The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  “I’ve a fancy to hear evensong, Robert. Make my excuses to your lady?”

  Robert frowned. “The chaplain will be holding our service within the hour, Philip, if you need—”

  Sidney shook his head, smiling a little at his own foolishness. “Thank you, Robert, but—” He shrugged helplessly, and Robert managed a rueful grin.

  “Shall I make up a party, then, or would you rather go alone?” His voice made clear which he would prefer, and Sidney’s smile widened. Robert was very much a Dudley, with a Dudley’s preference for observing no more than then necessary proprieties.

  “Alone, you needn’t trouble your people.”

  Robert’s eyebrows rose, but then he shrugged. “I trust your judgment, Philip,” he said, in a voice that made the opposite quite clear, but did not make any further attempt to dissuade his brother.

  The bells were sounding for the evening service by the time Sidney reached the churchyard. St. Mary’s was a rather ordinary city church, once monastic, now remade by the twin forces of the reformation and the city’s growth. The glass in the long windows was old, and here and there panels that did not meet the tastes of the reformers had been replaced by plain glass, but the parson’s chair was newly gilded, and there were good silver candlesticks on the altar. The congregation, though small, seemed both prosperous and devout, and there were a few better-dressed groups, men and women both, who might be minor gentry, or upper servants of wealthy households. That explained the candlesticks, Sidney thought, and the others explain the missing windows. This was primarily a citizens’ church, despite having households like his brother’s or Walter Raleigh’s in the neighborhood, and the citizens were more zealous than most in pulling down the reminders of the old ways. Marlowe would claim it was because they disliked encouraging anyone to spend money, even on the glory of God, Sidney thought, with an inward smile, or because they somehow profited from the removal. I think it’s only because they’re zealous, and still touchy of their faith’s honor.

  It was the feast of St. Philip and St. James. A good omen, Sidney thought, as he stood and knelt patiently through the long service, and an all too pertinent text. The lines from the psalm, in particular, seemed apposite:

  My help cometh of God, who preserveth them that are true of heart.

  God is a righteous Judge, strong, and patient; and God is provoked every day.

  If a man will not turn, he will whet his sword; he hath bent his bow, and made it ready.

  He hath prepared for him the instruments of death; he ordaineth his arrows against the persecutors.

  Behold, he travaileth with mischief he hath conceived sorrow, and brought forth ungodliness.

  He hath graven and digged up apit, and is fallen himself into the destruction that he made for other.

  For his travail shall come upon his own head, and his wickedness shall fall on his own pate.

  Sidney murmured the last lines aloud, praying that this would be a true indication of his opponent’s ultimate end. “I will give thanks unto the Lord, according to his righteousness; and I will praise the Name of the Lord most high.”

  The elderly priest seemed to fix his eyes on him, beginning the final psalm, and Sidney wondered uncomfortably if he had somehow been overheard.

  “What is man, that thou are mindful of him?” the priest intoned firmly, “and the son of man, that thou visitest him? Thou madest him lower than the angels, to crown him with glory and worship. Thou makest him to have dominion of the works of thy hands; and thou hast put all things in subjection under his feet… O Lord our Governor, how excellent is thy name in all the world!”

  It was a comforting sentiment, a necessary reminder of the liberality of God’s gifts, to balance against the stern injunctions of the lessons, with their insistence on complete faith and on belief. Sidney shook his head slightly. It could not be idle coincidence that the day’s reading was what it was. Yet hast thou not known me, Philip? Sobering words—but perhaps I’m in need of sobering. A word of caution, of counsel, a reminder—for he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. Waver I will not—but, dear Lord, give me strength, guide my hand, let me not be driven by anger, or hatred. Let the deed stand on its own, exist because it must. Not my will, but Thine, o Lord.

  He moved mechanically through the rest of the service, murmuring the responses by rote, the words of the gospel lingering in his thoughts. He knelt for the blessing, then stood for a few moments in the nave’s dwindling light, the congregation ebbing around him, guiltily aware that he’d hardly heard the last half of the service. Then he shook himself. He had been preoccupied with God’s Word, with the truly important part of worship; if there were sin in that, it was a lesser one. Drawing his cloak about his shoulders, he trailed after the rest of the worshippers into the street.

