Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon (16 page)

“How do you know there are other men involved? Perhaps the assassin was acting alone.”

Christopher ran his hand through his hair again. His friend had been forthcoming so far, Tom thought; he had been surprised at how much Kit was willing to reveal. Would he continue to be open or would he start to dissemble?

“It's complicated,” Christopher said finally. “I saw a man die over this. Believe me, there are others involved, and next time they may succeed in killing the queen. So you see how important it is to find Arthur.”

Tom nodded.

“Now that you know,” Will said, “will you help us?”

“Of course,” Tom said, surprised. No matter how open Kit became he would never in his life think to ask for help. He began to warm to this man. “Of course I will. What can I do?”

“Tell us if you see Arthur,” Will said. “Try to keep him in sight if he comes back to the tavern.”

He has the most extraordinary smile, Tom thought. “Aye,” he said. “But I fear he's gone to this new land—that he's beyond our finding him.”

Christopher returned to the palace that night. As he walked he thought over what he had said, feeling faintly surprised that he had told Tom as much as he had. He wondered why he had done so. Did he think he had to match Will's openness with his own? But Will had been right: Tom might prove useful. Always assuming, of course, that Tom stayed in this world and did not follow his fancies to Lubberland, or wherever he thought he had been.

Still, he was glad that he had not mentioned Robert Poley. It was important that no one know the name of the man who had engaged him, and especially important that Will not discover it. Will might tell his brother Geoffrey, and Geoffrey—Geoffrey knew something he shouldn't, of that Christopher felt certain.

People were still awake at the palace, standing and talking in low voices. Candles guttered in iron coronas. He heard his name called by several people, all courtiers he barely knew. There had been fresh gossip since the drama of the day before, and folks were shaken and anxious to share what they heard. Sir Francis Walsingham, the queen's Principal Secretary, was dead. Fortunately for him, he had been told nothing about the danger the queen had faced and so had died peacefully.

Walsingham dead, Christopher thought as he went up the stairs to his room. He was too tired to take it in. But the confusion at court meant that he would not be expected to do any work for a few days; he could find a quiet place and think about what he had learned.

The next day he made his way to the gallery and sat on one of the cushioned benches overlooking the courtyard. Morning light came in through the leaded windows, illuminating each of the courtiers passing in colors as bright as an old manuscript. Did Walsingham's death mean that his work here was finished? He knew almost nothing about Poley's arrangements with the Principal Secretary. But if he discovered the plotters he would certainly be kept on, gratefully rewarded by whoever took over Walsingham's post. He would have to work quickly, though, before someone newly come to power decided he was unnecessary.

Well, then, what did he know? A man had shot someone he believed to be the queen, an assassin who acted for a group of conspirators. Or did he? What if Tom, of all people, had been right, what if the man had acted on his own behalf? What evidence did he have for a conspiracy, after all, besides the fact that Poley had told him there was one?

Of course there was the note he had seen in the Black Boar, and a note implied traffic between two people at least. “All is in readiness,” it had said. “Our king awaits.” But it had been Poley who had shown him the note.

Nay, that was ridiculous. Why would Poley fabricate a conspiracy? To make himself more useful to the Principal Secretary? The queen faced enough dangers, as he had seen, without having to invent any.

If there was a plot, then, who had taken part in it? The odd folks he had seen his first morning at court had almost certainly had something to do with it. But where were they? He had not seen them since he had followed one of them to that strange meeting. He had gone by their room several times, but they seemed to have left the palace for good. And, as Will had said, no one at court had ever heard of them.

There was always Geoffrey. But Geoffrey had done nothing wrong; his only crime had been to quote Chaucer, and any son of Canterbury could do the same. It was hardly an indictable offense.

And what of Will? If Geoffrey had a part in this wouldn't his brother be guilty as well? Christopher could hardly imagine Will in the shadowy world of intrigue; his straightforward nature would almost certainly prevent it. Yet Will had told him that he worked for Essex. And did he?

