“I went—because of you, I think.”
“Because of me!”
“Aye. You probably don’t know how you appeared to me. Here you were, a poet, a playwright, a true spy, not a dabbler like myself—I began to think that there was nothing you hadn’t done. And then I remembered the scornful way you spoke of the Catholics, and I thought that there at last was a place you hadn’t been. It took me three days in Rheims to discover that you had been there too. I felt that you were mocking me—that even in your absence you mocked me.”
“I mocked you? You were the one who told me in such a superior fashion to use those outlandish Italian forks.”
“Nay, I didn’t!”
“What do you mean, you didn’t? Of course you did.”
“I don’t remember.”
“You did. What were they like, the Papists? Do the monks still lie with the nuns as they did when I was there?”
“Nay, don’t jeer like that. They’re serious about their religion in a way that we’ve lost, I think. And there’s a lot of good in them. We hear about the bad they do, but I wonder—I wonder how many of those stories are true.”
“Most of them, I would think.”
“I don’t think so.”
Could Will be right? The other man seemed so certain, and his old superior manner had returned, as if Christopher were an erring pupil. But what did it matter what Will thought of him? Yet he found to his surprise that he was anxious for Will’s good opinion.
“Why did you come back?” he asked.
“My father sent for me. He’d disowned me after I went to Rheims—Geoffrey was quick to tell him what I’d done. But when I came back to England he wrote and asked to see me. He’s in London on business. But what brings you to the city? You’re the last person I expected to meet.”
Christopher told him about the summons from the Star Chamber, what little information Henry Maunder had given him, making light of it so that Will wouldn’t worry. Then, realizing only at that moment how good it was to confide in someone, he recounted all that had happened in the months since they had seen each other, his falling out with Thomas Kyd, Robert Greene’s death and the final confession he had made.
“And this other man, Chettle—he never apologized?” Will asked.
“Nay. All of London waits to see if I’ll repent. You have no idea how trying it can be.”
“And will you?”
“Nay,” he said.
The light began to fade from the windows. Will’s room, invariably cold, grew chilly, and he moved closer to the other man. Will drifted off to sleep; he had always been an easy sleeper. Christopher stayed awake and thought about the Star Chamber meeting tomorrow, worrying over what he might say. A nuisance, but then if it hadn’t been for the summons to London he would not have seen Will.
He must have slept, because two thoughts came together in his dreams and woke him, his heart pounding. At least one of the Catholic conspirators had never been found, the man whose voice had sounded familiar. And Will had gone to the Catholics in Rheims.
He lay still and listened to Will’s soft, even breathing. He had not known how much he cared for the man. Nay, he was done with mysteries. He had all the answers he needed.
The faces of the judges of the Star Chamber looked grave, impassive, and Christopher took that as a good sign; they hadn’t made up their minds to condemn him just yet. Some of them he recognized: Archbishop Whitgift, dressed all in black, and his secretary, Abraham Hartwell; the Cecils, Lord Burghley and his son Robert. Burghley was a portly man who seemed a little pompous; Robert Cecil, the hunchback, was thinner and fragile-looking, with fine cheekbones and a languid courtier’s expression. To his left sat the Earl of Derby, and Christopher felt pleased to see him; his son, Lord Strange, patronized the acting company that had performed several of his plays. He didn’t recognize the three other men, but they made no move to introduce themselves.
Henry Maunder, the man who had come to arrest him, had said only that blasphemous papers had been found in Thomas Kyd’s room, and that Kyd had told the Star Chamber the papers were Christopher’s. He could not remember leaving any manuscripts with Kyd but he supposed that that didn’t mean he hadn’t. He wondered what the Chamber had found, what they had thought important enough to bring him to London in a plague season.
“Do you recognize this manuscript?” Archbishop Whitgift asked.
He took the papers Hartwell held out to him. Someone had written on them: “Vile heretical conceits denying the deity of Jesus Christ our Savior found among the papers of Thos Kyd, prisoner,” and another hand had added: “Which he affirmeth he had from Marlowe.”
He looked from that to the manuscript itself, and when he did so he nearly laughed in relief. If poor Tom Kyd had known anything at all about theology and been able to argue a little he would not have needed to drag anyone else into this business; the thing was nearly as safe as the Geneva Bible. He had been fortunate, very fortunate, that this was all they had found.
“Aye,” he said.
Robert Cecil made a note on a piece of paper in front of him. “Is it yours?” Whitgift asked.
“Aye.”
“How do you come to have such a blasphemous manuscript?”
Christopher looked directly at the archbishop. “It isn’t blasphemous. It’s—”
“Not blasphemous! Why, man, how can you say so? It denies the divinity of our Lord.”
“Aye. That’s the Arian heresy, which claims that Christ was not divine. But the manuscript itself is called The Fall of the Late Arian, and it refutes those claims.”
“I didn’t see any refutation.”
Nay, Christopher thought, you didn’t see it because it isn’t there. I hadn’t paid the scrivener to copy that part out. “Aye,” he said. “I know a little about theology; I studied it at Cambridge for six years. I had thought, perhaps presumptuously, that I would try to answer the claims myself.”
