Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon (9 page)

The first woman had to be Alice Wood, the bookseller; he could not imagine any profession for the second unless it was that of a cunning woman. And now that he saw her he thought he recognized Mistress Wood from the churchyard. He moved back and leaned against a pillar, careful to keep himself in shadow so that she would not see him.

As he watched the bookseller glanced around her nervously, perhaps in awe at her surroundings, perhaps out of fear. To his surprise he found himself feeling a little in sympathy with her. He had wondered, once or twice, what happened to the information he brought Robert Poley, the drama that emerged from all the unrelated facts. Now for the first time he had come face-to-face with one of those facts, and it made him uncomfortable. She seemed a decent, honest woman, whatever the company she kept. And the world could certainly use more booksellers.

He had dutifully reported to Poley what he had heard in the tavern, that the man claiming to be king was named Arthur, and that Tom Nashe thought he was Mistress Wood's son. To his astonishment and delight Robert had arranged for him to come to court, posing as a secretary to one of the queen's courtiers. “You've met this Arthur,” Robert had said. “I want you to decide if the son she talks about is the same man, and how far she's implicated in this plot.”

Christopher had nodded. But Robert had not finished; the queen's agent had one more surprise in store.

“That's not all I want you to do,” he had said, leaning forward. His face, usually so anonymous, seemed to stand out suddenly in the light of the candles. “I suspect that there is a faction at court, perhaps more than one faction, that seeks to use this man for its own ends. It's been over thirty years since Queen Elizabeth gained the throne, and in that time she has constantly faced conspiracies by. one group or another—Catholics, Puritans, Spanish. You're too young to have known another monarch, so you wouldn't remember the chaos that existed before she became queen. We must be vigilant to see that those days do not come again.”

Christopher had nodded, but privately he wondered how much of Robert's talk was the agent's own fantasy, bred out of his insecurity. Without conspiracies he would be useless; he needed them, or needed to fabricate them, in order to justify his own existence. Elizabeth had been queen during Christopher's entire life: she had certainly proven over and over again her ability to endure. She'll outlive us all, he thought.

Now he saw Mistress Wood move down the hall, clearly at a loss in such grand company. He could not imagine her as part of any conspiracy. Probably, he thought, there was no plot; probably Arthur was just a hapless drunk who had had the misfortune to speak up in the wrong company.

What on earth could he tell Robert? Sometimes months would go by before the agent sent him on another errand, and he was loath to give this one up so soon. And how did the other man expect him to discover a conspiracy among all these fine people? Perhaps he should invent something.

The woman with Mistress Wood seemed unimpressed, studying the folks that passed her with undisguised interest. He thought for a moment that she caught his eye, though she could not possibly have found him among the shadows. He saw her nod, as if that one glance had told her all she needed to know.

He forced himself to look away from her, and at that moment he became aware of a murmuring at the other end of the hall. A trumpet sounded, and the Knights of the Garter entered the room. The Lord High Chancellor followed them, walking between two men carrying the royal scepter and the sword of state, and after him came the queen. Everyone bent in a bow or curtsy, and several voices called out, “God save the Queen Elizabeth!” Christopher followed the stream of people moving toward her, trying at the same time to keep Alice Wood and the other woman in sight.

“I thank you, my good people,” the queen said. She sat, carefully setting her fine hands on her lap in front of her. She was dressed in a white silk gown embroidered with pearls and flowers. Jewels hung from her neck and waist, and pearls were twined in her red hair. Her face was lined and her teeth bad, but as she looked out over the crowd she seemed to have more strength, more vitality, than anyone among them. She spoke to a man beside her and Christopher suddenly thought he understood the secret of her famous charm: she had the ability to focus on just one person to the exclusion of all else, to make that person feel that he alone existed in all the world.

The man called out a name and the day's business began. He wondered how long it would take them to get to Mistress Wood, and when he would be allowed to go home. A watch dangling from a woman's skirt told him it was four in the afternoon. Already he had grown tired of the proceedings, though Mistress Wood seemed to find them interesting. Perhaps, he thought, she rarely left her home.

Someone near him passed a paper to another man. The second man looked at what was written there, nodded and passed the note back. Christopher watched them closely, not really sure why he did so. Certainly they had done nothing suspicious. Yet the paper reminded him of the blood-covered note Poley had shown him. And he had nothing better to do, and Robert would want a full account of his day.

With his black hair cut close to his head and his haggard expression, the first man looked like a disgraced king in exile. Christopher studied the face until he was certain he would know it again. The second man was of medium height, a little stocky, with unremarkable brown hair and eyes. Then the first man whispered something and the second man smiled, and all at once Christopher's opinion of him changed. There was nothing unremarkable about that smile. He looked as though he wanted you to like him. Nay, more, as if he couldn't conceive of anyone not liking him. It was a disarming, easy smile, one genuinely pleased with the world.

He wondered who the man could be. He wondered more: how someone could have reached maturity without having lost that openness, that pleasure with the world and everything it contained. So intently did he watch the two of them that he nearly missed hearing the queen's man call out, “Alice Wood!”

He moved to the front of the crowd. Courtiers and supplicants blocked his way, and by the time he reached the queen's throne Alice Wood had already risen from her deep curtsy.

“We've called you here to answer certain questions,” a man said, and Alice realized with surprise that this must be the queen's Principal Secretary, Sir Francis Walsingham. Churchyard gossip said that the man had been ill, but she was unprepared for the gauntness of Walsingham's face, the pain visible in his eyes. His color was still dark, though; Queen Elizabeth, or so Alice had heard, called him her “Moor.” In contrast to the men and women surrounding him he wore a severely cut doublet and hose and no jewelry but a memorial ring.

“We have witnesses,” Walsingham said, “who have heard your son claim to be king. What do you know about this?”

