Strange Devices of the Sun and Moon by Lisa Goldstein Page A

There’s still time to change my ways. And these things are but trifles. Far worse would it be for me to have the taint of atheism on my soul.”
    He glanced at Christopher as he spoke. The other man smiled a little but made no answer. “Do you believe in God, Kit?” Robert asked, raising his voice. He gazed out over the tavern as if playing to an audience. Or perhaps, Christopher thought, he hoped to find an informer sitting nearby.
    Tom Kyd was looking at him, his expression pleading for caution. But why should he have to remain silent, when Robert was free to spread his opinions in any company he chose? He reached over and took a sip of Tom’s beer, then pushed his hair back and looked directly at Robert.
    â€œWe’ve had this argument before,” he said.
    â€œAye, and you’ve proven yourself to be a thorough atheist.”
    â€œI’m only trying to make men see reason—”
    â€œAnd what makes you imagine you see more of it than other people do?”
    â€œBecause other people don’t see reason at all. They terrify themselves with superstitions, with bugbears and hobgoblins—”
    â€œHobgoblins,” said a scornful voice behind him. “What do you know about hobgoblins?”
    He turned around. A red-haired man with eyes the color of young green leaves had come into the tavern.
    â€œGood evening, Your Majesty,” Tom Nashe said, as the other man sat with them. “It’s true we know very little about hobgoblins. But perhaps Your Monarchship knows more.”
    â€œYour Majesty?” Christopher asked, intrigued. Could this be the man Poley sought? Here was good fortune indeed!
    â€œI see you have not yet met my friend, Your Brightness,” Tom said. “This is Christopher Marlowe. Kit, the man before you is your king. You may rise, or kneel, or what you will.”
    â€œThe king?”
    â€œSo he told us, the last time he was here.”
    â€œAh. And by whose authority is he king?”
    â€œHe would not tell us that. By his own, I think.”
    â€œBut maybe there are stories about him?” Christopher said. “Stories—or legends?”
    â€œAye,” the man said. “Many stories have been told about my birth. And more will be told when I come into my kingdom. But you were speaking of hobgoblins. Perhaps you would be so good as to tell us about them.”
    â€œI—” Tom said. “I know very little.”
    â€œTell us.”
    â€œVery well,” Tom said. Christopher knew his friend could never resist an audience. “They tell this story in Suffolk, where I was born. Once a brownie captured a young woman, and forced her to get up on his horse, and rode off with her as night was falling. ‘Ride not by the old pool,’ the woman said, ‘lest we should meet with Brownie.’ ‘Fear not, woman,’ he said. ‘You’ve met all the brownies you’ll meet tonight.’”
    Everyone laughed but the king. “Why did the brownie capture her?” he asked.
    â€œAh,” Tom said. “She was a midwife, you see, and he was taking her to the Queen of Faerie, who was about to be delivered of a child.”
    The other man nodded graciously, as if satisfied with his answer. His manner reminded Christopher of the only time he had seen Queen Elizabeth, when she had ridden to St. Paul’s to proclaim victory over the Spanish Armada. He looked magisterial, used to command. And Tom had responded without thinking to his order. Could there be something in his claim after all? Was that why Poley had been so interested in the man? London had never lacked for rumors about Elizabeth and one or another of her courtiers.
    â€œYou’ve never told me your name, Your Kinghood,” Tom said.
    â€œArthur,” the other man said.
    â€œWhy—But then you’re Mistress Wood’s son!”
    â€œWood?” The man who called himself Arthur looked