The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  They spent that night at an inn just south of the Scottish border. It was a small place, not much frequented except by drovers and their animals, but after some discussion the innkeeper agreed to supply clean linen for at least the best bed, and a few dishes beyond the ordinary. Both bed and extraordinary dinner were, of course, reserved for the two great gentlemen; Marlowe, reduced to a supper of mutton and sharing a lesser bed with a wary young Madox, found himself grateful for Watson’s sigil. The steward rose cursing, scratching at the bites on his wrists and ankles. Marlowe, untouched, allowed himself a sardonic grin, and a few pointed remarks. The grooms, grumbling as they saddled the hacks and backed the carthorses into their traces, concluded bitterly that the devil looked after his own.

  The storm had blown itself out overnight and the morning sky was streaked with ragged clouds. For all that the road was still muddy, Sidney felt his spirits lift in the watery sunshine. The oppression that had haunted them since leaving York seemed to have lifted at last; at the back of the train, a pair of grooms raised their voices in cheerful, bawdy song. Greville grinned, whistling a counterpoint, but after a few verses Peter Covell’s voice reminded the singers that there were children listening. The grooms rode in silence for a few moments, and then one took up the old song of Dives and Lazarus. Despite the quick-moving tune, that was unobjectionable, and Covell signaled his approval by providing a rumbling bass. The innkeeper’s boy, hired to guide them across the border, already excited by the prospect of a day freed from his usual work, bounced happily in the saddle of his employer’s dun gelding. When the singers had finished, he overcame his shyness to suggest The Maid Freed from the Gallows. His tune was unfamiliar to the others, but easily learned. Sidney found himself humming along with the rather ragged chorus, and heard Marlowe’s voice soaring in improvised harmony.

  They sang tavern rounds for a few miles —only the polite ones, in deference to Covell—and then the innkeeper’s boy suggested another song.

  “It’s about the Scottish king’s marriage, how he sent his captains to fetch his bride, and how the witches drowned them all.”

  Sidney started at that but with an effort kept himself from swinging around in the saddle to confront the boy. At his side, Greville gave him an expressive glance.

  Sidney shrugged. “It’s only to be expected,” he said softly, so as not to disturb the boy’s wavering treble, and looked away from Greville’s lifted eyebrow. Anne of Denmark had not been drowned, but the attempt had been made. Stories of the sensational revelations of the witch trials had reached London early; it was not so surprising to find songs made of them, so close to the border. I wonder, he thought suddenly, did I make a mistake, using my powers to banish this—thing? Was there something beneath it, more than just Northumberland’s malice, something I failed to see? He had acted almost without thought, worn down by the miseries of the journey. Did I just play into its hands? If that were so, then the change in the weather took on a rather sinister cast, as though he had been considered and, at last, dismissed.

  In spite of himself, Sidney stood in his stirrups, turning to look back at the line of riders, half expecting to see some monstrous ambush rising from behind the low hills. Instead, the ordinary sights—the grooms in cheap russet and serviceable indigo, singing or idly talking as they rode; Marlowe for once honestly animated, one hand beating time against the saddlebow; the two boys clinging to the piled baggage, still undaunted by the days on the road—made him feel suddenly ashamed. He had been wise not to challenge the presence at Penshurst; now, however, he had acted, and would have to bear the consequences. He frowned thoughtfully. It did not seem likely that this presence, if indeed it had been there at all, could read too much from the spell he had used against it—but even if it could, he told himself firmly, it was done. There was no good to be gained from fretting over it.

  The boy led them easily across the border, leaving them a little after noon on a well-marked track that, he swore with encouraging sincerity, would take them into Roxburgh, where the gentlemen would find an inn much finer than his master’s.

  “I should hope so,” Greville murmured, but waited until the boy was out of earshot.

  Somewhat to everyone’s surprise, the inn proved to be exactly what the boy had said it would be: a clean, well-appointed house in a prosperous town, where young Madox was able to hire the best rooms without fear of disappointment. The innkeeper agreed to send his eldest son, a youth just turned twenty, as a guide not merely for the next day, but for the two days it would take to reach Edinburgh, and for good measure recommended them to his cousin’s inn in Sotray. It was as decent a place as the first, though somewhat sobered by its proximity to the town church, a foreboding structure of grey stone unrelieved by any bright paint or colored glass.

