The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  The poet bowed his head, aware that he had accidentally been granted a glimpse of very dangerous ground. It was not so much that James might no longer need England, he guessed, but that James might no longer need Cecil, and God only knew how many years of scheming such a rejection would ruin. “No,” he said obediently, and added hastily, “but these witches, Sir Robert. Their destruction—”

  “They are not to be destroyed,” Cecil said, flatly. “Driven back, driven off—bought off, for all I care!—but not destroyed.”

  It was a voice that brooked no argument. Marlowe opened his mouth anyway, intending to urge the very real dangers of such a policy, then closed it again, recognizing the futility of his appeal. “I’ll need money, then,” he said instead. “And you spoke of a letter.”

  Cecil nodded, and reached for an oddly shaped packet lying on the altar. As the light hit it, it became identifiably a bulging purse. Marlowe held out his hand automatically, and the secretary tossed it to him, saying, “The letter’s within.”

  The poet caught the pouch one-handed, and whistled at its weight before knotting it to his belt, half hidden under the skirt of his doublet.

  “That will be all,” Cecil said. “Don’t fail me.”

  Marlowe nodded—he would not bow to this man, except in mockery—and turned away. He had taken perhaps five steps before the secretary called his name.

  “The Earl of Northumberland has lost a boy—a page in his household, I believe. Would you know anything about it?”

  Marlowe froze for an instant, then, with exquisite care, made himself glance casually over his shoulder. “Not about any pages—and unless it’s older than the usual run of pages, I wouldn’t want it.” He saw the shadow of disgust in Cecil’s eyes, and pressed his advantage. “I’ve rather lost my taste for boys.”

  “One would hope so,” the secretary murmured. “Very well, Marlowe.”

  This time, the poet did bow, a fraction too deeply, and had the satisfaction of seeing Cecil frown. Then he was outside the chapel, past the niche where Poley waited patiently for his master’s call, and into the nave itself. The deeply shadowed space was almost empty, except for a single disapproving deacon trimming the few lamps, and it was all Marlowe could do to keep from running. He reached the twilit street with a gasp of relief, and stood for a long moment in the arch of the main doorway, his back to the still-warm stones, his attention divided between the street and the cathedral behind him. Cecil had given him an almost impossible task and, in the process, had let slip two very dangerous pieces of information. One, perhaps, was less dangerous than the other—it was easy enough to guess that the queen’s ambassador to Scotland was also Cecil’s agent—but the other… Marlowe shook his head, appalled by the double-edged power he suddenly possessed. That Cecil aspired to manipulate the king of Scots was information of an entirely different class. Sir Philip would not be easy to deceive about this mission, either, nor was he likely to approve of letting some, or any, of the witches escape—the hero of the Low Countries was, among other things, a very thorough man. And there was still the boy to be dealt with. If Northumberland’s gone so far as to inquire of Cecil, Marlowe thought, I can’t apprentice the brat to Ned—I can’t do that to either of them—and I daren’t leave him with Mary-Martha. I’ll have to bring him with me, throw him on Sir Philip’s mercy... Which might not be a bad thing on its own, he added, after a moment’s consideration. Having the boy to deal with might help distract Sir Philip from exactly why I’m here, and exactly what Cecil wants of me. I’ll have to tell him some of it, of course—but never all. He loosened his rapier in its scabbard, feeling the awkward weight of Cecil’s fee at his belt, and stepped into the darkening streets, bracing himself for the long walk home.

  Chapter Six

  Though dusty wits dare scorn astrology,

  And fools can think those lamps of purest light

  —Whose numbers, ways, greatness, eternity,

  Promising wonders, wonder do invite—

  To have for no cause birthright in the sky

  But for to spangle the black weeds of night;

  Or for some brawl which in that chamber high

  They should still dance to please a gazer’s sight.

  For me, I do Nature unidle know,

  And know great causes great effects procure;

  And know those bodies high reign on the low.

  And if these rules did fail, proof makes me sure,

  Who oft fore judge my after-following race

  By only those two stars in Stella’s face.

