The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  It was a pleasant ride to Mortlake, across Richmond park and then along the river, but Elizabeth barely saw the countryside, her mind instead leaping ahead to picture the meeting with Doctor Dee. As the procession turned onto Mortlake’s main street, she roused herself to answer the cheers of horde of villagers, and to accept a speech—a very pretty speech—and a posy from the aldermen. She dismounted then, and thanked each one, reducing even the most severe precisian among them to the blushing stammer of a schoolboy, before she allowed Raleigh to turn their path toward Dee’s house.

  The astronomer had been privy to Raleigh’s plan, and his family had had ample warning of the queen’s approach. The entire household was drawn up in respectful rank before the main door, Dee and his wife and children in the center, the servants, from the patient steward down to the kitchen maid and the boy who turned the spit, arranged to either side. They made their deepest curtsies as the queen made her way up the narrow track, and did not lift their heads until Raleigh had handed her down out of her saddle.

  “Doctor Dee, I thank you for this welcome,” Elizabeth said, and pitched her voice to carry. It would do no harm to Dee’s reputation for the neighborhood to hear her speak his praise. “You’ve ever been my good and faithful servant.”

  “Your Majesty, I’m deeply honored that you should condescend to visit me,” Dee answered. “May it please your Majesty, my wife has prepared a small repast within, if you would honor us by partaking of it.”

  “It would be my pleasure, Doctor Dee,” Elizabeth answered. “Once we’ve attended to my business.” She swept her gaze along the waiting figures, and her eyes narrowed. The slight, doll-like figure in the brocade gown stiff with golden braid was none of Dee’s kin. “Lady Sidney,” she said aloud, “I did not expect to find you here.”

  Frances Sidney curtsied to the ground. “I came here out of concern for my husband, your Majesty.”

  Elizabeth’s painted eyebrows rose, but she contented herself with a sardonic smile. “We will go within, Doctor Dee.”

  Dee bowed her into the house, and then into his study, where the best chair had been hastily covered with an expensive turkey carpet. Elizabeth sank into it with some relief—it had been a jolting ride—and accepted a goblet of chilled wine from Dee’s wide-eyed grandson. The boy seemed inclined to linger, but Dee hurried him off as soon as his errand was complete, and closed the study door behind him.

  “How may I serve your Majesty?” he asked, with another deep bow.

  Elizabeth took her time answering, looking deliberately from the astronomer to Lady Sidney to Raleigh, and back to Dee again. “I believe,” she said at last, “that the question is rather what you want of me?”

  Raleigh and Frances exchanged quick glances, and then Frances curtsied again. “Indeed, your Majesty, there was a favor I wished to beg of you, for Philip’s sake as well as my own, but you spoke of business. That must take precedence.”

  “I think it falls to me to decide such questions,” Elizabeth said sharply. “This favor, Lady Sidney?”

  “Your Majesty.” With a movement as abrupt as it was unplanned and unpracticed, Frances dropped to her knees at the queen’s feet, her skirts billowing about her unheeded. “I knew when Philip left for Scotland that he was going into danger. Now—”

  She hesitated for an instant, seeking the safest words. Essex was still high in the queen’s favor; she did not dare go too far. “I have reason to fear that he has enemies at court as well. It’s being whispered that he uses illicit magics; ill-intentioned persons hint that he trafficks with demons himself. Your Majesty knows as well as I this is untrue.”

  Elizabeth stared for a moment at the younger woman. Just like your father, she thought. He always had that trick to presenting me with facts, indisputable but unpalatable, and waiting to see what I would do with them. Will a point-blank question confound you, too, I wonder? “What do you expect me to do about it, Lady Sidney? It is often wisest to ignore rumor.”

  Frances blinked, momentarily disconcerted, but rallied. “I ask only that your Majesty promise to withhold judgment on any such—perverse accusations—until Philip can return to defend himself. Even your Majesty’s champion cannot fight in two lists at once.”

