The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  As they passed through the hamlets surrounding London, they began to meet more travelers on the road, farm-folk, mostly, bearing empty baskets away from the city’s daily markets, and their pace slowed perceptibly. Frances swore softly, but made herself accept the pace Fischer set them. She could not ride down the dull-eyed folk, whose only concern was to reach their homes before the sunset, and who could only be cursing the lady whose horses forced them from the roadway... She swore again, this time at a swaying wain, and reined the gelding to a walk.

  Then at last the spires of London were visible in the distance, and Frances named them with a sort of idle impatience, St. Paul’s and St. Mary-le-Bow, St. Laurence fading behind them, and St. Bride’s to the west, marking time until they reached Walworth, and could turn southwest along the river toward Mortlake. The distinctive shapes of the playhouses showed now among the dirty chimneypots of Southwark, but no flags flaunted above the thatched circles. Frances frowned, glad to forget her own troubles for a moment. This was the height of the players’ season, warm enough to attract proper crowds, but too early in the year for plague to have set in. It was more than strange that at least one playhouse was not open—or was there plague after all? she wondered suddenly, and dismissed the thought. That sort of news travelled like the wind. There were other reasons in plenty for London’s aldermen to close the theaters, and she put the question from her mind. That was more her brother-in-law Pembroke’s affair, or Philip’s, were he here; she had no choice but to busy herself with politics.

  Fischer led them southwest now, roughly paralleling the river, but avoiding the worst of the city traffic. He chose the route well, Frances admitted: they met only the occasional dray or heavy cart to slow their passage. It was a pity she could not go by water, she thought, not for the first time, but her presence in London would have been noted, and the visit would eventually have come to Essex’s ears. Better to travel quietly by road, and hope to meet no one who would recognize her on the way. And there was not much danger of that, she thought, with a quick and private smile, unless the queen was hunting from Richmond today.

  They reached Dee’s house as evensong was sounding, the bell’s strokes heavy in air that thickened toward an amber sunset. Frances, dismounting in the pleasant courtyard, tilted her head at the first stroke, breathing a silent prayer. She shook herself briskly then, straightening her crumpled skirts, and stepped forward to meet the woman who came slowly to greet her. She was an older woman, grey hair tucked neatly beneath an embroidered cap, and, by the quality of her plain gown and equally plain apron, no servant.

  “Mistress Dee?” Frances hazarded, and was answered with a shaky curtsey.

  “I am she, my lady.” The woman’s eyes were wary, and Frances could see a younger woman hovering in the doorway, ready to offer whatever support was needed in the face of this invasion.

  “I am Frances Sidney, madam. I’ve come to speak with your husband on a matter of some urgency, if you would tell him that I’m here.”

  The woman hesitated, her eyes darting almost involuntarily toward the bay at the end of the house where Dee’s library lay, and Frances bit back her own impatience. “Madam, I beg you, this concerns my own husband. If he’s with another, I will wait, I ask only that you tell him that I’m here, and what my business is.”

  Dee’s wife made an odd face, the expression so fleeting that Frances could not be sure what it meant, but nodded. “Of course, my lady. Won’t you come in? Margaret will see your people housed.”

  The woman in the doorway came forward then, beckoning to Fischer, and Frances followed Mistress Dee through the carved doorway.

  “The boy will tell him you’re here, my lady,” she said, and nodded to a round-eyed boy who was hovering just inside the hall. The boy skittered away down the long hall, but reappeared almost at once.

  “Grandfather says you’re to come in, please, ma’am—my lady, I mean.”

  “Thank you,” Frances said, with a smile for both of them, and followed the boy back down the paneled hall. The old scholar was waiting in the open door of the study, and bowed to her as she approached. He was very fine today, Frances noted, a fine velvet gown over his sad-colored suit, and Venetian lace edging his small ruff. He welcomed her with ill-concealed nervousness, and when he at last bowed her into the room, she saw why. Sir Walter Raleigh stood near a long window, open now to the evening breeze. He had a book opened in his hand—a very handsome study in the pursuit of knowledge, Frances thought, but not convincing. He must have heard the announcement of my arrival.