  “As coldly chaste as a presbyter’s boy,” Marlowe said, and was ignored.

  The next morning, since the road to Edinburgh was well marked, young Madox sent one of the grooms ahead on the best hack to inform the Scottish king’s household of their imminent arrival. The rest of the cortege, travelling at a more sober pace, would reach the city around sunset. By mid-afternoon they could see the grey spires and slate roofs of the town from the top of each low hill. The road wound in a leisurely fashion down through the broken country, and Sidney sighed, calculating the time it would take to reach the city walls. At least another hour, on these roads, and perhaps longer, if they had to slow for the cart.

  “Not too much further,” Greville said, deliberately misunderstanding the look, and Sidney gave a reluctant smile. He had been on edge since they left York, partly because of the weather and the uncanny force he had sensed behind it, but also because of the more mundane dangers travelers so often faced in the wild northern lands. He swung in the saddle, reassuring himself for the hundredth time that day. The grooms rode armed, each with a brace of heavy pistols cased at the saddlebow and a falchion at the belt; Covell carried a musket as well, tucked in among the baggage at the front of the cart, easily reached from his place on the tongue. Glancing at the cart, Sidney’s smile became an open grin. The two boys had been bitterly disappointed when van der Droeghe decreed that they could not have pistols of their own, and had only been appeased when the Dutchman explained that they were to be in charge of reloading, should the travelers be attacked. Van der Droeghe had drilled them busily, and the two now swaggered about with shot cases dangling awkwardly from their belts.

  “Sir Philip!” Benjamin Niles, the youngest of the grooms, stood in his stirrups, pointing along the road ahead. “There’s a party coming out from the town!”

  Sidney swore, swinging around in the saddle, and swore again as the hasty movement jarred his aching leg. As Niles had said, a group of riders was clearly visible on the road just outside the main gate. Sidney eased his horse to a walk, trying to make out the details. There were at least a dozen men, he thought, perhaps more, and he thought he saw livery coats among the riders at the back of the procession.

  “A welcoming party, I hope,” Marlowe said, reining in alongside. He slipped his long-barreled pistol back into its case as he spoke.

  “So do I,” Sidney answered, still studying the approaching riders. There was nothing to do but go on, of course, and no real reason to think that the strangers would be hostile, but… “Jan-Maarten!”

  “Sir Philip?” Van der Droeghe eased his horse between Marlowe’s and his master; the poet wrenched his snorting animal away.

  Sidney ignored the byplay. “What do you make of it?”

  Van der Droeghe took his time answering, staring across the low hills toward the city. At last, he shrugged, and said, “I don’t see any muskets, Sir Philip. And the leaders are very well dressed.”

  Sidney frowned, shading his eyes against the sunlight that seeped through the thin clouds, but could make out no details. “All right, Jan-Maarten, thank you. We’ll assume it’s a welcome party—”

  “Wouldn’t it be wiser to assume the opposite, and be surprised later?�
� Greville muttered. Sidney pretended he had not heard.

  “—but have the men be wary.”

  Van der Droeghe touched his forehead. “I’ll see to it, Sir Philip.”

  As the riders drew closer, however, it became obvious that Sidney’s worries were unfounded. The man at the head of the little column was brilliantly dressed, short scarlet-and-gold cloak flying back over a popinjay blue doublet and grotesquely padded breeches, and the man at his left was almost as decorative. The riders behind them were resplendent in dark red livery, badged with the royal lion. Definitely a welcoming party, Sidney thought, and saw Greville surreptitiously adjusting his somewhat battered hat.

  The man in the scarlet cloak brought his party to a halt perhaps twenty yards from the approaching Englishmen, and rode forward alone, doffing his hat and bowing. “Do I have the honor of addressing Sir Philip Sidney?”

  His voice was lightly, almost pleasantly accented. Sidney bowed in return. “I am Sir Philip Sidney.”

  “Welcome to Scotland, Sir Philip.” The Scotsman straightened gracefully. “I am John Erskine, Earl of Mar. His Majesty sent myself and Lord John Hamilton—” he gestured to the bravely dressed man behind him, “—to escort you to Holyrood, knowing you would be tired after such a long time on the road. His majesty sends his apologies for not meeting you himself, but the affairs of state press on him.”