  Sir Philip Sidney, Sonnet XXVI

  Sidney leaned against the sun-scarred paneling, staring out into the long garden. The ground had dried out somewhat since his return from London: the gardener’s boy was lazily spading one of the beds bordering the main approach, now and then glancing up at the scudding clouds that threatened to cut off the thin sunlight altogether. Sidney smiled ruefully, one hand stealing to the knotted bone just above his left knee. I fear you’re to be disappointed, Tom, he thought. I don’t feel any signs of rain.

  He sighed then, only too aware of the rent rolls and account books lying in an untidy heap on his broad desk, and of Dr. Dee’s book, now locked with his own most treasured text in the brass-bound box in the cupboard beneath the window-seat, but did not turn away from the long window. For all that Madox expected—needed—his master to look over the books and certify the understewards’ accounts as correct before issuing the instructions for maintaining the estate during this Scottish journey, and for all that it needed to be done very soon, Sidney could not quite bring himself to settle down to work again. I worked most of the morning, he told himself, attempting to salve his conscience. I only rode for an hour, or a little less, and then sat down to the accounts. Surely I’m entitled to a few moments’ daydreaming. He smiled again, less comfortably than before. His wife would insist that he’d already done enough, that there was more than enough money in their coffers, so that he could afford to let Madox manage things as he pleased. Even though he knew it to be true, and knew even better that Madox could be trusted with his life as well as with his income, he found it impossible to rid himself of the habits formed in his youth, when his entire family had lived more or less hand to mouth, and he himself had lived in constant expectation of having to sell his land—sell his capital—in order to meet his mounting debts. Though the campaign in the Low Countries, and the governorships that had followed it—and his marriage to Sir Francis Walsingham’s only child—had changed all that, he could not seem to change himself.

  A movement in the yard below drew his attention, and he leaned forward slightly, his mild curiosity changing to alarm as he caught sight of the little procession. His daughter Elizabeth was at its head, her willow-green skirts draggled with mud; behind her came her nurse, her apple-cheeked face pink with angry concern, and the head groom, grey hair ruffled and on end, cap clutched nervously in both hands. She’s had a fall, Sidney thought, and held his breath. He knew perfectly well that Rivers would never have allowed her to do anything dangerous—and, more important, that the groom was equally capable of stopping a sometimes willful child—and he could see that the girl wasn’t seriously hurt… but she was still his only child, and likely to remain so. Sometime during the terrible days in Holland following her husband’s near-fatal wound, Frances Sidney had miscarried of a seven-months’ son, and had not conceived again.

  Then Elizabeth looked up toward the study windows, losing her already battered hat in the process, and Sidney felt himself breathe again. The girl’s face, flushed as much with embarrassment as with anger, broke into a sudden smile, and she dropped her father a quick curtsey before stooping to recover the hat. Its plume was sadly bent, and the nurse rushed forward, scolding, to sweep the girl indoors again. Left standing in the yard, the groom glanced up to the windows himself, touching his forehead respectfully as he saw Sidney standing there. His whole posture conveyed a sort of respectful reassurance; Sidney nodded, smiling, a
nd waved in response. The groom bowed again, and backed away.

  Sidney shook his head, wishing that Elizabeth would be more careful, then turned back toward his writing table. Before he could seat himself, however, there was a knock at the door. “Yes?” he began, but the door had already opened, and his sister sailed into the room.

  “Good God, Philip, what are you wearing?” Mary Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, lifted both thin eyebrows in laughing disbelief.

  Sidney glanced down at himself—he wore a long, fur-lined gown, common wear for scholars who sat unmoving at their books for long periods—and looked up guilelessly. “A gown.”

  “No, I meant those.” Mary pointed an imperious finger at the boots that showed beneath the gown’s hem. Obligingly, Sidney let the gown fall open further, extending his crooked leg to show the thigh-length boot. “Yes, very nice,” the countess continued, “but do you know what they call that color?”

  “Brown, I think,” Sidney said. “Or perhaps tan? Grayish tan?”

  “It’s called ‘dead Spaniard,’ Philip. Is that tactful?”