  Elizabeth threw back her head and laughed shortly. “By the mass, you are your father’s daughter. Very well, Lady Sidney, you’ll have my word on it—if Doctor Dee can give me his assessment of these tales.” She saw a look of injury flicker across Dee’s face, and added hastily, “I don’t truly doubt him, or you, doctor, but there are certain circumstances...” She let her voice trail off, then continued, more slowly, “I dreamed last night that I was dead, and that England had come to that pass of which your spirit, Doctor Dee, warned us. A dreadful dream... But is it true, or is it some lying vision of these same demons, and what’s to be done to prevent more of the same?”

  Dee bowed his head, either in thought or in prayer, before answering. “As to whether the dream was true or false, your Majesty, I cannot say with any certainty. It could indeed be another warning, benevolently meant, or alternatively it could be the sending of some hostile creature, seeking to create fear from a godly vision. Or in truth it could be nothing at all, I cannot say for certain. But, for the other… “

  His voice trailed off as he turned toward the high cabinet that stood against the wall between the long shelves of books. He rummaged in its depths until he found a green glass jar as tall as a man’s forearm. He drew that out and set it on his table, tugging at the stopper that sealed its wide mouth. The cork came away slowly, and released a wonderful fragrance, musk and roses and other, softer herbs. Elizabeth smiled involuntarily, and Dee looked almost shy. “If your Majesty would accept an ounce or two of this, and place it in a linen purse beneath your pillow, I think you will no longer be troubled by such dreams.”

  Even as he spoke, he ladled a careful measure of the dried mixture onto the pan of the balance that stood beside his German clock, and set two small weights in the opposite pan. When the two lay equal, he poured the herbs onto a square of paper, and closed it with an apothecary’s twist. Elizabeth accepted it with a smile.

  “Thank you, doctor, I believe I shall sleep well tonight.”

  “For absolute efficacy,” Dee said, almost as though he had forgotten to whom he was speaking, “it should be placed in a purse prepared for it, with certain signs embroidered on it.” He seemed to recall himself, and bobbed a sort of bow. “With your Majesty’s permission, one of my daughters will make that, and I will send it to the palace—your Majesty’s at Richmond?”

  “Yes. That would be most kind,” Elizabeth answered.

  “Your Majesty. “ Frances, kneeling still at the queen’s feet, could hear the urgency in her own voice. “I must beg another, and a greater, favor.”

  Elizabeth looked down at her in some surprise. “Say on, Lady Sidney.”

  “That Philip has enemies at court I knew, that they move against him now does not surprise me.” Frances looked up, her delicate face hardening abruptly. “But that they have chosen to turn arcane weapons against him—and against your Majesty—changes matters. I wish your Majesty’s permission to travel to Scotland, to warn him.”

  “What, not a messenger?” Raleigh exclaimed, and Elizabeth said, “There’s no proof that this dream of mine was an attack, Lady Sidney.”

  “Do you dare assume it was not?” Frances responded.

  A true Walsingham, Elizabeth thought, and smiled. “I concede I cannot.”

  “Your Majesty is always honest.” Frances looked to Raleigh. “I dare not send a messenger, Sir Walter, not now. None of them could stand against a wizard’s attack.”

  “And you consider yourself to be invulnerable?” Raleigh exclaimed.

  “I intend to ask Doctor Dee for some protection,” Frances answered steadily, and lifted her chin. “Moreover, not even N—” She stopped, abruptly aware that pride had almost betrayed her, and Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.

  “Not even who?
” she demanded. “Speak, girl, in this matter your husband’s enemies are mine.”

  Frances hesitated, uncertain of her ground, and Raleigh cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, what I suspect is very far from a certainty, and concerns a man I had counted my clear friend.”

  Elizabeth said curtly, “Explain yourself, Sir Walter.”

  “These rumors that Lady Sidney spoke of,” Raleigh said. “I have some reason to fear that Northumberland is somehow involved.”

  “Indeed,” Elizabeth said softly. “Indeed.” She looked down at Frances again. “Very well, Lady Sidney, you have my permission, and my blessing.”