“And how would you answer them?”
This part was easy; he could do this in his sleep. He marshalled arguments, quoted Scripture, referred to church authorities. At least one of the men he cited, judging by the archbishop’s expression, was unknown to Whitgift. He finished with a statement of conventional piety that brought satisfied nods from nearly half the judges. Robert Cecil, he noticed, had covered his entire page with notes.
But Whitgift still looked unconvinced. “And you yourself,” the archbishop said. “Do you agree with the claims put forward here?”
“Nay, of course not,” Christopher said firmly. But if you ask me what I do believe, he thought, I will have to lie to you.
No one had any further questions. Christopher spoke into the silence. “My lords, some of you in this room may know that I was once an agent for Sir Francis Walsingham. I went to Rheims several times to gather information on the Catholics there. And a few years ago I helped Sir Philip Potter discover the names of those who had plotted against the queen.”
A few men looked up at that, interested. Robert Cecil hurriedly made another note. “Aye,” Lord Burghley said. “I remember. That was a job well done.”
“Still, I can’t understand why you copied only half this manuscript,” Archbishop Whitgift said. “It seems somehow sinister, wouldn’t you say?” He turned to the others in the chamber for confirmation.
“But if he was a student of divinity, after all …” one of the men said.
Silence settled over the chamber again. Finally Burghley spoke. “We’ll have to discuss this matter among ourselves,” he said. “Please wait for us outside.”
Christopher went out into the antechamber. The room had become hot and he was sweating lightly, worried, finally, about what the judges would decide. His throat felt dry. He shouldn’t have talked for so long; folks didn’t like it when you were too clever. He had antagonized Whitgift, that much was clear. The archbishop would probably prefer that no one meddle in divinity, that everyone accept the answers that came down from the clergy. And the idea o
f copying out a manuscript simply because you were curious about the ideas in it, because it stated something different from the common platitudes mouthed by every clergyman you had ever known—well, Whitgift would not like that at all.
But how much weight did the archbishop’s opinion carry? Some of the others seemed to oppose him. Burghley, for example, clearly remembered Walsingham with affection; Christopher had done well to mention the man’s name. But he hadn’t remembered to remind Derby of his connection with Lord Strange. Well, it couldn’t be helped; if they gave him another chance he would say something.
Damn, what was taking them so long? He walked up and down the narrow room anxiously. If they decided he was a heretic what would they do to him? Prison, torture, death at the stake? They had cut off a man’s hand for writing blasphemy.
Nay, best not to think about it. He would triumph over these judges as he had won out over others in authority. And perhaps when this was over he would be more careful in his speech. But why shouldn’t he be able to speak his mind? It galled him to have to remain silent.
Hartwell, Whitgift’s secretary, called him back into the chamber. Whitgift began to speak, and for a moment Christopher thought that he was lost, that they had all come to agree with the man. What would Will think if he didn’t come back? “We have been unable to reach a decision,” Whitgift said. “We command therefore that you remain in attendance on us, and that you report to us daily to show that you have not left London.”
Christopher nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He had not been set free, then, but at least he would not be going to prison. He found he had been holding his breath and he let it out slowly.
“You may go,” Hartwell said, and he left the chamber.
In the afternoon he and Will walked around London, trying to find his old companions. The sun shone weakly overhead; he was surprised, after the warmth of the Star Chamber, at how cold the wind felt.
In Paul’s he talked to the few booksellers who had remained during the plague. No one knew where Nashe had gone to, but Ned Blount had heard that Kyd had been sent to prison. At that Christopher felt his heart stop for a moment and then start again, loudly and too fast. What had happened to Kyd? Did they torture him? He had not known the dangers he faced when he had argued theology so heedlessly with the men of the Star Chamber.
“Do you do much spy-work?” Will asked at the end of the day, as they walked back to the manor.
“Nay, none at all.”
“Why not?”
“I have a patron now, for one thing. I don’t need the money.”
“But the excitement, the—Didn’t you enjoy it?”
Christopher laughed. “It proved a little too exciting for me, finally. But I’ve been out of the game so long I wouldn’t know how to go about getting in again. Walsingham’s dead, and I haven’t seen Rob—my superior in years.”
“But surely they’d take you back. You discovered the Catholic conspirators—”
“Weren’t you the one siding with the Catholics?”
“I told you—I found them interesting, no more. I wouldn’t want to be ruled by them.”
Christopher laughed again. “Nor I. But sometimes I think the Protestants are as bad, or worse.” Too late he remembered his promise to be more circumspect in his speech, and he looked around him carefully. But the street was deserted, as every public place in London seemed to be.
When they returned to Will’s manor they found a letter waiting from his father. Will read it several times, anxiously. “He wants to meet with me,” he said at last, looking up. “Look here—he’s set a date. Finally.”
“Good.”
“Aye. But I’m worried.”
“Worried? Why?”
“What if he still wants to disown me?”
“What if he does?”
“What’ll I do?”
“You’ll do what the rest of us do. Why should it matter what your father thinks?”