  Sidney laughed, unable to continue his pretense. “I know, I couldn’t resist it.” His laughter faded quickly, remembering Holland. “Though I can’t say it’s that good a match for the real thing.”

  “Which is probably just as well,” Mary began, and stopped at the sound of hoof beats on the road outside. “Were you expecting visitors?”

  “I can’t say I was. Henry is here . . I think,” Sidney answered, and stepped to the window. A single horseman was making his way up the long approach, a dark man in a short dark cloak, a man who handled his horse competently but not skillfully. In the same instant, Sidney recognized Christopher Marlowe, and realized that the playwright was carrying someone pillion. Sidney raised an eyebrow at that, but dismissed the thought almost at once. The straw-haired boy seemed no older than Elizabeth; whatever had possessed Marlowe to bring him here, it wasn’t lust.

  “Who is it?” Mary demanded.

  “Master Marlowe,” Sidney said, frowning slightly. And what, I wonder brings Marlowe to me? he wondered silently. I daresay Cecil has a hand in it, and I don’t deny an experienced agent could be useful—but what could a boy have to do with anything?

  Mary, who had been watching her brother’s reactions closely, hid a frown of her own. Though she had asked no questions, she had friends enough at court to guess at many of the reasons behind Sidney’s Scottish embassy, and could not feel entirely comfortable with the idea. Still, she knew better than to ask directly, and said only, “I should like to meet him, Philip. I’ve heard a great deal about him.”

  “I daresay.” Sidney grinned. “I wouldn’t believe all that Master Kyd says, either—I understand you’re his patron now?”

  “Henry is,” Mary answered. “And I don’t. I’ve also read his work—Master Marlowe’s, I mean—and he once wrote a very pretty dedication to me.” Her expressive face clouded briefly. “For Thomas Watson’s last book, the one published just after he died.” She shook herself. “Still, it was a very pretty piece of flattery.”

  “I’m sure.” Sidney studied his sister for a moment longer. Mary Herbert was one of the handsomest women in England, he thought—even if ill-disposed persons described her hair as copper gilt—as well as one of the most learned. It would do Marlowe good to have to deal with such a formidable lady. “If you wish it, I’d be glad to present him to you.”

  “Thank you.” Mary seated herself in the windowseat, settling her wine-colored skirts with a practiced twist. The pearls dangling from her cap bounced as she looked cheerfully up at her brother. “I’m doubly grateful you didn’t feel it necessary to warn me about him.”

  “I know better,” Sidney answered, and smiled. “And didn’t I send you a copy of the Ganymede as soon as I’d read it?”

  The Countess of Pembroke lifted the painted fan she carried at her girdle, modestly veiling her face, if not the breasts half-revealed by her low-cut bodice, and winked at him over the pearl-trimmed edge. Sidney managed to smile in return, but could not help wondering if some of the gossip he heard about his sister could be true. Surely Pembroke would not be so complacent, he thought, and surely Mary would think better of herself than to consort with grooms—and surely I am only wondering this because I suspect my wife.

  A discreet knock at the study door interrupted those thoughts. “Yes?” Sidney called.

  The door opened slowly. “I beg your pardon, Sir Philip,” Griffin Madox said, with chilly disapproval, “but Master Marlowe has arrived.”

  “Show him in, please, Madox,” Sidney answered.

  The disapproval in the steward’s voice became glacial.

  “Very well, Sir Philip.” The door closed behind him with pointed courtesy.

  Mary laughed behind her fan. “I take it Madox doesn’t like your protégé.”

  “Not particularly.” In spite of himself, Sidney’s lips twitched into a quick grin. “Marlowe can—does go out of his way to shock the unwary.”

  Madox knocked again at the door, then opened it, saying grimly, “Master Marlowe.”

  The playwright entered warily, still in his riding clothes, though he’d discarded his cloak somewhere below. “Sir Philip,” he said, with a passable bow, and a wary glance toward the windowseat. “Ma’am.” The boy at his heels did his best to copy the man’s gestures, his eyes huge and frightened.

