The Book of Air and Shadows - Michael Gruber [179]
“Oh, and Mr. Brown?” said Paul.
“Sir.”
“Would you try to locate a farm along the way? One that raises geese.”
“Geese,” said the driver. “Yes, sir.”
“What’s going on, Paul?” I asked him.
“Oh, we’re just going to meet Richard Bracegirdle,” he said, and would yield no more information, that smug bastard.
THE SIXTH CIPHERED LETTER (FRAGMENT 3)
we to the George & conversed late: Mr W.S. saies as to hym-selfe I have killed a man I must be shriven & where shal I fynde a priest in these tymes. Then saies hee, Dick, now have we sent your two rogues to Hell but Hell hath yet a greater store, the devil hath ’em in barrels lyke haringes, soe when yon Piggott shal heere of this afray he shal send more & yet more til we are o’er-come at last, nay we must strike at the roote & that is my lord Dunbarton. Now we must crye out to greater than wee, for great lords are ne’er toppled but by greater ones. Now I am well with the Montagues & the Montagues are well with the Howards, being both friends of the old religioun & Frances Howard hath the harte of my lord of Rochester, as all the court knoweth & she shal carrie the letter & sware it be true, for true it is & thus shall my lord Dunbarton be disconfited & you saved. What letter is that, sir, saies I. Nay, saies he, I ought to have sayde two letters, the first being the one gave thee by the false Verey, that pretended issue of my lord Rochester his hande & the other one that thou shalt write to-night, wherein thou shalt tell all youre tale. And soe I wrote My Lord what you read now & when done hee readeth it & makes markes where I shall change it mayhap but I say nay for tis my letter do not make me one of your creatoures because this be all earnest & no play. He laughs & cries mercie sayinge lad, thou hast the right of it for like some butcher I must poke anie calf I pass be it mine own or no.
Then I ask hym, Sir art certayn this will sauve us or must we doe else & saies he I think twil sauve thee but as for mee that I know not. But why, an you are freyndes with the great as you have sayde & hee answereth mee thus: thynges change ever & the tyde floweth not in my favour. Royal Henry of France lately slain, and by a monk too, turnes royal James’s minde onece again to Papist plots. He appointeth a fanatick Puritan to be Archbishop of Canterbury & his partie presses ever harsher upon us plaiers. I myself am attacked in publick print & none dare rise to my holpe. The power of my friends in the house of Montague & others of worship wanes, theyre houses, formerly secure, are now searched like common dwellinges. I saie: yet still you wrote the playe. Aye, saies he, I did, as a prisoner long hobbled may sport & click heeles when the fetters drop. O lad did you imagine that I thought such a playe could e’er be heard? Nay, but it flowed from mee upon the smale excuse you gave it & would not stop; a grete foolishenesse I know but here it is still-borne & what shal be done with it? It must be burnt, saies I. Yes, burnt it must be, saies he, my paper heretic.
18
Tap.
Crosetti stirred in his sleep and tried to return to a rather nice dream in which he was sitting around a movie set with Jodie Foster and Clark Gable, just having a comfortable conversation about the movies, and he was giving Jodie the eye because they were in on the secret about Gable not really being dead and waiting for him to explain about how he’d fooled the world but there was this rattling sound behind them and he said he’d go find out what it was….
Tap tap tap taptaptaptap
He was up, in the unfamiliar room of the Linton Lodge Hotel, on the outskirts of Oxford, a very nice room that Professor March had kindly arranged for him. It had a triple bay window giving on the garden, these windows being black with the night and also the source of the noise that had separated him from dreamland. Another rattle of pebbles hit the glass. He checked his watch: two-thirty in the morning.
Rising, he pulled on his jeans, went to the window, opened it, and