  As he started back toward Robert’s house, a hand touched his elbow. He turned, slowly, his hand on the pommel of his rapier. Then his eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Sir Philip. But I would like to have a word with you.”

  Raleigh’s darkly handsome face was grave, almost troubled. In the dusky, twilight air, the single pearl that dangled from his left ear was startlingly clear. Sidney nodded slowly. “If you wish.”

  Raleigh gestured toward the nearest alehouse, perhaps a dozen doors from the churchyard. The sign of an anchor swung above its open door, and there were rushlights in its low windows. “It’s a good house,” the explorer said, his hand still on the other man’s elbow, urging him on. “A merchant’s place, but good.”

  Sidney hid a smile—he was as aware as anyone of Raleigh’s comparatively lowly origins—and let himself be led. Inside, the air was heavy, sweet and warm from cooking fires and from the number of people within. Raleigh surveyed the room, and swore under his breath.

  “This won’t do,” he muttered, and directed Sidney back towards one of the private rooms. Involuntarily, Sidney thought of Marlowe in Eleanor Bull’s tavern, and he drew back slightly. Raleigh didn’t seem to catch the hesitation, and, annoyed with himself, Sidney followed. His hand stayed on the hilt of his sword, however, and he shifted the heavy black cloak back off his shoulder.

  “Frank! A pitcher of your best, in here!” Raleigh shouted to the tavern keeper, and Sidney sighed in relief. Of course, he had no real reason to suspect Raleigh of double-dealing, but if he were shouting his presence to the world, he could hardly hope to carry out some dark scheme. The keeper bowed the two gentlemen into the stuffy inner room, and bustled about with a large pitcher of ruddy ale and two tankards, adjusting the cracking shutters and brushing off the tabletop. Then he bustled out again, and closed the door behind him.

  Sidney unfastened his cloak and draped it carelessly on a bench. Then he sat down and waited, looking patiently up at Raleigh in what he knew was a deliberately provoking manner. Raleigh looked a trifle thunderous, and then he grinned.

  “Damn it, Philip, I don’t know if you look more like a schoolboy or a schoolmaster when you do that, but it’s damned disconcerting.”

  “It was meant to be,” Sidney replied mildly, and waited.

  “Well, it works.” Raleigh dropped into a leather-backed chair. He filled the two tankards, sliding one across the table toward the younger man, then took a long draught of his own. He set down the mug with a thump, and set his hands on his thighs, leaning forward. “Right, then. You’re bound for Scotland, I hear.”

  “You and half of London, I think. Yes.”

  “And it has something to do with the fact that you’re Her Majesty’s champion in the lists. Which means it has something to do with… power. Wizardry.”

  “Really?” Sidney asked. “I thought it was to bear gifts to the young prince.” He picked up his own tankard, and regarded Raleigh guilelessly over the rim.

  “Well, then, you thought wrong,” Raleigh said, with a dry laugh. “I don’t blame you for not trusting me. Our systems are completely antithetical.”

 
“Yes,” Sidney murmured, only just refraining from adding, “mine works.”

  It seemed Raleigh sensed the unsaid words. “Believe me, Sidney, if my system were a fraud, I wouldn’t be talking with you now. But I need—I don’t know. Your advice. Your suggestions. Knowledge, perhaps, to damn us both as spoilers of Eden. There’s something odd about this, Sidney. Something rotten.”

  The explorer’s eyes were hard as flints, and stared past Sidney at some unknown, unpleasant memory. “Your protégé knows about it, too. I don’t know what he’s told you...” Raleigh raised an eyebrow at Sidney, who shook his head.

  “I haven’t seen Kit in some days. And he’s not a confiding man.”

  “About a fortnight ago, we met. We weren’t looking for anything in particular...”

  “You never are,” Sidney said wearily. “Just good games and fellowship and a scrying glass to see what demons are receiving tonight?”

