Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon

by Lisa Goldstein

  “Maybe I have a suitor.”

  In the dim light she could not be certain, but it seemed to her that George scowled.

  2

  In the Saracen’s Head in Shoreditch, on the outskirts of London, the night was just beginning. It was a dim place with no windows, lit only by the cooking fire and a few candles. Knives and daggers had scarred the tables and benches. The air stank of smoke and tobacco and stale beer, and the rushes on the floor needed freshening. In one corner a group of men and women sang ballads and madrigals, hitting their pewter cups with knives to keep time. Across the room Robert Greene, freed on borrowed money he could not afford to pay back, was holding forth.

  “Nay, I counted it a trifle, an afternoon’s fair diversion,” he said. He took a sip of beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “The Compter is a spacious inn compared to some of the prisons which have sheltered me.” He was older than most of the playwrights, and that combined with his stocky build, his great beard and his mane of red-brown hair made him seem avuncular, a natural authority figure.

  “Fleet Prison for me,” Thomas Nashe said. He drew on his tobacco-pipe. “I was served a rare vintage there, the last time I was in.”

  Thomas Kyd looked between the two men as if trying to decide if they were jesting. He had heard otherwise, that men had died or disappeared in London’s prisons, killed by starvation or disease or other prisoners. He was a very serious-looking young man, with a black curly beard and a pale face that, as Tom Nashe had once said, looked like unbaked bread dough. Unlike the other two he had not gone to either Cambridge or Oxford, and he seemed to feel very keenly that he was in some sense their inferior.

  There was a fourth man sitting by the three of them, but whether he wanted to take part in their conversation, or was even listening to it, none of the others could say. He had red-gold hair and his eyes were an astonishing green, surrounded by dark, almost black, lashes. They had seen him in the tavern before: he never seemed to drink anything, or indeed to have any money, but by the end of the night he would appear as drunk as the rest of them.

  “When were you in Fleet Prison?” Tom Kyd said finally, as if unable to keep silent any longer.

  “Many a man of honor has sailed in that fleet,” Tom Nashe said, grinning at him. “Do you tell me that the queen has never offered you lodgings in one of her pleasure houses?”

  “Well, of course not.”

  “What, never been to the university and never been to prison? Tell me, Tom, what have you been doing with your life? It’s a sad case when our brightest playwrights know nothing at all about the world they portray on stage.”

  “I know enough,” Tom Kyd said. He wondered if Nashe meant what he said about “brightest playwrights” or if he was just talking to hear himself talk. Or if he was having another joke at Kyd’s expense. A year ago Nashe had attacked him in print, and Kyd had decided never to return to the tavern, never to drink with such men again. But there was something about the university wits that kept him coming back, like a poor beggar to a fire. Their very profligacy seemed to blaze like a beacon; someday they would be consumed by it. Not he, though, Kyd thought. He was far too prudent.

  “But this day I have made a vow,” Robert Greene said, “never to return to debtor’s prison. You see before you a changed man.”

  “I remember you have sworn such oaths before, Robin,” Tom Nashe said. “There is not a dog under the table that would believe you.”

  “You would do well to make such a vow yourself, my young friend,” Robert said. “Give over your intemperate ways. Quit this foolish rancorous feud you have with Richard Harvey—”

  “Harvey?” Tom Nashe said, his beer halfway to his mouth. “That gross-brained idiot? He attacked you first, and in print, too—how can you have forgotten it? He said you were not fit to pass judgment on other writers. And the answer you gave him in your pamphlet was not enough, I fear. It’s a matter of honor, Robin.”

  “I have struck out that part of my pamphlet—it will not go to press the way you saw it. I tell you, I have changed. As of this day I vow never to owe any man money, never to drink immoderately, never to do anything, by word or deed, that would show me not to be one of the most civil of Her Majesty’s subjects.”

  “Never to visit Em of Holywell Street?” Tom Nashe asked.

