The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  “Her Majesty will see you at once, Sir Philip,” the page announced, in a voice that would carry to the distant watchers, and Sidney carefully hid a smile. He followed the boy across the lawn, bowing politely to the murmuring women, and then through a maze of corridors smelling of roses and musty straw.

  The boy stopped at a painted door. Sidney saw him take a deep breath, bracing himself, then threw open the door. “Sir Philip Sidney,” he announced, and Sidney stepped past him into the royal presence.

  Elizabeth regarded her reluctant courtier approvingly. He did not possess the gaudy maleness of his uncle, her dear Robin, or of any number of her favorites. Clean-shaven as always, his face was considered by some to be of too feminine a cast for any real beauty, though the chestnut hair, cut short in a soldier’s fashion, was the envy of many of both sexes. He dressed in darker tones than his brother, but it was not sobriety. The black doublet, trimmed with rows of pearl clusters, flattered his fair coloring. And if he walked with a distinct limp, it only added to his glamour. Sidney was her court’s parfit, gentil knight, her chosen champion. She found herself smiling as she had not since her Robin had died—and at the wary light that flared in Sidney’s eyes, nearly laughed aloud.

  “No fear, Sir Philip, you never yet danced to my tune. I’m not about to embarrass myself by trying now. “ She waved a heavily ringed hand. “Sit, Philip. You’re looking well.”

  Sidney bowed before taking his seat. “I thank you, madam, but you’ve had my brother to gaze upon. I scarce dare hope to measure up.”

  Penciled eyebrows rose. “Stuff. Young Robert dresses quite brilliantly, but sometimes even a woman of my peacock tastes will prefer diamonds to rubies. There. I’ve paid you two compliments, and you’ve paid me precisely none—indeed, your comment on Robert might be seen as a slap, so I can safely say you’ve won this set. We can get down to business.”

  Having said this, she seemed disinclined to proceed, only sat staring into the brilliant sunshine that flooded the gallery. Like an eagle on its aerie, Sidney thought. Was it true that the eagle that blinked was thrown from the nest—and had Elizabeth learned that lesson from her mother? Had Anne Boleyn blinked? An interesting thought, and it teased him on. Semele, perhaps? Lightning was light. Had she been able to face Zeus in his epiphany, might she have survived—and their son not demonstrated so many traits undesirable in an Olympian? It was an idea that might be worth tracking down on paper. Seeking the light, being destroyed by it—he was beginning to think like Marlowe. He put the idea aside, turning his attention back to the queen.

  “Philip, you’re my champion—and Dr. Dee agrees with me that you’re the only man for me to consult in this matter.” She brought her hands up, fingers steepled just below her lips. “He has seen terrible things, Philip. A cloud hangs over England, a dark, malevolent angel, envious of our prosperity, perhaps wanting to humble our pride.”

  “It sounds remarkably like Señor Mendoza; is he at court these days?” Sidney asked lightly, despite a sudden tightening of his heart. The queen saw—felt this presence in much the same shape he did, and she had called Dee in to explicate.

  She smiled, thin-lipped. “It does, rather, but I fear this is a bit more—potent—than the ambassador. Tell me, Philip, what do you think of the people of England executing their prince?”

  “Your Majesty—” Sidney’s memory of that brooding presence stopped his inarticulate protest before it began.

  Elizabeth held up a hand. “A gratifying response; no, Dee assured me I’m in no danger, but our England is.” She paused, hawk’s eyes momentarily hooded. And why is it, Sidney wondered, we think always—when we’re honest —of birds of prey?

  “Executed,” Elizabeth repeated. “Kings have died from time to time, and not always at God’s will, or if so through the agency of some most zealous servants. But executed, by law or rather a mockery of law...

  “Listen, Philip. I needs must make you my confidant in matters that would shock Burleigh. Yet I know my man. I can trust you because you’ve never sought my confidence. You don’t flatter, Philip—I wonder where you unlearned that? No matter.” She raised her head and looked through Sidney. “Many lay it to my charge as a grievous fault that I have no heirs of my body—yet it was because I would not give England into the hands of one not born by God’s grace to rule. So, instead of pressuring me to marry, for the past ten years, Philip, my trusty councillors have been pressuring me to designate an heir. Well, I have done. I have chosen my cousin, James Stuart, as my heir. He’s young enough, he has the blood, and I understand he’s canny enough—when he can keep his mind above his points and off his handsome bedfellows.” She looked hard at Sidney, the look daring him to contradict or to condemn. He returned the look mildly.