  Sidney’s eyes narrowed—what was this boy, that Marlowe should bring him in here?—but he said, with perfect courtesy, “Mary, may I present Master Christopher Marlowe, sometime of Cambridge University, and now one of our more accomplished poets.” He glanced at Marlowe. “My sister, the Countess of Pembroke.”

  Marlowe bowed again, more deeply. “My lady.” He straightened, fixing his eyes on Sidney. “I beg your pardon, Sir Philip. If I’d realized you were engaged, I wouldn’t’ve brought the boy.”

  “You surprise me, Master Marlowe,” Mary said, and lifted her fan again. “I hadn’t heard you were the man to conceal any of your affairs.”

  “I don’t see any reason to conceal anything, my lady,” Marlowe answered promptly. “Especially since I see my lady is a kindred spirit.”

  Two of a kind indeed, Sidney thought, and I think they should be separated. A thoughtful smile tugged at his lips. If only for Marlowe’s virtue. He cleared his throat. “Mary, will you excuse us? I hadn’t realized Master Marlowe’s business was urgent.”

  The countess sobered at once, responding not so much to the words as to the note of appeal in her brother’s voice. “Of course, Philip.” She rose with a stirring of satin. “I trust we’ll meet again, Master Marlowe.”

  The playwright bowed as she swept from the room, drawing the child out of her way. Straightening, he gave Sidney a truculent glance. “It’s about the boy, Nathanial—” He stopped abruptly. I don’t even know your family name.”

  “Hawker.” The boy’s voice was faint with fear.

  “Hawker,” Marlowe repeated. He looked back at Sidney. “He’s run away from Northumberland’s household—he used to be his seeing boy. I found out the earl was still looking for him, so I couldn’t apprentice him with Alleyn after all, and I brought him here. Will you help him?”

  Sidney sighed. He was certain there was a good deal more to the story than the bald outline Marlowe had given him—and he meant to hear the full version before he committed himself irrevocably to anything—but there was no resisting the child’s mute appeal. Or, he admitted, the opportunity of doing Northumberland a disservice. He distrusted the earl’s supposedly classical magic, could have sworn, the one time he had attended a demonstration of the Percy’s talent, that he had smelled sulphur. “Of course you may stay, Nathanial,” he said aloud. “What do they call you—Nate?”

  The boy nodded.

  “Well, then, Nate. I’m Sir Philip Sidney, as Master Marlowe no doubt told you. As I said, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as necessary—and you need not worry about his lordship.” Sidney allowe
d his voice to drop slightly, having learned with his daughter that a touch of theatricality did no harm. “Northumberland is not welcome on my estates.” That was a slight exaggeration, but Nathanial brightened.

  “No, my lord?” he said eagerly, then, remembering his place, ducked his head in a sort of bow. “Thank you very much, my lord.”

  “You’re most welcome,” Sidney said. “Are you hungry?”

  Nathanial hesitated. “We ate on the road, my lord.”

  Sidney smiled. “But are you hungry?” After a moment, the boy nodded silently. Sidney politely hid his grin, and reached for the bell standing on his table. When Madox appeared in answer to its summons, Sidney said, “Send for Nurse, please, Madox.”

  “At once, Sir Philip.” The steward vanished, but reappeared so quickly that it was clear the nurse had been close at hand. “Goody Bourman,” Madox announced, and closed the door behind the woman.

  She darted a single curious glance at the boy, then curtsied briskly, fixing her eyes on her employer. “You sent for me, Sir Philip?”

  “Yes, Nurse.” Sidney nodded to the boy, who had crept close to Marlowe’s side again. “This is Nathanial—Nate Hawker, who will be staying with us for a while.” He saw the frown forming on the nurse’s otherwise cheerful face, and added quickly, “Nate was in service with his lordship of Northumberland, and was badly treated there.”

  The frown had vanished from the woman’s face as Sidney spoke, to be replaced by an expression of genuine concern. Northumberland’s reputation had penetrated even into Kent. “Of course, Sir Philip,” she said, and curtsied again. “Poor lamb.” She turned to the boy. “Come with me, Nate?”