  Frances managed a brilliant smile, and held out her hands. “Sir Walter, we’ve been strangers far too long.

  “How pleasant to see you again—and in such circumstances, too.”

  Raleigh’s eyes flickered over her head to Dee, but the look in them was almost of supplication. It was not the look of a conspirator, and that, Frances thought, had always been Raleigh’s difficulty. He lacked a certain quality of calculation—unlike Essex, who rarely acted without artifice. It was hard to believe, today, that she had once been flattered by those studied attentions... She shook the thought away, and let Dee lead her to a chair by the unlit fire. She smiled up at him as she seated herself, spreading her marigold skirts carefully about her. “Forgive me, Doctor Dee, I had no idea you already had a guest, but I hope you will both forgive me. The matter is urgent.” Dee looked down at her gravely, recognizing the steel in her voice. “I feared it might be, Lady Sidney. I wonder if it has aught to do with what has brought Sir Walter here.”

  “As I did not expect to see Sir Walter here, I can hardly answer that,” Frances said. “But if it has anything to do with Philip, I would appreciate learning of it.”

  Raleigh squared his broad shoulders. “As a matter of fact, Lady Sidney, it has. “

  “Please,” Dee interrupted, “sit down, Sir Walter, let us all be comfortable.”

  Raleigh hesitated, but did as he was told, settling himself sideways into the window seat. It was a boy’s position he’d chosen, one silk-stockinged knee cocked up, be-ringed hands clasped around it, and Frances did not hide her smile. So refreshingly unlike Essex, whose boyishness was as calculated as any other gesture... Dee lowered himself slowly into the tall chair behind his working table, and she turned her attention back to him, fixing him with an unwavering stare.

  “Lady Sidney.” Dee acknowledged her look with a rather sad brief smile. “It’s indeed fortunate that you’re here—indeed, it gives me to wonder if perhaps the angels are not guiding us today. I do not believe in coincidence, only in the co-incidence of events—and your and Sir Walter’s both arriving here, this same day…” He shook that thought away, and continued, “May I be so bold as to ask the reason for your visit?”

  “Only if I may first be told Sir Walter’s,” Frances answered, and her tone, though polite, was utterly implacable. “He has said it has something to do with Philip. He and Philip have cordially disagreed, in matters both arcane and political, for some time now. In the face of this, I feel he must speak first.”

  Dee nodded gravely, and glanced toward the man in the window seat. Raleigh bowed as best he could in his seated posture, reflecting bitterly that he’d always hated dealing with the Walsinghams. Frances was unlike her father in her frankness, but that very frankness was almost more devastating than all Sir Francis’s wiles. It was rather like riding point-blank into cannon fire, and while that might suit Sir Philip Sidney, Raleigh thought, it does not suit me. What can one do? The Walsinghams are masters of lies and, being so, they know one almost before it leaves one’s lips. Uncanny, inhuman creatures from whom the human soul can have no secrets… A dry voice in his head told him that he was overstating the case: that though this was born a Walsingham, it was also a woman, a wife who had been less than faithful to her husband for the better part of a decade, and whose questions, therefore, could not be motivated by concern for him. But that voice sounded too much like Northumberland, an antiquated voice, dusty from too long s
eclusion from the things of this world—and if Frances Sidney was fool enough to be seduced by Robert Devereux, Raleigh thought, looking at the still figure in her marigold gown, the skirts still a little dusty from her long ride, I would be very much surprised. Philip, now, that’s another matter—but that was ten, no, twelve years ago, and who would not have been flattered by Essex’s obvious adoration, each gesture made with the cheerful sincerity of a puppy? No man could resist that slavish imitation—though women, Raleigh thought suddenly, more often than not see through that sort of man.

  And yet her majesty has not—which I do believe as an article of faith means only that Essex is that rare soul who can change his ways from that which will deceive a man to those that will win a woman. But if that’s so, why is Frances here? He took a deep breath then, pulling himself back to the present with an effort.