  “Ought I to blush, madam?” he asked. “Don’t forget, I have been Kit Marlowe’s patron for the last two years. I have been rendered impervious to shock.”

  Elizabeth laughed, a short, harsh bark that some said was very like her father’s. “What in God’s name caused our gentle Sidney to rescue the likes of Marlowe from the rope of his own making?”

  “If it had been a rope, there would have been precious little I could have done. I’ve learned the effectiveness of arguing with your Majesty.”

  “He’s a dark one, Philip. Doctor Faustus was written by a man aware of his own power, scornful of others who reject those powers.”

  “It’s not, I think, an evil power, madam. Undisciplined. Fond of chaos. But, in its own way, working toward the light.”

  “He’ll never be the wizard you are.”

  “No. In some respects, I rather think he is my master. Certainly so as far as practical application is concerned. I’m very much a theoretician, an historian.”

  For a long while, she just regarded Sidney. An historian, certainly. A book, Burleigh had mentioned—yet not even Burleigh knew what it was. Well, it was not for the resources of his library that she had summoned him, though doubtless they would be more than useful. It was for the resources of his mind. And other resources—this Marlowe, for one. His power was dark, disruptive, like the man himself, yet, if joined with someone like Philip—might one not get a picture of as complete a power as dwelt on the earth? Dionysius and Apollo. Shade and light, unreason and order. Was this crisis, then, ultimately the reason for Sidney’s unlikely rescue of a troublesome playwright from that tavern in Deptford? She lifted her head; the sun struck the rubies in her hair, and sent shards of light flashing about the room.

  “Philip, I want you to go to, Scotland, as my ambassador. You will go—” Her eyes narrowed and she smiled. “Bearing gifts. Ostensibly for the child. Also for James—who is in terror of his life and soul. Again. He is being assailed by witches. Again. Normally I would shrug it off, but not after what Dee has seen, and told me. James is in danger of being driven off the middle way. Either the damned witches or the damned Spanish will win. We will not let that happen. I shall be long dead, but I cannot shuffle aside my obligations to England because of extreme disinterest. A king executed by Parliament? It must never be. You must put an end to this threat to James. And only you can do it without driving him to a Popish extreme.”

  Sidney sat quietly for a moment, assimilating all she had told him. James was fascinated by the arcane, but experiences in his life had caused him, not unreasonably, to fear it in all its forms. There was the danger. James had to be taught moderation—but in a presbyter court, Sidney was not sure an Englishman was the man to do it. Still, he could not refuse, nor did he feel inclined to. He’d felt the challenge in the miasma that had hung over Penshurst. He nodded slowly. “I am at your command, Majesty.”

  She looked as close to relieved as Sidney had ever seen her. “Alas, Philip, why have we wasted so many years wrangling?”

  “Because no one else dared to.”

  “True. Thank you, Philip. Burleigh will provide you with everything you will need. Money, of course—James always needs money. You will travel post—if that is agreeable to
you?”

  Sidney answered the question that was actually being asked. “I can manage, madam, quite easily, and with my own horses.”

  Satisfied, Elizabeth nodded. She rose, and held out her hand. Sidney went to one knee before her, as gracefully as he had done even before Zutphen, and kissed the proffered hand.

  “Your sworn champion, your Majesty.”

  “God bless you, Philip—and go with you. When do you think you’ll be ready?”

  “A month at the most. I should return to Penshurst, set things in order there.”

  “You must bring your daughter to court soon, Philip. I heard from Master Greville that she’s quite a charming little lass now.”

  “I thank you, madam. Lady Sidney will be grateful for your offer, as well.”

