city, enjoying the healthy air of the countryside. Lord Strange, for example: Strange’s company of actors performed everything he wrote. But no invitation from Strange had been forthcoming, and he could not help but feel a little resentful. How many years did a man have to serve his lord in order to receive favors from him?
A year ago he and Christopher had taken a room together, thinking that they both needed a place to write, but he had not seen Christopher since the plague began. He felt certain that unlike him the other man had found a patron. The thought galled him. How had Kit deserved such good fortune while he was left to struggle against the plague? But nay—it was best not to think of such things.
He glanced up the street and saw Arthur coming toward him.
He raised his hand to hail the man before he realized his mistake. This wasn’t Arthur but some poor starving beggar, his clothes torn to rags and nearly falling off his shrunken frame. As he watched the man stumbled and went down.
Tom ran forward. It was Arthur, he saw now, but an Arthur strangely changed, with hollow eyes and a haunted expression on his face. What had happened to him in the two years since he’d seen him last? Tom’s heart turned to see him looking so frail, so lost. “Arthur,” he said, bending over the other man. “Arthur, are you ill? Do you need help?”
Arthur looked up. There was dirt caked in his hair and an open sore on one of his arms. “Where were you?” Tom asked.
“Dead,” Arthur said. “I was dead and in heaven, or some place like it. Do they still search for me?”
“Who?”
“Everyone. Everyone wants me. Do you know why?” He looked around anxiously and then whispered to Tom, “Because I’m king.”
Tom looked around as well. If anyone heard them they could be arrested for treason. “Listen,” he said, shaking Arthur’s shoulders to make him pay attention. “Listen, Arthur—you must not say such things. Do you understand?”
“But it’s true. They all told me so, in the country I went to—they told me I was king. It was because I’m a king that they wanted to—to—” His eyes clouded for a moment, and he shuddered. “So I opened a door and slipped away from them, to another land, and then to a land beyond that. There are as many countries in that place as there are drops of water.”
“Don’t say it even if it’s true. They’ll arrest you if you claim to be king. Do you understand? They’re looking for you anyway, I heard—they think you had something to do with the plot against the queen.”
Arthur looked up at that. “The queen?”
Tom sighed. What could he do with this man? The queen’s men searched for him, and so, he knew, did Christopher and Tom Nashe. Nay, he would not allow this sad lunatic to fall into the hands of Tom and Kit, to be used for God only knew what purposes.
He straightened, and as he did so an idea came to him. He thought for a moment of the book he had been about to buy; he would not be able to afford it now. “Get up,” he said, trying not to regret what he was about to do. “Please.”
Arthur got to his feet and followed Tom for several yards before stopping and looking at the empty streets around him. “Where am I?” he said, his voice suddenly uncertain. “What country is this?”
Tom turned and stared at him in amazement. “England. London. Do you understand?”
“Oh, aye,” Arthur said, sounding reassured. “I’m king here too, you know.”
Tom walked faster, not caring now if Arthur followed him or not. They went through side-roads and alleys and came at last to Bishopsgate. Once through the city wall they passed St. Botolph’s Church and then turned in at the gate to St. Mary of Bethlehem Hospital.
Tom stood in front of the asylum for a while, studying it: a long low building with two dark wings coming forward on either side. Would this be a good place for Arthur? He shrugged; he had no choice. He took Arthur gently by the hand and led him to the steward’s office.
“Ah,” the steward said as they came in. “Is he a relative?”
“Nay,” Tom said. “A—a friend.”
The steward frowned. “Lodging in Bedlam is not cheap.”
“I—I’m prepared to pay. He has nowhere else to go, and I thought—well, I can’t take care of him—”
“Ah.” The steward nodded; apparently they were on more familiar ground here. “Good. Come with me.”
Tom followed the other man down a brick corridor. The place was ill lit and smelled of sweat and urine and rotting straw. There were ten barred cells, five to a side, and in front of each of them stood the folks who had paid to view the lunatics. Inside the cells men and women laughed or pointed or shouted vile abuse. A few of them lay bound in chains. A woman stared at Tom with wide eyes as he passed. “I have to get a message to my daughter,” she said. “Tell her—”
Tom looked around him in dismay. Surely he could find something better for Arthur than this prison. By what right did he think he could sentence Arthur here for what would probably be the rest of his life?
But what else could he do? He certainly couldn’t turn him over to the queen’s men; Arthur could be killed for treason if they found him. And he would not allow the poor man to be a pawn in Tom and Kit’s intrigues. If Kit wanted Arthur he should have stayed in London and looked for him himself.
Arthur went meekly into the cell, and the steward closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
A few days later George went with Anthony to the house off Cheapside. The day had grown hot, and flies buzzed around the garbage in the streets. George felt weary; he wanted only to go home and rest. He had spent over two years with Paul Hogg, and while Hogg continued to give him coins from a seemingly endless supply he could not help but wish that they made more progress. Two years, and they still hadn’t found Arthur.