  Raleigh flushed, but he managed a grim smile. “Something of the sort, yes,” he answered evenly. “Anyway—Northumberland brought his boy—but whatever it was, it terrified the child.” He glanced sharply at Sidney, expecting him to comment. Sidney kept silent, though his lips were a thin line. “So … Kit offered to have a look. I think he was just trying to prove that virginity is overrated, it’s one of his favorite catechisms. So, we repeated the ritual. “ He took another long swallow of ale, the movement not quite hiding remembered fear. “I don’t know what it was. But I have never sensed anything so rotten, evil if you like, in my days of such matters. It—overarched everything. It wasn’t small. Malice is small. This seemed to taint the entire room. Only the earl seemed untroubled, but I think that was more of a good act than anything. It frightened the hell out of me. And I know it frightened Kit. Now I hear the Queen has dispatched you to Scotland— ostensibly as her ambassador. But if what I felt is as encompassing as it seemed, it’s likely Dr. Dee has sensed something, too. Or yourself, perhaps?”

  Raleigh tilted his head and looked at Sidney, who studied the scarred tabletop for a long moment. So the School of Night was frightened, too. At least it meant that Sidney wouldn’t have to contend with them as well, unless this were some extremely elaborate trap. He shook his head. Not only would the power he had sensed not bother with such a device, Raleigh was too honorable a man knowingly to be used by it. They had been closer associates once; now his way and Sidney’s had diverged, and each viewed the other with suspicion and disdain. But in the end, Sidney had to admit he trusted Raleigh, and, for all he could not countenance the systems employed by the Ludus Noctis, he had to admit that they did seem to produce some results. Raleigh could be an invaluable ally. Certainly he could be a good friend. Sidney looked up slowly.

  “Yes,” he said, “there is—something. I wish to God I knew just what. “

  Raleigh nodded once, bracing his hands against the table’s edge. “Is there anything—anything at all—that I can do to help?”

  Sidney hesitated only for an instant. “Keep—listening, watching, whatever it is you do. And if you do encounter this thing, this person, again, write to me. Tell me every little detail, everything you saw or felt or thought you heard. That would be a very great help, Walter, I promise.”

  Raleigh nodded again, his handsome face taking on a new determination. “By God, I will. You have my word on it, Philip. And God go with you.”

  Remembering the day’s lessons, Sidney said wryly, “I trust He will.”

  The cortege left London with the sunrise, and made its way by easy stages north and west. The weather was still good, dry and clear, and they made good time, arriving at Greville’s Warwickshire house early in the afternoon of the second day. It was a magnificent building, though the impressive facade was marred by the builders’ scaffolding that still mantled the northern wing. Greville apologized profusely for the inconvenience of the accommodations, but, as he escorted Sidney through the newly-completed gallery and out into the long sweet-scented gardens, his pride was very plain. Sidney hid his smile, and displayed only genuine admiration for Greville’s dominion.

  The next day was Sunday, and, as was the custom, they did not travel. Instead, the entire household set off across the fields toward the parish church. It was a little more than a mile away, an easy walk, but Marlowe found himself resenting it fiercely—resenting even the fact that Sidney and Greville rode, though he knew perfectly well that it was only Sidney’s old wound that made the older man resort to the horse to carry him across the distance. The poet scowled, glancing up at the sky. A thin wash of clouds veiled the sun, but the air was warm and dry, and there was a stiff breeze blowing. It was a perfect day for travelling, the sort of day in which they could have covered thirty miles or more, but instead here they were, held fast by nothing better than superstition. He frowned more deeply, and was suddenly aware of the way young Madox edged away from him. Marlowe’s expression did not alter, but he managed a rather nasty inward smile. His reputation as atheist and blasphemer had preceded him; young Madox and the rest were staying out of the way of any lightnings he might attract.