  “I have one further request, your Majesty,” Frances said, “and I fear you’ll think this the greatest impertinence yet.”

  Will I? Elizabeth thought, and kept her face still with an effort. The only thing I’m like to think an impertinence is if you ask me to send Essex with you. That I will not tolerate.

  “Send Sir Walter as my escort.” If Frances had sensed the disapproval in the queen’s bearing, she gave no sign of it. “He knows Northumberland’s magics, he may be able to help Philip once we reach the north.”

  By the mass, the queen thought, and could not hide her dawning smile, by the mass and the host and the wine, too, you do love him, even if you haven’t quite noticed it yourself. “You choose wisely, Lady Sidney,” she said aloud. “Sir Walter, you’ll oblige me by accepting.”

  “It would give me the greatest pleasure,” Raleigh answered instantly. “I thank your Majesty.”

  Elizabeth pushed herself slowly to her feet, feeling her years catch in her joints, and nodded to the astronomer, still standing by his table. “I leave you to your plans, Lady Sidney, Sir Walter. Doctor Dee, you spoke of a small meal? I would not like to disappoint your wife.”

  “Your Majesty honors our house,” Dee answered, and hastened to throw open the door.

  Elizabeth paused in the open doorway, looking back at the two who remained behind. “Is there anyone else of whom I should be wary? Be plain, I command you.”

  Frances hesitated, well aware of Raleigh’s anguished glance of appeal. Essex was the royal favorite, could do no wrong in Elizabeth’s eyes, and she knew she should say nothing—and yet, he moved against her husband, and therefore, by the queen’s own logic, against England itself. She said, choosing her words with exquisite care, “Your Majesty. I can only urge you to have a care of those who would drive where they should follow.”

  Elizabeth frowned. That had an echo of an unpleasant remark Essex had made some months before, when she had banished him from court as a curb to his pride—and, knowing the Walsinghams, the girl had meant precisely that. “Sir Philip should be pleased he’s not married to a coward,” she said, but the words lacked the usual bite of a royal rebuke. “I will bear your words in mind.”

  She swept from the room, without waiting for an answer. Frances gave a sigh of relief, and rose stiffly from her knees.

  “You’re a lucky woman, Lady Sidney,” Raleigh said. Frances darted a glance at him, an almost impish smile hovering on her lips. “I trust I’ll remain so,” she said. “I hope you don’t regret your decision, Sir Walter?”

  “Not yet, Lady Sidney,” Raleigh answered. “Not yet.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  In the earth God hath assigned princes with other governors under them, all in good and necessary order. The water above is kept and raineth down in due time and season. The sun moon stars rainbow thunder lightning clouds and all birds of the air do keep their order.

  Homily of Obedience

  The rooms assigned to the Englishmen were surprisingly comfortable, well furnished, well aired, and warmed by huge fireplaces set beneath mantels carved in the new English style. Sidney sighed with pleasure when servants brought a tub and steaming buckets, and allowed his valet to ease him out of his riding clothes. The same servants bore away his shirt and stockings, while young Madox, his face set into an expression of grudging approval, supervised the unpacking, arguing in a low voice with the valet Barton over the proper clothes for the next day.

  Sidney ignored them all, crouching beneath the bath curtains. The hot water had helped ease the worst of the pain in his leg. Still, it ached fiercely, and he ladled another handful of water over the twisted scar. It was an ugly thing even now, nearly nine years after he had fallen. He ran his fingers absently across the seamed white flesh, tracing each wound. This, the central knot as big as his palm that was the source of the throbbing pain, was where the musket ball had hit; the long, thin cut slicing diagonally down toward his knee was the mark of the first, unsuccessful probe. This and this—he traced two more short scars radiating out from the central wound—were two more probes, one for the flattened ball and the other for bits and pieces of the thighbone. He shivered, remembering the weeks of agony in Holland, and snatched his hand away.