  “Lady Sidney. I’ve come to Doctor Dee because he is one of your husband’s oldest friends, his teacher and wise councilor, and I believe Philip to be in some danger. A danger not wholly to do with this Scottish business.”

  “Indeed?” Frances said, with a lift of her eyebrows. “I should have thought that to be peril enough.”

  Raleigh drew breath again, unable to free himself from her quelling stare, and tried once again to collect his thoughts. “Philip and I have never agreed about arcane matters, nor, therefore, have Doctor Dee and I. But it seems that Philip is moving—beyond—both what Doctor Dee and I know, to something else entirely. Certainly Doctor Dee has told me so much today. And it’s that—new art—which has brought me here, which I have reason to suspect is a cause of danger to him.”

  Frances directed a quick glance toward Dee, surprised that the old man should have revealed so much, but could read nothing in Dee’s still face. The news was nothing new to her: at odds though she had been with Sidney for some years, she had not failed to take note of what he did and who he was. He had changed since Holland—as witness our estrangement, she thought, which nevertheless had nothing to do with some new school of magic, comforting though it might be to think it. That had more to do with youthful folly, a vast embarrassment, even perhaps a love too complicated to be easily articulated. But, more even than the wound that had been the physical cause of so many different troubles, Holland had made Sidney a soldier—and that, she thought, with sudden triumph, that was the real root of this new magic. As he learned that art, he had grown less enchanted with Dee’s rigorous, calculated, deliberate forms of magic. Perhaps there was less need for that discipline, or there was some new discipline, which, she knew, would have to be a more demanding one if Philip were to embrace it. It had always been so, or so even Greville said: each challenge met and mastered meant that Sidney must seek out one newer and more difficult. Having mastered the conventional magic of the angels that Dee taught, Philip had invented one still more rigorous—or had he? she wondered suddenly. Essex had spoken of an ancient book: though he had not fully grasped the significance of what he asked, had sought a purely political advantage. Virgil’s book then was the source of Philip’s new knowledge. How did this trouble Raleigh?

  She smiled slightly. “I do not share in my husband’s studies, Sir Walter. My family have never possessed the Dudley brilliance, in those areas, at least. However, I shall be candid with you. Philip possesses something that the earl of Essex wishes to acquire.”

  “I daresay he does,” Raleigh said grimly. “And he’s not alone. Madam, permit me to ask—does Philip possess a special text of some kind, some ancient book?”

  Frances lifted an eyebrow, buying time, and Dee said softly, “Why do you ask, Sir Walter?”

  Raleigh turned as though goaded. “So that I know exactly what it is his grace—” He gave the words a savage twist. “—of Northumberland wants, and how not to give it to him.”

  “I thought you and the earl were in agreement in arcane matters,” Frances said.

  “So generally we are, but I can’t like the extremes to which Henry’s willing to go.” Raleigh spread his hands like a man abandoning a position. “It’s no longer seeking knowledge for its own sake, for the glorification of God and his gifts or even of England, my lady. It’s all pure greed and jealousy, a kind of madness. After all, he’s known as the Wizard Earl, while Philip’s never had a name in that direction—at least not commonly, though anyone who’s ever participated in the Tilts, or knows him as a scholar, knows better than that. But those are precisely the men who make or break a scholar’s reputation, and Henry’s jealous of them, of the way they regard Philip. And now he’s hinting Philip has some near-mythical text.” He paused, and managed a wry smile. “And I grant you, if anyone could find Virgil’s long-lost book of power, it would be Philip Sidney. And he’s done it, hasn’t he?”

  Frances did not answer for a long moment, weighing her choices. On the one hand, Raleigh had always been Northumberland’s staunch friend and ally, and even if he meant what he said now, she doubted it would take any great use of power on Northumberland’s part to find out anything she revealed. On the other hand, she did not think Raleigh was lying when he said he did not wish the Wizard Earl to take the book—and, more important still, Raleigh had never been a friend to Essex. “Yes,” she said, “he has.”