  The parish church was small, by the standards of London or Marlowe’s Canterbury, but still too large for the congregation meeting in it. Marlowe glanced over his shoulder at the common folk making their way along the dusty road from the village that must lie beyond the gentle curve of the hill. Most looked prosperous enough, for countrymen, but there seemed to be few freeholders among them; the majority were dressed like day-laborers rather than craftsmen, and there were quite a few livery-coats and maidservants’ caps among the younger people. The nearest of the girls, demure in her starched linen cap and spotless apron, met his glance briefly, her eyes bright with curiosity about the London visitors, but then a fair girl spoke to her, and both looked away, giggling.

  The sound of hoof beats on the hard-packed surface of the road made the common folk scatter quickly, clearing a path for the approaching rider. Marlowe stepped back, too, less willingly, and stumbled on the uneven ground.

  He caught himself awkwardly, staring at the rider. It was a big man, red of face and black of eye and beard, his short bright cloak snapping behind him like a banner. He pulled up abruptly at the churchyard gate, the horse snorting and protesting, and flung himself from his saddle, his face set in a portentous frown. He led the horse through the gate, and then knotted the reins to the nearest tree limb. “I’m here, Frank Warden, I’m here,” he shouted. “And you, Giles Overton, note me down.”

  One of the churchwardens, standing in the main doorway, made a curious half-bow, and the other said, in his rich country accent, “I see you, Sir Edward.”

  “Note it down, then, note it down,” the gentleman answered, and stormed past them into the church.

  Marlowe hid a grin—he himself had been fined for non-attendance before this—and made his way sedately into the church. The older warden gave him a sharp, suspicious glance, but the younger man murmured something deferential, and the older man said nothing. The disapproving look sharpened the poet’s earlier ill temper, and he said bitterly, to no one in particular, “In St. Helen’s parish, each Thursday the wardens give out brass tokens to all the taxpayers, to be handed in at the communion table on Sunday.” He smiled, aware that van der Droeghe at least was listening, and added, “You give the warden your token and you get your bread and wine—it’s rather like an alehouse. Though if Christ had instituted the sacrament with a pot of beer and a pipe of tobacco, there’d be no trouble getting men to church.”

  Van der Droeghe glanced down at him with a sort of weary distaste. “You have an idle, vicious tongue, Marlowe.”

  “And what are you doing here?” the poet retorted. “You’re no member of the English church.”

  “It’s the law,” the Dutchman answered, shrugging. “And it pleases Sir Philip.”

  And you would do whatever was needed to please Sir Philip, Marlowe thought, but did not pursue the conceit aloud. He had made his point—the undergrooms and some of the local congregatio
n were eyeing him with something approaching horror—and there was nothing to be gained by saying more. He took his place with the rest of the household, eyes downcast demurely. Covell, his nearest neighbor, edged away from him, and Marlowe smiled sweetly, his temper somewhat restored.

  Sidney, seated with Greville in the latter’s pew, shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease his stiffened leg. It would get better the further they rode, he knew from experience, as the sinews stretched and loosened, but for now he could only endure the sullen aching.

  Greville glanced sideways at him, and said softly, “I’ll have Ralph prepare a hot bath for you tonight, and see that Goody Watson sends up one of her herb brews.”

  Sidney gave his friend a wary look. “Herb brews?”

  “Oh, yes. She learned the recipe from her grandmother, who was accounted a very wise woman.”

  Sidney gave him a twisted smile, and shrugged. “Why not? But no witchery, I trust, Fulke.”

  Greville looked surprised and a little hurt. “Not at all. Her sister nursed me, they’re both very wise women. They know their limits.”

  “Wisdom indeed,” Sidney murmured, thinking of his own case.

  The service was very plain, with none of the flourishes expected in a London church, or even at Penshurst, where the new young chaplain was very conscious of the reputation of his more notable parishioners. Sidney smiled gently, made aware by the very simplicity of the priest’s delivery both of the vital words and of the ritual, and of the transcendent meaning behind both. The priest’s voice wavered slightly, but it was from age rather than from ignorance, and Sidney found himself eagerly waiting for the sermon. As the priest stepped up into the lectern, however, there was a sudden disturbance across the main aisle. Sidney turned, startled and rather shocked by such disrespect, and saw a ruddy, black-bearded man pushing his way out of his pew.