Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon

by Lisa Goldstein

  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.”

  Through it all he knew that he was dreaming, and he struggled to come awake. “Short, tall,” the voice said. “Big, small. False, true—old, new.”

  The voice seemed to speak to him for hours, tireless. Finally, near dawn, he awoke. An idea had grown in his mind while he slept, planted by something the voice had said. He dressed quickly and went out to find Tom Kyd.

  Kyd was not in the room he and Marlowe had once shared. The place had apparently been rented to someone else, a man adding up columns of numbers who demanded to know what he meant by this interruption. Nashe closed the door on him and hurried toward Kyd’s lodgings, his suspicions hardening into certainty as he ran.

  He took the stairs to Kyd’s room two steps at a time. “Tom!” he said, pounding on the door. “Tom, listen. Kit was murdered—I know it!”

  Kyd opened the door. Nashe made as if to go past him, into the room, but Kyd blocked the way. “Listen,” Nashe said, breathing hard. “He was murdered—Kit was murdered. Listen to this.”

  Kyd moved aside reluctantly. Now Nashe noticed that Kyd looked ill, as if something had broken within him at Bridewell. He shuddered to think what they must have done to him there. As he went inside he saw a candle on the desk flicker and go out. Piles of paper were heaped around the candlestick, all of them covered with Kyd’s fine spidery writing. The man must have been up for hours. “What do you want?” Kyd asked.

  “Listen to this. Here,” Nashe said. He took the quill from the desk and handed it to Kyd. “Hold this. Pretend it’s the dagger. You’re holding it in your right hand, and if someone bent it backwards it would go into your right eye. Like this.” He twisted Kyd’s wrist, a little too violently, and the other man cried out. Nashe let go. “But Kit is—was left-handed. If he held the dagger in his left hand, like this”—Nashe held the quill himself this time—“it would have gone into his left eye. Do you see?”

  Kyd said nothing. “Do you see?” Nashe said again, nearly frantic to make the other man understand.

  “Aye,” Kyd said. “What of it?”

  “What of it?” Nashe asked, incredulous. “Someone’s lying. Someone murdered him and made it look like a quarrel. We’ve got to tell the authorities—”

  “Why?”

  “To bring his murderer to justice. He was your friend too, wasn’t he?” Kyd did not reply. “Wasn’t he?”

  “He was no friend of mine,” Kyd said coldly.

  Something on the desk caught Nashe’s eye. “He was intemperate and of a cruel heart … Never could my Lordship endure his name, or sight …” he read.

  “What is this?” he asked, almost whispering. He felt suddenly cold.

  “Nothing,” Kyd said, but he made no move to cover the pages.

  “It’s about Kit, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why?”

  “Because—You spoke of justice, but justice has not been done here. I went to prison because of your friend, I was whipped and tortured because of him and his blasphemous opinions. Is that justice? Does it seem to you that justice has been done?”

  “But—but he’s dead. Isn’t that justice enough for you?”

  “Nay. I’ll never rid myself of the taint of atheism. I’ve lost my patron because of him—Lord Strange no longer speaks to me. I’ve had to give up the room I rented for lack of money.”

  “But what you say here—it isn’t even true. ‘Intemperate and of a cruel heart’—even you can see that’s false.”

  “Is it? He fought duels, he told me so himself.”

  “Everyone fights duels.”

  “Not I.”

  “Nay, you use more cowardly means. Do you think that blackening his name this way will return you to your lord’s favor?”

  “I do, aye. And he’s beyond caring, I assure you. I have to live. I have to win my patron back, and do it by whatever methods I can.”

  “But this is monstrous!” Nashe said, horrified. He was about to say more, but suddenly he was visited by a premonition so strong it struck him dumb. Thomas Kyd would not survive the year. He had been so ill-used at Bridewell that his health had broken. They would all be dead, then, all the jolly companions, Robin and Kit and Tom. And he would have to find a way to go on alone.

  Kyd said something else, but Nashe didn’t hear him. He turned and left, his heart overcome with grief.

  A few days later Tom Nashe found himself at the old tavern at the sign of the Saracen’s Head. He had gone there for a midday meal, unable to work but unwilling to be alone with his thoughts. The tavern was nearly deserted because of the plague, but there was no one he wanted to talk to anyway. Why had he come? He could not rid himself of old memories; he thought he would give almost anything to hear Kit and Robin argue again.

  It was as he had told Kit long ago: he was enchanted. The brown woman had enchanted him. Why else should he be the only one of all of them to survive? He had done nothing to deserve it.

  The door opened and Will Ryder came In. He realized, guiltily, that he had given no thought to the boy since Kit had died, and he motioned him over. As Will sat Tom noticed that his usual open expressi
on had gone; he looked like the stunned survivor of a disaster.

  “I’m sorry,” Tom said softly.

  “Aye,” Will said. “Aye, so am I. I keep thinking about the poem he was writing, and how no one will ever read the end of it now. I was going to be his patron, did he tell you?”

  Should he tell Will what he knew? Would it help him or would it only serve to make him angry? But the need to unburden himself was too great, powerful enough to drive out any other consideration. Slowly at first, and then with more confidence, he repeated what he had told Tom Kyd.

  Will listened, saying nothing. At least he would not condemn Kit out of hand, and for that Tom felt grateful. He had had enough of folks in London saying that Kit’s death was punishment for his atheism. What about Tom Kyd? he had asked them. What sin had he been punished for? And what of the thousands who had died of the plague? God’s judgments, he knew, did not work so neatly.

  Will nodded when he had finished. “Aye,” he said. “The story I heard never sounded right to me either.”

  He looked directly at Tom, and Tom, who had elicited hundreds of confidences over the years, knew what was about to happen next: Will would tell him something he had never told anyone else. For the first time in his life he felt he could not bear hearing another confession. But his face, so used to wearing an expression of interest and concern, must have betrayed him, because Will continued to speak.

  “Do you know—I knew that man, that Robert Poley. My brother knew him. I’d seen them whispering together often enough, and I knew that he was not to be trusted. I tried to tell Kit not to go with him—”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know that. I know. But I keep thinking that if I’d tried harder, if I’d told him what I’d seen—”

  “No one could ever talk him out of anything, once he’d made up his mind. He was the most stubborn man I ever met.”

  “Aye, that’s true enough.” Will almost smiled. “What do we do now? Do we go to the authorities with what you’ve told me?”