  Raleigh groaned. “I was afraid of it. Henry will stop at nothing to possess such a thing.”

  “I do wonder,” Frances said, “how Northumberland came to hear of it.”

  Raleigh spun to face her, his eyes widening. “Not through me, ma’am, I swear to it. It was only when Henry started hinting, questioning, that I suspected—guessed, more like. But I didn’t know.”

  Frances smiled up at him. “No, I didn’t think you’d told him, Sir Walter, truly. But someone must have, and I would say I knew just who it was—if only I knew how he’d come to know...”

  “Not Marlowe,” Raleigh said, and Frances laughed aloud.

  “No, not Philip’s poet. Essex, sir, Essex who’s come to me already to hint that there’s a book of doubtful provenance in Philip’s hands, a book he might not be able to control.”

  Raleigh nodded slowly. “That’s the story Henry whispers, too. You may well be right, my lady, and as to how he knows… Philip may well have told him something of it years ago, when they were still friends. Philip used to tell him everything.”

  “He didn’t tell Fulke Greville about it,” Frances said. “Why tell Essex?”

  Raleigh shrugged. “Why not? The boy was plausible enough. And Philip, God bless him, is as susceptible to flattery as the rest of us poor mortals.” He glanced to Dee then, who had listened unmoving to the exchange. “And Essex wants it, too?”

  “He wants to make political use of it, at any rate,” Frances snapped, and with an effort banished the anger from her voice. “I came to you, Doctor Dee, because I know very little of the arcane, nor have I any way of judging how I may help Philip here in England until I know what this book means, and what besides the human threats I understand he may face in Scotland. From you, Sir Walter, I must ask both your silence, and your knowledge of how things stand at court. I have not been there for any length of time, the past three years, and I am out of touch.”

  “However I may serve you, lady, I’m yours to command,” Raleigh answered instantly, and the fervor in his voice was unmistakable.

  Dee cleared his throat gently. “I think Sir Walter’s silence will not serve us at all, Lady Sidney.” Frances frowned, and Dee gave her a rather embarrassed smile.

  “Though I doubt Sir Walter intended any duplicity. But I think his coming here was not entirely at his own behest.

  “Before Philip left for Scotland, he came to me, and we discussed the safety of his text—including the possibility of leaving it here, in my care. Northumberland is a talented man, if misguided. He may have become aware of our discussion.” He turned his smile on Raleigh, who sat open-mouthed. “Though not of our ultimate decision, which was simply that Mortlake is no safe place for a book of that power.”

  Raleigh closed h
is mouth with a snap of teeth. “I did not—I had no intention of bearing tales to Henry, Doctor Dee, so help me Almighty God! I simply wished to know what it was he wanted, to keep it from him—”

  “I believe you.” Dee held up his hand, and added gently, “But you must not blame Lady Sidney if she does not.”

  Frances smiled, forestalling the explorer’s protest. “No, Sir Walter, I do believe you. I’m well enough acquainted with you to know that such treachery isn’t within your nature.”

  “Thank you, Lady Sidney,” Raleigh said, and Dee cleared his throat again.

  “Nonetheless, we may turn this to our advantage, I believe. I do not wish to spend my old age fending off attacks. You must tell Northumberland, Sir Walter, in whatever roundabout way you wish, that I do not have the text. And if you must tell him what text it is, well, I don’t think that will harm Philip either.” Dee turned troubled eyes on Frances then. “Your mission, my lady, is the more important, and I confess I do not know quite where to begin to aid you. If you could stay with me for some few days? We’re no great distance from London, or from the court; perhaps from here you could more easily juggle both politics and magic.”

  “If I can help you, Lady Sidney,” Raleigh began, and Frances smiled at him.

  “I will call on you, Sir Walter, never fear.” She looked back at Dee, her expression hardening. “And I will also accept your offer, Doctor Dee, I assure you. I’d hardly dared hope for so much.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I pray you, good man Fakques, let me have my money, for ye have my money, the which I lost, and that was taken from and conveyed out of my bowchett [purse], for ye have it as it is shewed me by a soothsayer.