Where was the boy? George remembered him from the churchyard: a simple dreamy lad, almost a half-wit. How had he managed to elude a man like Hogg, who seemed to have all knowledge at his command? And the Fair Folk searched for him as well, both the red king and Oriana, and Alice and Margery …
George felt the silk lining on his jerkin and looked at the ruby rings sparkling on his hand. It seemed to him that the more riches he had the more he needed. His shop had expanded too quickly, and then the plague had brought an end to a large part of his trade. He owed money to some of his creditors, and to his new workers and apprentices as well. When would they find Arthur, and with him the final step in their search for gold?
A man lay in the street against one of the houses, trying to take advantage of what little shade the wall offered. His mouth was open and he panted shallowly. George looked away quickly. A plague victim, probably, and who knew where the illness would strike next? But if Hogg found the way to the Philosopher’s Stone he would live forever. The plague could not touch him. The man said something in a weak voice, begging for alms, probably, and George and Anthony hurried on.
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They entered the small house. It had grown more cluttered since his first visit, more filled with glass and tubing, manuscripts and stones and vials of sulphur and salt and mercury. In the past two years Hogg had gone through the remaining steps in the alchemical process, all but the final one. At first George had watched with great interest as Hogg heated and distilled and purified, as he hunted for certain minerals by the light of the moon. The substance in the alembic had grown red-hot, turned black, become liquid, turned white. Hogg had clearly reveled in the whole thing, carefully explaining why he sealed the vessel when he did, why he warmed it with fire, why he unsealed it again.
As the process dragged on, though, George had grown tired of it. He wanted only the result, the Philosopher’s Stone; how Hogg got there was unimportant. Now, as he went inside, he glanced at the alembic in its place on the floor, still unchanged. He sighed.
Hogg welcomed him, his normally grave face shining with pleasure. His assistant, the man with the stain on his doublet, stood behind him in the shadows. “We found him,” Hogg said triumphantly. “We’ve found Arthur.”
At last, George thought. “Where is he?”
“Look.”
Hogg led him to the table and pointed to the scrying stone there. At first George could see nothing. Then it seemed as if a mist cleared away, and a picture formed of a beautiful young man with red hair and green eyes. The man burst into wild soundless laughter. “Is he enchanted?” George asked.
“I don’t know,” Hogg said. “That is what we must discover. Come.”
George watched as Hogg traced a circle around the floor. Over the years he had become convinced that most of Hogg’s conjuring, his Latin and Greek and other strange tongues, meant very little to the Fair Folk, that they came and went as they pleased. Sometimes they even appeared before Hogg had finished his invocation, breaking into the middle of his long and solemn chants.
Even more ominously, the folk sometimes came without being called at all. The green creature still followed Anthony at times, though it had not attacked him again, and Alice had her demon. And George had finally recognized the man with the water-stain as kin to the people who had fought against Oriana. He wondered if those who meddled with these folk somehow bound them unknowingly. Hogg had assured him that what they did was lawful, and so far George had not seen any evidence to the contrary. But lately, when he walked home, he heard the steps of someone—something—following him.
One of the green men appeared in the middle of Hogg’s circle. George stepped back, still not used to the thing’s sudden appearances, and the creature laughed, showing sharp crooked teeth. “We have found Arthur in the scrying glass,” Hogg said to it. “But we cannot discover his whereabouts.”
He indicated the glass on the table, among the litter of instruments. The image of Arthur laughed again, silently, and George shuddered. Now he noticed that the man in the glass seemed ill: he had grown thinner, and his hair was caked with dirt. His green eyes looked enormous in the thin face. What had happened to him?
“His whereabouts?” the creature said. “Oh, that’s easy, very easy. Ask me something difficult.” It hissed a little as it spoke, its words distorted by the long snout, the pointed teeth.
“Where is he?” Hogg said.
The creature laughed. “In Bedlam.”
“Bedlam?” George said, forgetting to keep silent. “But we searched there. We went to all the hospitals.”
The thing slowly turned its snout toward him. George tried and failed to meet its gaze. “Aye, Bedlam,” it said. “You must go and bring him back for us.” It vanished before Hogg could give it permission to go.
George looked at Hogg, hoping for an explanation. But the other man seemed confused, uncertain, and for once he said nothing. In the past two years George had grown used to relying on Hogg for guidance, and for a moment he felt frightened, alone. Then Hogg seemed to rouse himself, and the moment passed. “Come,” the other man said firmly. “We’ll go to Bedlam.”
At the asylum Hogg walked up to the steward’s office and knocked on the door, showing no trace of the doubts George had witnessed earlier. He talked with the steward a while and then paid the penny entrance fee for each of them. The steward pointed to the left wing and went back into his office.
George followed Hogg down the dark corridor, looking around him apprehensively. How had Arthur come to this dreadful place? Who had paid for his lodgings? If it had been Alice, wouldn’t she miss him when they took him away?