  “Barton! “

  “Sir.” The valet appeared instantly, Sidney’s nightgown and nightshirt draped across his arm. Nathanial hovered at his side, holding a heavy towel. Sidney freed himself from the clinging curtains, and levered himself, wincing, out of the bath. Nathanial stepped forward as he’d been taught, eyes widening at the sight of the knotted scar. Sidney’s mouth twitched in reluctant amusement, but he controlled the urge to laugh, and took the proffered towel. The air was chill, despite the generous fire. He shivered, and was very glad to wrap the heavy gown around his shoulders. Nathanial brought his nightcap, and Sidney settled it on his damp hair, grateful for the additional warmth.

  “Sir Philip?”

  Sidney turned. “Yes, Madox?”

  The young steward bowed. “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, but his majesty of Scotland’s sent a message.”

  “Show the man in, by all means,” Sidney said, sighing.

  “The gentleman’s left already,” young Madox answered, stammering in sudden confusion. “I thought—”

  “What was the message?” Sidney asked, well aware of Barton’s smirk of pleasure at the younger man’s discomfiture.

  “His majesty welcomes you to Scotland,” young Madox parroted, “and would be pleased to receive you tomorrow morning. He invites you also to a banquet in your honor tomorrow night.”

  Sidney nodded thoughtfully. He had really expected nothing less. “Very well. I’ll wear the black tomorrow, Barton. And the green and gold for the banquet.”

  It was the valet’s turn to be discomfited—he had wished his master to wear the green and gold for the royal reception—but he bowed obediently, hiding his chagrin.

  “Is everything else in order, Madox?” Sidney continued.

  “Yes, Sir Philip. The household is very comfortably lodged, and the other gentlemen’s rooms are as they should be.”

  “Excellent.” Sidney hid a yawn, suddenly aware of his own exhaustion. “Then you may go.”

  The steward bowed himself out. Sidney, stretching, allowed Barton to turn down the sheets, and settled himself against the cool linen. The valet drew the heavy bed curtains. Sidney lay in the sudden dark, listening with half an ear to the trained quiet movements of his household as they finished unpacking the baggage, until, at last, he slept.

  Marlowe leaned against the window frame, staring out into the twilit courtyard. It was late, but the sky still held a violet glow, as though this northern sun had withdrawn only a little distance from the horizon. It was a strange, eerie light, oddly beautiful; he turned words over and over in his mind, looking for some image that would capture the faerie colors. Faerie…. Yes, that was part of it but not Spenser’s kingdom. This was an older, darker world, before the poets had reclaimed and reshaped it—as Scotland was an older, darker kingdom than Elizabeth’s England, he realized suddenly. What a play I could write here, with these colors, these hills and shadows, to inspire me. I could almost think my namesake Merlin lived beneath those hills... Unbidden, an image rose in his mind, drawn from a scrap of university reading: the boy-wizard, child of no human father, standing fearless before
the wicked king Vortigern, prophesying the king’s death. There was a play in that, certainly. He could almost hear his Ganymede declaiming the prophecy, the cool ironic voice pointing up the rich images…

  “Master Marlowe?” The voice of the servant who had unpacked the baggage shattered the forming speech.

  Marlowe swallowed a curse, and forced himself to answer reasonably. “Are you done?”

  “Yes, sir.” The servant was Scots, but understandable. “I was told to tell you, the king will receive Sir Philip and his party tomorrow morning, and there will be a banquet of welcome tomorrow night.”

  Wonderful, Marlowe thought sourly, but said only, “Thank you, that will be all.”

  The servant bowed himself out, leaving the poet standing by the window. A lighted candelabrum stood on the larger of the two tables, and, after a moment, Marlowe crossed to it, catching up his writing case in passing. Merlin was a subject for another time; for now, he had his Penthesilea to consider. He pulled out paper and stoppered inkwell, then hastily trimmed his pen, his mind already busy with the lines that would prepare Achilles’ entrance. Henslowe would complain about the expense of two severed heads on top of so many skulls, but what an entrance it would be. He took a deep breath, and began to write.