  Robert turned to him angrily. But at that moment the fourth man, who until then had said nothing, spoke up. “You may do all of those things,” he said. “I forgive you.”

  “You!” Tom Nashe said. “And who are you?”

  “Do you not know your king?” The light of one of the candles flared up suddenly, and the man’s shadow on the wall grew huge.

  The shadow stilled Nashe’s merriment for a moment. A serving-woman called an order to the tavern’s host, sounding loud in the silence, and someone laughed and was hushed.

  Then the candle guttered and died, and Tom laughed. “Ho, the king! And are you Elizabeth’s son, or Mary’s?”

  “Mary?”

  “Look at this fellow,” Nashe said, gesturing at the other two. “There’s good sport here.” He turned to the young man. “Have you never heard of Bloody Queen Mary, who ruled in our parents’ time? Surely you had a mother to tell you stories of the old bad queen.”

  The young man looked confused. “Aye, I remember—”

  “Good, he remembers his mother. A brave start. And your father? But perhaps that’s a more difficult question.”

  “Let him be,” Tom Kyd said. “He’s lost his wits, can’t you tell?”

  “My father?” the young man said. “I—I don’t—”

  Nashe laughed. But Robert Greene had not finished with his earlier conversation, and now he turned to his friend. “Think about what I said, Tom. Don’t let your pamphlet be printed as it is now, with the attack on Richard Harvey.”

  “And why shouldn’t I? Do you think I’m afraid of anything the Harveys might say? Let them answer me. They’re all of them pompous asses. I remember Kit Marlowe said to me once—”

  “Are you still keeping company with that man, known to the world for an arrant atheist?” Robert said.

  “Where is he?” Tom Kyd asked. “I haven’t seen him in London for several weeks.”

  “He comes and goes as he pleases.”

  “But on what errands?”

  “Errands? No one knows.”

  A few streets away, in the tavern at the sign of the Black Boar, Christopher Marlowe sat and listened to an agent of the queen. The currency exchanged at the Boar was intelligence, knowledge true and false, and so the place stayed silent, ill lit, remote from the hustle and bustle of London. At one table sat a soldier who had done good service in France a dozen years ago and who waited to be taken on for any trifling task again; at another Christopher recognized a man who would work for anyone, anywhere, who had once sold state secrets three times over, to the French, Spanish and English. A sour smell, of old beer and false hopes, lingered in the air.

  Christopher took out his tobacco-pipe and lifted the candle close to light it. Whenever he saw Robert Poley he always wondered at how suited the man was for his trade. Look at him once and you wouldn’t want to look at him again: his features were so ordinary as to turn him almost invisible. Average height, sandy hair, nondescript face; only his eyes, which were a pale, watery blue, made him stand out in a crowd.

  “Did you get the book I asked for?” Robert Poley asked.

  “Aye.” Christopher passed a slender volume to the other man, glancing again at the tide: Being a True History of the Nobility of England, with an Especial Account of the Royal Families.

  “I suppose you read it,” Robert said dryly.

  Christopher pushed back his long auburn hair—the same fashionable color as the queen’s but much thicker, nearly unmanageable—and looked at Robert. His eyes were a light brown, and he wore a gold ring in one ear. “Of course I read it. Books aren’t that easy to come by—I couldn’t afford to pass this one up. I thought it interesting, if a li
ttle dry.”

  “I don’t pay you for your opinions. You are to finish the tasks I give you, no more.”

  Christopher nodded. He had had to search through the yard at Paul’s and beyond to find someone who had the book for sale. When he had looked through it he had seen no publisher on the title page; it had been printed illegally, by someone without a license from the Privy Council. He guessed that Robert was building a case against the publisher, who had stated that Elizabeth had no right to the throne.

  Robert’s silence on the matter galled him. The other man had once told Christopher that he traded in information, and information had to be hoarded to drive its value upward. To goad him into speaking Christopher said, “The man who sold me the book made some interesting points. He told me—”

  “Don’t tell me you spoke to him!”