  “I’m grateful to his majesty for sending us so exalted an escort,” Sidney answered, wondering how long the exchange of courtesies would continue. “May I present to you Fulke Greville, a close friend of mine and of her majesty’s?”

  “Honored, sir.” Mar bowed again, and gestured to his escort. The train of liveried riders divided, backing their horses off the narrow track, and turning them to form a double line along the edges of the road. “If you would do me the honor of riding with me, Sir Philip,” the earl continued.

  Flashy, Sidney thought, but kept his face impassive. “I thank you, my lord.”

  Mar wheeled his horse—another parade-ground movement—and took his place at Sidney’s right hand. Greville, hiding his grin, held back, and waited for Lord John to take the place beside him. The gentlemen rode forward, and, after a moment’s hesitation, the rest of the train followed them. The liveried servants waited impassively for them to pass, and then fell in at the end of the line of riders.

  Holyrood was a pretty, surprisingly modern palace, with long windows set into the sides of the hall, and into the walls of the multiple towers. The pale stone seemed almost to glow in the evening light. Sidney stared up at the buildings, smiling in honest pleasure, and Mar cleared his throat nervously.

  “His majesty suggested that, since he himself is unable to welcome you at the moment, you and your party might wish to refresh yourselves first.”

  Sidney nodded. “That’s very kind of his majesty. I’d be glad of a chance to rest—perhaps to bathe? —before dinner.” He touched the aching, knotted bone above his right knee, and Mar nodded.

  “Of course, Sir Philip, everything can be arranged as you wish. In fact—” He hesitated, glancing at Hamilton, then hurried on. “In fact, his majesty suggested that, since it is already so late, he would hold you excused if you wished to go directly to your rooms. He would be willing to see you in the morning, if you chose.”

  “I would prefer that,” Sidney said frankly. “It’s extremely gracious of his majesty.”

  And it was gracious, he thought, as he dismounted and followed a bowing servant into the palace. More gracious than I would have expected, in fact. I can only hope this bodes well for our mission.

  PART THREE

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dreams out of the ivory gate, and visions before midnight...

  Sir Thomas Browne, On Dreams

  The queen of England walked in her garden at Richmond, ignoring the murmuring knot of courtiers clustered at the far end of the flower-bordered path. Her oyster-colored skirts, embroidered in black and silver, brushed the close-cropped herbs to either side of the flagstones, but she was hardly aware of the heady fragrance thus released. She toyed with the great rope of pearls around her neck—pearls that had once belonged to the queen of Scots, though that reflection brought little comfort this day, made her think instead of her own inevitable mortality. She frowned, but could not banish the thought, or the memory of the dream that had brought her bolt upright in her bed, hands pressed to her mouth to keep from screaming.

  In that dream she had lain dead, flesh, coffin, winding sheet all decayed, so that she was a tangle of bones and earth, and the roots of trees that twisted through the remains of her shroud. She had been surprisingly content to be dead, to be so peaceful, but then, quite slowly, she’d become aware of the voices that whispered around her, sifting through the earth and sliding along the tendrils of the roots. They whispered first of disloyalty, a parliament in defiance against its anointed king, then, laughing, of civil war, Englishman against Englishman until the land ran with blood and the countrymen in desperation turned against all strangers, striking down any who ventured near, robbing and killing without hope or purpose. I will not have it, she had cried, though the dirt filled the mouth of her bare skull, how dare you treat my England so?, and she had struggled to rise, to throw off the earth that bound her, so that she might whip the rebels back to their kennels—she had done that once in her girlhood; she could answer the threat again—and heal her kingdom’s wounds. But the grave had held her fast, the roots become little sharp devils’ hands that clutched and kept her, so that she could only weep and rage, pebbles rolling soft against her skull like tears.