He shook his head. It was not his place to ask such questions; no doubt Hogg knew what he was doing. George hurried after the other man.
Hogg stopped at the last cell. The young man they had seen in the scrying glass sat in the room, leaning against the wall. His clothes were torn and dirty and he seemed even thinner than he had in the glass. He had the look of someone who had been exposed to the elements for a very long time. Despite this, George felt jubilant. They had won; they had found Arthur first.
“Good day, Arthur,” Hogg said pleasantly. “We’ve come to take you home.”
Arthur laughed. Had he even heard the other man? It didn’t matter: they would trade him to the red king and have done with him. “Come,” Hogg said.
At this Arthur turned to him. “Where?” he said. His hand moved up and down by his side, as if to unseen music.
“I’m taking you home.”
“Home? Where is that?”
“To your people, the Fair Folk.” Hogg’s voice was gender and more persuasive than George had ever heard it.
“Ah.” Arthur met the other man’s eyes for the first time. “Will it be safe for me there?”
“Aye, very safe,” Hogg said.
George looked away, hoping that his face did not betray his thoughts. He had never wondered what the red king wanted with Arthur, but now he felt certain that what the king had in mind would not be safe at all. Battles, probably, and harsh conquests, blood and war.
“Who are my people, then?” Arthur asked, plaintively. “Do you know? I know only that my mother is a queen.”
A queen? George thought. What folly was this? Alice was Arthur’s mother.
“This is no fit place for you, Your Majesty,” Hogg said softly. “You should be at the front of your troops, leading them into battle.”
“Aye.” Arthur’s green eyes seemed to shine in the dark room. “In battle. I fought, you know, when I left. I went to far countries, and men flocked to my banner. Aye.”
Which side did he fight on? George wondered, but he thought that it probably didn’t matter. The man had never held a lance or ridden a horse in his life.
“I saw many things, many strange sights,” Arthur said. “Giants, and folks with tails and paws, and a sword that would fight by itself. And the solitary phoenix, the only one in the world, that dies and is reborn once every thousand years. And everywhere I went folks knew me, they bowed to me and did me honor. So I came home, thinking that I would have honor among my own people as well.”
He stopped and looked around him, puzzled, as if coming out of a dream. What he had claimed for himself was so at odds with his true surroundings that George expected him to veer off into madness again. Instead he looked closely at Hogg and said, “Who are you?”
“A friend,” Hogg said.
“Aye? I wonder.”
“Why should you wonder, Your Majesty? I’m here to take you to your people, your subjects. They’re waiting for you. They need to be shown a true leader.”
Arthur seemed to think it over. His hand moved to the music again, up and down, up and down. They could force him, of course, but it would be easier, and attract less attention, if he would agree to go with them. George stepped closer to the bars of the cell. “Come, Your Majesty. Do you remember me? I was a friend of yours, in the churchyard.”
“Nay, I won’t go there again. Go away, all of you! Alice Wood is not my mother—my mother is a queen!”
Hogg turned to George angrily. “Nay, we won’t make yo
u go to the churchyard,” George said, as gently as he could. His heart was beating very fast. What if Arthur would not leave now, what if he had ruined everything? Arthur had to agree. “We’re here to take you to your true family, not to Alice. Alice has lied to you all these years, do you understand? She’s not your mother.”
George nodded, satisfied. What did it matter if he hadn’t told Arthur the truth? Alice had lied often enough on other subjects; she was a liar. And he would say anything if only Arthur would leave with them. He did not think he could face Hogg if they had been unsuccessful.
“Very well,” Arthur said finally. He stood up, bracing himself against the wall as he did so. George wondered how long he had sat there. “I’ll come with you.”
His tone was that of a monarch commanding his subjects. For a moment George forgot who the other man was and what they planned to do with him, and nearly jumped to do his bidding. Then he looked about him and remembered.
“Good,” Hogg said. “I’ll get the steward to release you.” He went back down the corridor and returned with the steward, who now held a ring of keys in his hand. Hogg gave him a number of gold coins and the other man opened the door. Then he backed away, bowing. Hogg went into the cell and led the Prince of Faerie outside.
15
In Shoreditch, just a few streets away from Bedlam Hospital, Robert Greene lay dying. A month ago he had dined with Tom Nashe on Rhenish wine and pickled herring, and he thought it was this rather than the plague that made him grow weaker and weaker, until he finally took to his bed. Now he lay in the house of Master and Mistress Isam, a shoemaker and his wife who been kind enough to take him in, and he thought about his life.
He would go to hell unless he repented, there was no question of it. He had deserted his wife and child after running through his wife’s dowry, he had fathered a bastard child on Em of Holywell Street, he had sold his play, Orlando Furioso, to two companies of actors, first to the Queen’s Men and then the Admiral’s Men. Well, but what of it? He needed to eat, didn’t he?—and the money paid to playwrights would not keep a dog alive. It was not his fault he had been forced into these and other tricks: he had had hard luck, and then he had fallen into bad company …
Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon Page 18