  “Of course I spoke to him. If I’m to buy a book I want to know what it’s about, after all.”

  “He’s a traitor to the queen. When we find the publisher we’ll take this man in for questioning as well. Good God, you could have been overheard—you could have been arrested for treason. Don’t do anything like that again.”

  “If I was arrested for treason you would have spoken up for me.”

  “Would I?” Robert’s eyes glistened in the candlelight. He smiled, revealing a row of rotten teeth. “Don’t be too certain. I’m wondering how much I can trust you, after all. The last time I sent you on an errand I heard strange news about you.”

  “News?”

  “Aye, news. My informant told me your opinions are quite unorthodox, and that you show no fear of spreading them abroad. Don’t think that because you work for me the Privy Council will protect you. If you’re caught I’ll be lucky to get away with my neck intact.”

  Christopher waited. Robert would not have sent for him to read him a lecture, after all. At a neighboring table he heard someone say, whispering, “Five thousand soldiers, and whatever money he can raise …” Finally the other man leaned forward.

  “There are rumors,” Robert said, lowering his voice. As always he gave out no names; he would never say more than “I have heard,” or “My informants tell me,” or “There are rumors.”

  “Rumors?”

  “You know from this book that some in London are speaking of an heir to the throne. Lately these stories have multiplied. Folks say now that there is a man who has come to save his country in time of need, or some such nonsense.”

  “Who says this?”

  “Many people. I’m surprised you haven’t heard them. Once they start on their fantasies, these legends, they will talk of nothing else.”

  “What sort of legends?”

  “How should I know? Dreams and fables—that’s your province. But all their talk is of the return of kings. In my opinion their mood is dangerous, very dangerous.”

  “Do you think there is any truth to it?”

  “That a man should walk out of legend—”

  “That someone is abroad, speaking to people in the language of the old stories, claiming kinship with the heroes of antiquity.”

  “Perhaps. If there is he will be brought in and questioned.”

  “And what am I to do about it?”

  “You are to watch for him,” Robert said. “You go to taverns, don’t you? That’s where our informers have seen him.”

  Christopher nodded. Taverns, he thought. Doubtless the man’s a poor drunk who doesn’t realize what he’s saying. But any errand from Robert Poley was welcome. Writing for the stage, even writing plays as successful as his were, paid very little. He needed the spy-work Robert gave him to stay alive in London.

  Robert stood. “Where will you go now?” he asked. “Taverns,” Christopher said, smiling slightly. “I’m anxious to begin work.”

  “Good. I’ll walk with you.”

  They left the Black Boar together. Robert had never wanted to walk with him before; the other man had always taken care not to be seen with him out-of-doors. Was Robert checking up on him? He hadn’t intended to carry out the agent’s task that night, to be truthful; instead he planned to go to the Saracen’s Head and see if Greene had managed to escape prison once again.

  They followed the twisted skein of the streets. The white moon shone above them, too high now to cast much light. Footsteps sounded in the dark street, and Christopher looked back over his shoulder out of habit. Few honest people walked abroad so late at night. He could see no one. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” Robert asked. “I heard nothing.”

  “Someone behind us.” Robert turned. “Are you certain?”

  “Nay. I must have imagined it.”

  A few moments later the footsteps came again. This time when he looked back Christopher saw a young man slipping into a doorway. “There is someone,” he said softly. He put his hand to the dagger at his back. “And I saw him before, watching us at the Black Boar. He’s been following us.”

  Any of his friends would have dismissed his fear as an idle fancy, but Poley lived and breathed in the medium of plots and conspiracies. The agent stopped and stared back into the shadowy street. “Nay, there’s no one there,” he said. “And it’s too dark to see anyone, let alone recognize a man from the Boar.”

  “I tell you, I saw him,” Christopher said. A second man turned into the street and began to run toward them. He stopped at the doorway Christopher had seen and gave a loud cry. Christopher and Robert moved back into the shadows of the street.

