Griffin Devereux stood in the centre of the cell, looking over his right shoulder at Will, with a smile of pleasant, innocent warmth. Will had expected a monster, but he had the impression he was studying an eager-to- please child. Tall and slender, the inmate had a pale complexion, his eyebrows and short beard blond, but his head was shaven. He wore all black — shirt, doublet, breeches — with fine embroidery in gold; it was the dress of a nobleman, but the dark colour only made his skin appear translucent.
As Will looked closer, he saw a faint shabbiness to the smiling man’s clothes, a touch of silvery mould, wear on the elbows and knees, hanging threads, from his time in the cell. Devereux’s hands had the delicate bone structure of an artist, and he folded the long, thin fingers together in front of him in a manner that was both studied and relaxed.
‘You honour me.’ His voice was gentle, and in it Will heard a deep sadness.
‘My name is Will Swyfte. I am a friend of Kit Marlowe, who visited you once.’
Devereux nodded. ‘Poor Kit.’
‘Why
‘His troubles weighed heavily on him. He longed for death. A release.’
‘You knew all this from one meeting with him?’
‘Kit and I met before, long ago. But I see many things that are not apparent to others. Kit, though, poor Kit, wore his misery clearly. He could not hide it. You know this.’ His tone compassionate, the prisoner turned to face his visitor and gave a slow, sad nod.
Will attempted to get the measure of Devereux from his eyes, which were the colour of a winter sky over the moors. He expected to see deceit, cruelty, the kind of mask cultivated by men for whom violence was only a heartbeat away, but there was only heart-wrenching honest emotion.
‘How is London?’ Devereux said with touching hope. ‘Bright and filled with life? Have the fashions changed? What song is popular in the taverns? Can you … can you sing it for me?’ He caught himself, letting his head fall. ‘No. I do not wish to hear your answers. It will only make this cell seem darker still, and the hours reach out longer than they do. Have you ever been imprisoned?’
‘From time to time, but never for long.’ Will glanced around the confines of the cell, accepting what it must be like to live in a world with such oppressive boundaries.
‘Perhaps you understand, then, a little.’ The prisoner took a step away from the bars, putting his head back and letting his eyelids flutter shut, imagining, the spy guessed, the city beyond the walls. ‘Those who still have the luxury of freedom would think they would miss the conversations with their friends and family. The joys of a masque, or a feast.’ The poor wretch shook his head slowly. ‘I miss the sun on my face, in my garden on a May morning. The birdsong.’ He traced the notes through the air with the fingers of his left hand. ‘I miss the sound of rain upon the glass. Such a little thing, but when I sit here and remember, I cannot halt the tears.’
Will shrugged. ‘London is a vile place at the moment. The plague is here. There have been many deaths. The stink … the smoke of the burnings …’
Devereux smiled sadly. ‘You do me a kindness, Master Swyfte, and I thank you for your compassion.’
‘Why did Kit come to you?’
Lowering his head, Devereux held Will’s gaze for a moment, his smile growing fixed, and then he turned his face away. ‘He thought I could shine some light on the darkness of his existence.’ He gave a faint, hollow laugh. ‘Light. Here.’
‘Kit wrote a play, about a man who sold his soul to the Devil for knowledge, ambition.’ Heeding the Keeper’s warning, the spy stood stock-still, his face revealing nothing of his inner thoughts.
Without meeting Will’s eye, the prisoner extended a languid arm towards the shadows in the corner of the cell. ‘The stories that surround my life provided colour for the background to his tale.’
‘Just stories?’ the spy pressed.
Devereux turned his back fully to Will, his head falling and his shoulders hunched. His quiet voice had the merest hint of despair. ‘When men do not understand the hearts of their fellows, they invent fictions to make sense of the world. It is an easy comfort.’
‘Did you teach Kit some of your magic?’
Facing the spy once more, Devereux laughed bitterly. ‘There is no such thing.’
‘An incantation, the ritual lines and words drawn upon a circle? To summon a devil, as his character did?’ Will pressed.
With a step, Devereux disappeared fully into the shadows in the far corner of the cell beyond the reach of the guttering candle flame. His voice floated back to the light. ‘There is no magic, in any form. Only the dark of the human soul. We do the things we do, driven by devils that we alone create in our hearts and minds, and then we layer our blame upon them so we can sleep easily, or sleep at all.’
Will’s eyes narrowed as he tried to see into the gloom. ‘There is some truth in what you say, but not the whole truth. I have seen signs of what many would call magic. There are powers that are not rooted in this world.’
A long silence followed. Will thought he had offended Devereux, but then the prisoner stepped back into the candlelight. The spy was puzzled to see a subtle change had come over the other man. The muscles of his face had tautened in a different configuration, only very slightly, but it made him seem almost another person: his cheeks appeared hollow, his brows falling lower over his eyes, which had hardened a touch. Will could no longer see the simple emotions in them.
‘How well did you know your friend?’ The prisoner’s voice was now much deeper, and had the country accent found in the villages of Norfolk. Devereux’s hunched shoulders and slight stoop suggested a farm labourer rather than the elegant, educated man the spy had first encountered. Will searched the prisoner’s face for any sign that this was a game, but Devereux appeared oblivious to any change.
‘As well as any,’ the spy replied.
With a grunt, the prisoner shuffled around, kicking up the straw. ‘Not well at all, then.’
‘Every man has hidden chambers where he keeps the private parts of himself safe from the harsh observance of the world. That is no great insight.’
‘But it is in those chambers that the truth of a man lies. If we cannot pass behind their closed doors, we can never know anyone.’ Devereux flashed a surly glance.
Folding his arms, Will puzzled over what he was observing in the cell. ‘And what did Kit hide from me that is important?’ he asked.
‘Places he’s been, and people he’s met, aye.’ Devereux chewed on a nail thoughtfully. ‘And his true nature.’
‘What is that?’
‘Ah, well, there’s the thing. What is the true nature of anything?’ The prisoner gave a little chuckle to himself.
Tiring of the back and forth, Will’s voice grew hard. ‘What is your true nature?’
‘I’m a simple man,’ the cell’s occupant replied with a shrug.
Though his words hinted at deception, there was no sign Devereux was playing a game. This new character was so different, and the change so puzzling, that the spy could only assume that the prisoner was as mad as all the other men in the Abraham Ward, despite first appearances. Perhaps Devereux spoke the truth when he said he did not believe in magic, and the atrocity he had committed was nothing more than the action of someone who had completely lost his wits.
A thought struck Will and he asked, ‘What is your name?’
‘Samuel.’
‘Not Griffin?’
After a long pause, Devereux replied, ‘Griffin is here.’
‘Where?’ Will asked, his curiosity piqued.
The prisoner rapped his temple with irritation. ‘Here!’
‘Both of us.’
‘And neither of you spoke to him of magic?’