  Elizabeth shut her mouth against the response that rose to her lips, and she saw that Sidney saw it as well. “As you say, Philip,” she said, lifting her hands. He was no fool, even if Frances Sidney chose to play him for one; if Elizabeth chose the Earl of Essex as a favorite, she was certainly aware of his faults. Was Frances Sidney? She hoped so; she was beyond her old jealousies at sharing a favorite, and she did not want to think that Sidney had married a witless female.

  “So, then. Perhaps you will stop at Mortlake, and see Dr. Dee. It would please him to see you. What is this power you have over your elders, Philip? First Languet, then Dee—and me. Languet taught you logic, Dee philosophy—and what have I taught you?”

  “Tact—and when not to use it. And the value of surprise, madam.”

  Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed aloud. “Hurry UP this business, Philip. Our last argument kept you away from court too long.”

  Sidney bowed. “As your Majesty commands.”

  He made his way out into the long hallway lost in thought, only a part of his mind responding to the salutations of the servants and lesser courtiers who filled the entranceway. This mission—this trust—that had been placed on him was rather frightening, even overwhelming; it would take some soul-searching to come to comfortable terms with it. Sidney smiled slightly, aware of his own contrariness. Ten years ago, he would have leaped at such a commission from the queen, and now, when he finally had the responsibility he’d so desired, he was prey to doubt. A familiar voice spoke from the shadows to his left.

  “Welcome back to London, Philip. You’re very prompt, as always.”

  Burleigh sat in a window embrasure, the furred collar of his old-fashioned gown drawn up against the chill. He smiled as Sidney turned to face him, and rose stiffly to his feet. “Not here, Philip, but I would like to speak with you. Walk with me in the gardens.”

  “Of course, sir,” Sidney murmured, falling into step at the old man’s elbow. They made their way slowly through the dim hallway, crossing from light into shadow and into light again. Motes of dust danced in the blocks of sunlight; the shadows seemed doubly black by comparison. Sidney was suddenly, acutely aware of people watching from those shadows, the greater men eyeing them surreptitiously, the lesser—or those with less to lose—frankly staring. It had been many months since Sidney had been in London; his sudden return, without the excuse of the Tilts or of any state occasion, was cause for speculation. He frowned, annoyed by the feeling that he could drown in this sea of whispers, but then they had reached the doorway, and stepped out into the quiet of the gardens. The air was still cool, but the sun had warmed the perennial herbs, and the scent was heady.

  They paced the circular paths for a few minutes in silence, Sidney glancing warily at the other out of the corner of his eye. He could see the tension in the set of Burleigh’s shoulders, and the knowledge did nothing to calm him. He had a great deal of regard and even affection for the old man, perhaps more than he had ever felt for his patron and father-in-law Walsingham; but Burleigh was as shrewd a politician as Walsingham had ever been, and did nothing without motive. Sidney waited for the other to speak first: a small victory, he thought, but my own.

  Finally, Burleigh stopped by a stone bench that was hidden from the palace windows by a well-grown hedge, and sat down, motioning for Sidney to join him. “Congratulations,” the minister said, drily. Sidney cocked an eyebrow at him.

  “My lord?”

  “Very pretty, Philip, and you do it better than any man half your age, but please don’t play the innocent with me.”

  Sidney smiled. “All I meant, my lord, was that I was not aware of having done anything that called for congratulations. I certainly did not ask for this assignment.”

  “No.” Burleigh stared at him for a long moment, dark eyes slitted against the sun, nearly lost in the lines of his face. He had known Sidney for all of the younger man’s life. He had seen him grow from a young, rather impetuous idealist into something approaching a realist. ‘Approach’ he added, with an inward smile, and said aloud, “What do you think of it, Philip?”

  “What do you mean? What do I think of the circumstances, or how do I feel at being trusted with it?”

  Sighing, Burleigh shook his head. “Lawyer. Both, then.” He held up his hand, cutting off the younger man’s response. “I was there when Dee produced his vision. I accept that the situation is indeed dire. I accept their judgment of you as the best man to deal with it. I am aware of your reputation in arcane matters. But there’s a political side to this, there always is. Are you equipped to handle that as well?”

  “Well, I am her majesty’s champion,” Sidney said, silken-voiced. “I am also reputed to be capable of diplomacy on occasion.”