Nay, he was starting to suspect everyone. If he kept on this way he'd end by thinking Philip Potter guilty. He looked out the window at the statue in the courtyard. Mercury, the god of trickery.

He stood and went back to the central stairway. A number of people headed toward the Presence Chamber and he followed, fully expecting to be turned back at the door. But the queen's guards, as subject to the confusion in the court as everyone else, let him through without a word.

The stage from the masque was still there, and the wheeled castle; probably no one had had time to take them away. A few of the queen's councilors and their secretaries sat behind a table on the stage and were calling men up one by one to question them.

Christopher took a bench at the back. He saw that the courtiers were being made to state where they had been on the night of the masque, and he wondered what good that would do. If the assassin had acted on the orders of a group then that group had probably been out in the audience, enjoying the acting.

After a while, though, he understood what the queen's councilors had in mind. The conspirators would not have been in the palace but out in the streets, waiting for the signal to rouse the populace in revolt. Anyone who hadn't been at the masque, therefore, would be suspect.

Sir Philip Potter came up to testify. “Aye, I went to the masque,” he said. “I was there with my secretary.”

“What is your secretary's name?”

“His name,” Potter said, looking about him as though the Presence Chamber held clues to the answer. “I know it—nay, don't tell me—”

Christopher winced. A few people laughed. “We'll summon your secretary, then,” a councilor said, and someone at his elbow made a note.

“Here—I'll tell you what it was about,” Potter said. “That'll prove I was there, wouldn't it?”

“Not necessarily,” the councilor said dryly.

Potter seeming not to have heard him, began to describe the seven dancers and explain what they represented. “We thank you,” the councilor said, interrupting him. “You may go now.”

Potter left. Christopher did not volunteer to come forward. He knew that Sir Philip was innocent, and he was far more interested in hearing what everyone else had to say. Another courtier climbed to the stage. Christopher recognized him as one of the people who had gathered at the foot of the stairs, watching and laughing while Potter played the fool. “Were you at the masque two days ago, my lord?” the councilor asked.

“Nay, my lord.”

The crowd murmured. “Where were you, then?”

“At a dinner with some friends.”

“Which friends were these?”

“Nicholas Russell, John Stafford, Richard Dyer, Edward White,” the courtier said. The councilor's secretary hurried to write the names down. “We began with the mutton. Then we discussed the weather, as I remember. It was fine for April.”

Christopher looked up sharply, understanding everything. The strange circle of men he had overheard had been rehearsing what they would say if their conspiracy failed. They had written an entire play that would prove them to have been elsewhere at the time.

“Very well,” the councilor said. “We will summon your friends.” The secretary made a note.

Though Potter could not remember his secretary's name it seemed that the queen's councilors knew men with better memories. A man dressed in the livery of the queen came to summon Christopher to the Presence Chamber the next day.

He went with him eagerly. The conspirators he had overheard would be there, and he was anxious to see them. At the chamber he sat on one of the benches and looked around him.

The man who had testified yesterday sat a few rows back, but Christopher could not see his accomplices anywhere. Could they have been frightened off? Had they decided that their careful scheme would not stand up to the scrutiny of the queen's councilors?

A secretary called his name and he went up to testify. He agreed that he was Sir Philip Potter's secretary, and that he had been with Potter at the masque. The councilors, satisfied, let him go.

He returned to the back of the room, hoping no one would ask him to leave now that his business was done. The conspirators had still not arrived. The councilors questioned another of the courtiers, and then a secretary called out the names Christopher had waited for. “Nicholas Russell, John Stafford, Richard Dyer, Edward White!”

What ordinary names they had proved to have, after all, these strange men who had plotted to overthrow the queen. Christopher looked around him. To his great surprise a body of men had risen and were heading toward the stage. He had never seen them before in his life.