  The man in the doorway shouted, “You! I thought—” Then they both heard the unmistakable sound of steel being scraped against steel as the second man drew his dagger.

  The man in the doorway moved out into the street. He had not drawn his dagger; probably, Christopher thought, he had not gotten over the shock of being challenged by a man he obviously knew.

  The other man struck. Finally the first man seemed to rouse himself. He jumped back, but his opponent had managed to cut deeply into his arm. He drew his dagger slowly, as if dazzled.

  Now Robert and Christopher could see blood welling from the man’s sleeve, a flat black against the white of the cloth. The second man moved forward to attack again and the first tried to parry, slashing out in front of him while his opponent slipped deftly to the right.

  The first man turned quickly, but it was too late. The second man’s dagger came up under him. He twisted to get away.

  The second man thrust the dagger forward, into the other’s chest. The first man fell slowly to the ground, a look more of surprise than fear on his face.

  His opponent bent over him. Robert and Christopher saw the dying man try to speak. “Who—”

  “We should leave,” Robert said. “Quickly. The watch will come, and they’ll take us to prison before we can explain ourselves—”

  “Nay!” Christopher said urgently. “He was following us. What did he want? Who is the other man?”

  The second man looked up sharply. Had he heard them? The man looked back once at his opponent and then ran off down the street.

  Christopher moved as if to follow, but Robert held him back. “It’s none of our concern,” Robert said. “Let’s go.”

  “Of course it’s our concern. Who was he?” But it was already too late; the man had gone. And perhaps Robert was right. The watch would certainly come to take them to prison if they stayed. Last year he had gone to Newgate Prison because a friend of his had killed a man in a duel, and he had no wish to repeat that experience.

  “Our business is with the man I mentioned, the one who claims to be king,” Robert said. He had composed himself and now looked the way Christopher remembered him, controlled, untouchable by any calamity. But for a moment Christopher had seen a different side of the man, had seen him frightened. Now, watching him, he knew that something subtle had changed between them. Whatever it was, it would not soon be forgotten by either one. He walked home slowly, all thoughts of the Saracen’s Head forgotten.

  3

  That night the folk w
ho had been exiled to London met in Finsbury Field. To the north the field’s three great windmills turned, making a doleful sound like a man groaning. During the day laundresses used the place to dry their clothes, and marksmen aimed their arrows at large paper heads painted like Turks, but at night the exiles shared the field only with a few beggars and vagabonds. It was the work of a moment to cast a glamour over these homeless men and women, and so render themselves invisible. But one of the men, driven mad by his long exposure to the elements, swore ever after that he had seen a tiny creature with wings like spiderwebs.

  “Spring comes on apace and we are no closer to finding the babe,” the queen said.

  “He is here in the city, though,” a horned man said. “I can feel him.”

  “Others have been asking for him,” another said. “I have heard them.”

  “We must get to him first,” the queen said. “Else all is lost.” She looked around her at the open space of the field, trying to find something that reminded her of home. They had no gift for planning; she knew that. And here in this strange place they had become confused, thrown off balance. The people around them knew how to plot great stratagems, how to lay plans that came to fruition years later. She did not like to think of what would happen if they found the babe first.

  “A great change is coming,” said one who had not spoken before, the smallest of them. She had roused from where she lay, nestled in the brownie’s palm, and now she spread her silken wings. Everyone quieted to hear her. “This world and all we have known will pass away. Trees and stone, wind and rain, will be as naught. It will be a world of artifice, of vast gears interlocking in one enormous mechanism.”

  The windmills sighed, turning. The queen felt as if she had just heard their doom pronounced. “Will there be a place for us?” she asked.

  But the smallest one’s sister was singing now, and by custom they could not interrupt her. “Change and go, change and go,” she sang. “Twirl your partner, change and go.”

  The smallest one caught her sister’s fancy and sang with her. They rose, laughing, and skittered off into the night air like leaves. There would be no more prophecies: already the more giddy of the folk had joined in a circle to play and spin in their ancient dance.