  “I do hope so, Philip. I’ve been watching you for over twenty years now. You’re an ornament at this court, and more. You’re more useful than certain other decorations I could mention....

  “Nor yet as decorative,” Sidney murmured.

  “And you learned a number of lessons well, both when you were a mere boy in Europe, and over the past few years when you’ve turned into someone her majesty can fight with. But you’re still an idealist, Philip, and one of strong feelings. I don’t blame you, I wouldn’t be fond of the Spanish after what nearly happened to you in Holland, but if you will remember, I was opposed to intervention then, and it was you and your uncle who favored it.”

  “It worked.”

  Burleigh regarded the younger man with something approaching exasperation. “Damn it boy, any normal man would have added an acid comment about having nobly resisted the temptation to marry the Nassau.”

  “Perhaps I don’t like being so transparent.”

  “Stop fencing, Philip,” Burleigh snapped, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But no, not you. You didn’t even give the matter a second thought. You could have been Duke of Nassau, boy, and I would have been a deal easier with you if you had tried to accept it.”

  “I was also offered the kingdom of Poland,” Sidney said blandly. “But his majesty of France convinced me it was a bad bargain.”

  “That was quite different,” Burleigh said, and the younger man hid a sigh. It had been very different, and he would admit it to himself, if not to Burleigh. No one, not even the Poles, had really expected him to accept that crown; the Dutch marriage—marriage to the daughter-heiress of the uncrowned king of the low countries—was another matter altogether. Sidney had considered it: he liked the United Provinces, felt at home there with their practical Protestantism, and believed implicitly in the justice of their struggle against their Spanish masters. Elizabeth had taken the offer seriously enough to forbid the young man to accept it.

  “For Scotland, however—” Burleigh broke off, frowning, then tried a new tack. “I grant you’re a master of the arcane, Dee tells me you are.” He paused, and studied the younger man shrewdly for a moment. Sidney shrugged slightly.

  “Dr. Dee has been a great teacher. But I am still primarily a theoretician.”

  “Damn it, Philip, that’s a large part of what I mean.” Burleigh held up his hand, cutting off Sidney’s mocking answer. “Stop putting up your quills, there’s no time or cause for that
now.”

  Sidney bowed fractionally, accepting the rebuke—but he’d never been able to resist any opportunity to fence with the wily old statesman.

  Burleigh continued, “Theoretician you undoubtedly are, outstanding you may well be—I accept Dee’s word on it. But the Scots are past masters of the practical. Crude and unsophisticated their methods may be, by comparison to the fine words and theoricks you’ve learned, but they’ve long known how to apply it. I need only remind you of the North Berwick trials four years ago.”

  Sidney frowned. “Half-mad old women tortured into accusing themselves and each other—” He broke off abruptly. Burleigh was shaking his head.

  “It wasn’t that simple, Philip, though I grant you that the king’s men probably caught more witches than were actively involved in the plot. But a plot there was, a truly diabolical plot.” Burleigh paused, staring unseeing across the sunlit hedges, remembering the coded dispatches, and his own fear as each arrived, that this one would betray some new conspiracy against Elizabeth, a conspiracy that could not be answered by the means at his disposal. Dee was only just returned to England then, and still devastated by the loss of his scryer: there had been no one reliable to stand between the queen and the forces of darkness, had they chosen to turn their attention southward. He shook away that memory with an effort.

  “Hedge-witchery still,” Sidney said, “and defeated by quite ordinary means.” He made a wry face, hearing the pride in his own words, but made himself continue. “Forgive me, my lord, I don’t mean to deny that this was serious, or diabolical—but if diabolical, surely it’s as much or more a matter for the men of God as for the scholars. And, as I said before, the plot was defeated by the ordinary mechanisms of the law.”

  Burleigh sighed. “True enough, Philip; but you miss my point by indulging your taste for contradiction.”

  Sidney flushed, but accepted the rebuke unflinching. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  “What I am trying to say is that the Scots turn to this hedge-witchery, as you call it, as naturally as Italians turn to poisons.” Burleigh fixed the younger man with a sudden fierce glare. “It is, has become, a part of their politics—and politics, Philip, is what I know best.”