  She frowned again, new tears stinging her eyes, and swore bitterly. This would never do, this moping; a prince must act. But act how? she demanded. Who is the enemy, and where do I strike? Doctor Dee would know, of that she was certain, or he could find out, but she disliked his methods. She swore again, and turned back toward the waiting courtiers, well aware that one or two cringed at her approach. The Earl of Essex was not among those, at least, and her spirits lifted a little. Foolishly proud he might be—though I will break him of that fault before I make more use of him, she vowed—but that pride made him brave, and he was a vastly handsome man, and the black and silver that he affected for her sake flattered his fairness enormously.

  “Well, my lords,” she said, lifting her voice so that it carried to the most distant courtier. “What can you propose for our entertainment this day?”

  One or two of the younger men exchanged glances, and the Earl of Pembroke bowed low. Elizabeth held up her hand. “Don’t waste your breath, my lord,” she said, and was meanly glad of an excuse to vent her temper. “I’ll restore no players, nor no playwrights, neither.”

  Pembroke bowed again, and effaced himself. Elizabeth glared at her courtiers. “Well, my lords?”

  “Perhaps her majesty would care to ride.” That was a voice the queen had not heard in some weeks, and she looked up in some surprise.

  “I was not aware you had returned to court, Sir Walter.”

  Raleigh bowed very low indeed. “Only just returned, your Majesty, and beg your leave to present my most humble respects.”

  Elizabeth eyed him thoughtfully. He was dressed in white and black, impudently reversing Essex’s preferred colors, and she was conscious of an old pleasure at this sign of rivalry. Not yet dead and buried, my lords, she thought, and said, “Your return is opportune, Sir Walter, since you alone seem to have some desire to please your queen.”

  There was an outcry at that, the other young men protesting their willingness to serve her even unto death, and Raleigh bowed again. “Nay, your Majesty, I must confess another motive.”

  “Indeed, sir?” Elizabeth’s voice was cool, but inwardly she was not displeased.

  “I almost fear to acknowledge it, your Majesty, but I hoped you might, an you liked my proposal, allow me the privilege of riding with you.” Raleigh saw the queen’s smile and allowed himself a roguish glance in Essex’s direction.

&nbs
p; “Well, Sir Walter, that seems small enough reward.” Essex was scowling, Elizabeth saw, and lifted an eyebrow at him. He did not take the hint, and both eyebrows rose. She smiled deliberately at Raleigh. “Too small, in truth, when no one else seems willing to do me service. You shall certainly ride with me, and you alone.”

  “Your Majesty does me too great honor,” Raleigh answered. “I am overcome.”

  “Not too overcome to ride, I trust,” Elizabeth said.

  “Your Majesty’s grace revives me.” Raleigh bowed again, and offered her his arm. At Elizabeth’s nod, one of the white-clad pages darted off to warn the stables; by the time queen and courtier reached the palace’s main courtyard, the horses were saddled and waiting, several grooms and two of the queen’s ladies already mounted to ride with them. Elizabeth allowed Raleigh to lift her into the saddle, and gathered the horse easily beneath her. Raleigh swung himself neatly into the saddle of his own glossy chestnut, and turned to face the queen.

  “And where did you intend us to ride?” Elizabeth asked, forestalling the courtly deference. “For I’m quite sure you had a place in mind.”

  “Your Majesty is far too wise for me to deceive her,” Raleigh answered. “I did think—I had thought we might ride along the river.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “With what destination in mind?”

  “Mortlake, your Majesty, and Doctor Dee.” The courtly flattery had vanished from Raleigh’s face and voice. “It seems—I greatly fear that there’s an English dimension to this Scottish trouble.”

  I more than half expected that, Elizabeth thought, but she said nothing. There were men in plenty intriguing to have her name her successor—Parliament itself had committed the major blunder of making that demand its last session—and she was aware that not a few of those not privy to her intentions were nonetheless backing James’s chances. Raleigh, however, was not one of them—to the best of her knowledge, he preferred his own cousin Arabella Stuart. Which is not surprising, she thought, if somewhat less than politic. She frowned slightly. There had been no word from Sidney since his departure, of course, though Cecil had relayed the report of one of his agents saying that the party was well advanced on its way... By the mass, she thought, Philip can barely have reached Edinburgh yet, and already the dogs are yapping at his heels. She controlled her temper with an effort, remembering her dream. Perhaps it would be better to hear Dee’s explanation of it, she thought, and nodded. “Very well, Sir Walter, Mortlake it is.”