“It matters,” Will said. He looked troubled.
Christopher thought of his own father, who still, after six years, could not grasp what it was his son did in London. “Why should he disown you? He’ll be pleased that you’re back from Rheims, that’s all.”
“Aye. You’re probably right.”
For the first time in his life Christopher thought he could see what the future held for him. Will would inherit a good portion of his father’s estate, and he and Will would live together. “Come live with me and be my love,” he had written a long time ago, when he had been too young to know what love was.
The days they spent together seemed almost to exist outside of time; if not for the plague he would have had no worries whatsoever. Sometimes he made an appearance before the Star Chamber but he soon stopped going daily and the judges came not to expect him: doubtless they wanted to do their job and return to the country as soon as they could. In the afternoons he and Will walked through the streets, marveling at the absence of crowds. The usual London sounds had disappeared; they heard only bells rung for funerals and the howling of hungry dogs. They climbed to the top of the tower at Paul’s and looked out over the river, sparkling in the weak May sun. They went to plays and discovered a few crowded taverns filled with men who didn’t care what happened to them. Several times they saw the huge bonfires lit at night to drive away the corruption of the air.
Once, as they walked back to Will’s manor, they heard a Puritan at Eleanor Cross on Cheapside, calling for their repentance.
“There is wrath gone out from the Lord: the plague is begun!” the preacher shouted. A group of people surrounded him, defying the order against crowds.
There was no way around the assembly. He and Will tried to push through but the preacher stopped them. “Hold!” he said. “Are you the sort of men who profane the Lord’s Day?”
Christopher hadn’t even known that it was Sunday. “Evidently,” he said.
They made it to the edge of the crowd, but something caused him to turn back. A man stood there watching him, someone with pale, watery-blue eyes. A man he hadn’t seen in over three years. Robert Poley.
18
The cold May wind blew through the churchyard, riffling the pages of books and scattering ballads. Alice weighed down her books and pamphlets with rocks and then looked out over the yard. A lone gallant walked back and forth in front of the tomb of Duke Humphrey, clearly hoping that someone would stop him and offer him a meal. He must be unfortunate indeed, Alice thought, if he’s had to stay in London.
She hadn’t much pity to spare for him, though. She had sold two books the day before and one so far today. Most of the acting companies had gone to the countryside and wouldn’t need the playbills she published every year. If the plague continued, she thought, she would run through her meager savings and have to sell everything she owned to another stationer.
But not to George—nay, not to George, though he seemed to prosper while others failed. One of his young apprentices worked at his stall today, and rumor had it that George had gone to buy a printing press, that he was setting himself up to be a printer as well as publisher and bookseller. According to Edward, George had a ready supply of gold coins, and he was not miserly about treating men to a drink. The stationers whispered stories of counterfeiting among themselves but only Alice knew the truth: that George dabbled in black magic. She could almost laugh at the way things had fallen out: George was guilty of the very crime he had accused her of, but because she had never been acquitted of the crime no one would believe her.
Could she sell to Walter? But Walter had started in the bookselling trade late and fared even worse than she did. And what would it be like to engage in a trade agreement with him? Nay, she couldn’t face it. She would have to sell to Edward, then. Edward would be a good choice.
She sighed to think of her books displayed on another stall. Would Edward take as good care of them? Nashe’s Strange News had come out in February and had sold well for a time, until folks had started to escape to the coun
try. She paged through it now, marveling that the man’s invention never seemed to fail, that he had been able to fill page after page with invective against Gabriel Harvey. Would Edward know what to do with a book like this?
She looked through the book, laughing a little as she read. “I say no more but Lord have mercy upon thee, for thou art fallen into his hands that will plague thee … His verses run hobbling like a brewer’s cart upon the stones … This mud-born bubble, this bile upon the brow of the University, this bladder of pride new blown …”
She laughed again. Nashe had put her in a good humor, something he always seemed able to do. Her business would not fail: she had come this far on her wits, the only woman ever to do so, and she would survive everything, even the plague. With this new hope it seemed to her that spring, delayed for so long this year, would arrive soon; that it had traveled far, over perilous routes, but that within the next few days all the churchyard would wake to the intoxicating smell of fertile earth and new green leaves. Everything was on the verge of beginning, she felt; and as she thought this she saw, out of the edge of her left eye, a gleam of coruscating silver.
A tiny creature hovered in the churchyard, its wings beating rapidly for balance. As she watched it was joined by another, and then more, perhaps a dozen all together. No one else seemed to see them. They circled and skittered off toward the gate, then returned.
She watched them as they flew. They spun dizzily and arced to the gate again. Without thinking about it she closed her stall and followed them.
Margery stood outside the churchyard gate. Agnes was with her, and Arthur. Her breath caught to see him again. “It’s started,” Margery said.
“What has?” Alice asked. She had not seen Margery for months, not since they had taken Arthur. Her friend and Agnes seemed no different, but Alice marveled at the changes in Arthur. He looked healthy, his skin clear and his hair bright. The faerie-light shone from his face.
Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon Page 23