Alice glanced at the queen. Her face with its high fine cheekbones gave nothing away. “Nothing, sir. I have not seen my son for several years.”

“How many years?”

“Two years. Nay, three now.”

“Three years ago, did he ever claim to be king?”

“Only in jest, as a game. He was a child then.”

“This is not a child's game, Mistress Wood,” Walsingham said sternly.

“I know that, sir,” she said, feeling bold enough to raise her eyes to his.

He returned her gaze; there was no pity in his expression. For the first time during the interview she began to feel afraid. She had no friends here, no one who would champion her cause. The air in the chamber had grown stifling. The crowd smelled of strong sweet perfume; the stench made her feel faint. She thought of the fresh open air of the churchyard to steady herself. “Did you or your husband ever give your son cause to think of himself as a king?”

“Nay, we did not.”

“Do you know any reason he might make this outrageous claim?”

Margery stirred beside her. God's blood, what was the woman about to say? It had been a mistake to bring her here, Alice had seen that the minute they had walked into the chamber. She said, quickly, “Nay, I don't.”

“Have you ever spoken treason against your lawful queen?”

“Nay!” she said indignantly.

Walsingham gave no indication that he had heard her. “We have witnesses who will testify to your loyalty, or the lack of it. Be careful what you say.”

“I have never—” She turned to the queen. “Your Majesty, I—”

“I ask the questions here,” the secretary said, forcing her to look away from Elizabeth. “We do not allow suspected traitors to speak to the queen, may she reign in peace for many years to come.”

“Aye, she will,” Margery said.

“What?” The secretary turned to her, astonished. The stately rhythm of question and answer had been interrupted; for the first time he looked flustered.

“She will reign in peace for many years to come,” Margery said. She was at least a head shorter than Walsingham; in her old black clothes she looked like a bedraggled crow come face-to-face with a falcon. Still, it was Walsingham who looked away first.

Queen Elizabeth bent her steady gaze toward the other woman. Alice thought she saw the bare beginning of sympathy touch her regal expression. Surely the queen was on her side in this; surely she would not have her wrongly accused. “Are you certain of that?” Elizabeth asked.

“Aye, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent. You may both go.”

“But—” Walsingham said.

“They may both go.”

“But I have other questions. You can't suppose that they're innocent just because this woman”—the secretary looked at Margery scornfully—“this woman invents a prophecy—”

“And I don't. That's not why I've dismissed them. I believe she's innocent.”

Walsingham looked as if only decorum prevented him from arguing with her. “Why should she be guilty?” the queen asked. “You are too suspicious, Francis—in your zeal to protect me you see conspiracies everywhere. I don't know if I believe this woman's prophecy or not. But I can see—as anyone with eyes can see—that she wishes me well, that she wishes the realm well. And the loyalty of these subjects is what we're trying to prove here.”

“Very well, Your Majesty,” Walsingham said.

“Find her son for me, Francis. Find her son,” the queen said impatiently, and dismissed them.

Alice turned to Margery as they left the Council Chamber. She should be grateful, she knew; the other woman had probably saved her life. But she could not help but feel annoyance at Margery's manner, the way she seemed to know more than anyone around her. “What did you—”

“Hush,” Margery said. She waited until they had left the palace before she spoke again. Evening had come while they had spoken with the queen; the air, which had grown hot and stifling in the Council Chamber, was chilly outdoors. “I had to distract them in some way.”

“What do you mean?”

“I didn't want them to learn the truth about Arthur.”

“The—truth?” Alice felt the ground shift beneath her, grow suddenly unstable. What did this woman know? “What is the truth?”

“Ah—that I don't know. But Walsingham was right and the queen wrong—there are conspiracies here.”

“What did you mean when you said you had to distract them? Was your prophecy no more than that?”

“I don't know. Perhaps the queen will reign a dozen more years, perhaps she'll die tomorrow.” Alice caught her breath at the treasonous statement. “But the important thing for us is to find Arthur.”

“Why? Is he in trouble?”

“Aye, more than you could know. And the queen's search for him is the least of it.”

Christopher had listened closely while the queen and her secretary questioned Alice. Toward the end he had begun to grin at the turn the interview had taken, at the audacity of Mistress Wood's friend. When the queen had finished he was more certain than ever that the bookseller was innocent. He turned and headed outside, thinking of what he would say to Poley.

The two men he had noticed earlier, the ones who had passed the note, walked in front of him. For no reason other than curiosity he began to follow them. They headed toward the Thames and he feared that they would hail a boat, but they continued to walk, keeping the river to their right. He stayed a few steps behind, close enough to listen to their conversation but far enough away that they would not suspect him. Spies and playwrights, he thought, were the two types of men to whom it came naturally to eavesdrop.

The darker man said something in a low voice, and his companion made as if to turn. The first man restrained him. Had they seen him? But they continued to talk quietly, the second man punctuating their conversation with laughter.

They went around a corner and Christopher followed. He could see no one in the street in front of him at all; it was as if the two men had vanished. He remembered the night he had tried to follow Arthur and the way the air had seemed to shine before him, remembered too a mad story Tom had told him about journeying through a London greatly changed, magicked. But he knew London held no strange creatures lurking in corners: Tom's babble had been the result of having slept outdoors, nothing more.

Someone knocked into him and he fell to the ground. He looked up into the faces of the two men he had followed.

“Ho!” the stocky one said. “Were you following us?”

“Aye,” Christopher said. The word was out of his mouth before he had time to think, knocked out of him along with his breath. But he had wearied of plots and conspiracies and secrets, and the man's openness seemed to demand an answering honesty.

“Why? Are you a spy, then?”

Christopher said nothing. Who were these two men? Would it be safe to confide in them? He put his hand to the back of his head and drew it away quickly; he had hurt himself when he fell.