10

Alice's first thought was that George must be mad to make such accusations. But as the talk around her grew louder, as more and more people turned to look at her, she started to feel ashamed. She had done nothing immoral, she knew; the only man she had ever bedded had been John, and after his death she had lived chastely. Nevertheless the feeling, irrational as it was, began to grow.

The stationers turned back to George. The set expressions of one or two of them, their pursed mouths and narrow eyes, made her wonder if they had already made up their minds and were only waiting to hear what George would say next. Even if she could prove her innocence, how could she face them tomorrow in the churchyard? She felt the blood heating her face, and her heart began to beat loudly.

George waited until he had everyone's attention. “We have all seen this woman with a certain Mistress Margery,” he said. “A cunning woman, a dealer in the forbidden arts. A witch, in plain words. We have seen them deep in conversation together, Mistress Alice neglecting her work as she and her friend planned certain rituals. I don't need to tell you what those rituals were. On moonless nights—she told me so herself—she would go to a field and summon her master.”

“That's not true!” Alice said, angered and horrified as much by George's calm tone as by what he was saying.

“Silence,” the Master of the Company said. “You'll have your turn to speak when he finishes.”

She wondered if she would. Although George did not go to plays she knew that most of the company did, and she had heard talk about
Dr. Faustus,
the story of the man who had bargained with the devil. They were ready to believe impossible stories, tales of necromancy and evil, and perhaps would not stay to hear her answer. And truly, would her account be any less fantastical? How could she tell it and make them believe?

Less than a month ago she had faced the queen's councilors and had been cleared of all wrongdoing. But that thought, meant to be comforting, did not give her courage. The privy councilors had been interested in getting at the truth; now she thought that the Stationers' Company might be fascinated by George's lies.

“Not true?” George said. He addressed the crowd instead of her, as if her words had no importance. “But she admitted to certain revels, as she called them, that she attended. Attended with her friend, the witch Margery. And it was at these ceremonies that she acquired her familiar.”

At this a shiver of apprehension passed through the room. “I have seen it myself,” George said calmly. “It is the size of a man, and covered with fur. It has horns and cloven hoofs and a tail, and it lives with her, curled up by her hearth. What they do together is not a fit matter for discussion here, but I'm sure you have all heard similar stories.

“Cornelius Agrippa,” George went on, and Alice stared; she would have wagered that George had never heard of Agrippa in his life. Who had he been talking to? “Cornelius Agrippa says”—here he consulted a piece of paper in his hand—“‘Because women be more desirous of secrets and inclined to superstitions, and be more easily beguiled, therefore they'—Agrippa means the devils—‘therefore they sooner appear to them, and do great miracles.' Do you see what I mean? Do you see what a danger this woman poses to all of us?

“I'll say one thing more, and then I'll have done with this distasteful subject. The Scriptures tell us that man has authority over woman. I have never questioned the word of God, but it is only recently that I have understood why we have been given this commandment. Women are weaker than men. We have been appointed by God to care for them, to make certain they do not stumble on their path. With no one to guide her a woman is not strong enough to resist evil, sometimes not even rational enough to recognize it. I know that no one here objected when Mistress Wood asked for full membership after her husband died. Our charity then was commendable, but I think that we made a mistake, and it has proven to be a very grave mistake indeed. For a woman without guidance is a threat to us all. Her rottenness can spread throughout the company, corrupting everyone it touches.”

No one spoke as he returned to his seat. Alice, who had been planning to rise in her own defense, now felt shame overwhelm her so strongly that she could barely move. She wanted only to get away from the hall and the rest of the stationers, to start over at another trade in another city. She knew she could never face any of these people again.

She did not see Edward Blount stand and walk to the front of the room, and only gradually became aware that he was speaking. “But this is nonsense!” he was saying. “I have worked side by side with Mistress Wood for the past year, and I can testify to her modesty, her piety and her virtue. We have all seen her at our services at St. Faith's. To suggest that such a woman consorts with devils calls for a fancy unmatched by anything I have seen off the stage. Perhaps Master Cowper will turn his imagination in the future to writing plays.”