He worked until well past midnight, but despite that, he woke long before the servant appeared to bring his breakfast, and sat for a while in shirt and tattered stockings, contemplating his meager wardrobe. With the reception and the banquet taking place the same day, he could not wear his best doublet for both: even with the change of sleeves, it would be only too obvious that he had only the one good suit. The peach satin would have to suffice for the reception—and it was Sidney’s own fault if it made him look pinch-penny. In spite of that resolve, however, he spent some time smoothing the crumpled flax-blue braid that trimmed the body and the padded shoulder rolls, and sent the servant who appeared with the breakfast of small beer and bread for a barber.
When the man had finished and bowed himself out, Marlowe contemplated his reflection in the small hand mirror, stooping and twisting slightly to see as much of his body as possible. Clean-shaven, and with his hair trimmed back to something approaching neatness, he looked less like a London bravo; the wide John-the-Baptist ruff helped hide the way the braid had begun to come unstitched below the collar, and the broken button at the neck. The slightly darker trunk hose were the short French style, going out of fashion now, but they set off the line of his leg well. All in all, he thought, with some satisfaction, it was a creditable picture. He adjusted his tall hat to the proper angle, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, put aside the mirror to unknot the black silk cord he wore in lieu of an earring. Smiling slightly to himself, he felt through the pouch that held his few pieces of jewelry until he found the garnet studded cross, and worked the loop of wire through his earlobe. Another ironic gift from Thomas Walsingham, he thought, and his smile widened, remembering precisely where it had been given. He could still smell the cloying sweetness of the plague-herbs hung at the four corners of the bed, and the stink of tallow candles.
Wages of sin, a mocking voice whispered from the hearth. In the same moment, Marlowe caught a glimpse of a small black shape, and heard the scraping of claws on stone as it scuttled out of sight. He swung around, heart in his throat, but the hearth was empty. Instinctively he lifted a hand to cross himself, but stopped, the gesture unfinished, and let his hand fall to his side. What the—whatever it was—had said was true enough: the pretty earring and the silver chain and half his possessions were just such gifts, and the wages of that sin and a dozen others he cheerfully practiced were eternal death…
As I should know, he added, reaching for the defiant detachment he had cultivated for years, who was a divinity student six years. And what is that thing to remind me of it? He shivered then, imagination supplying details of the imperfectly glimpsed shape. As soon as he could, he would enclose the room in a circle of Solomon, to prevent any more visitations of this sort. Until then… His hand went to the breast of his doublet, feeling for the sigil beneath the layers of cloth. Until then, he would have to trust that Watson had known how to use his talents. He sighed, and lifted the mirror for the last time, giving his hat a final rakish tilt. His face was very pale, and he rubbed at his cheeks like a woman until some color returned. Only then did he move to join the rest of Sidney’s party.
As always, Marlowe was the last to arrive, but this time, at least, he was not actually late. Sidney gave his entourage a final measuring glance, taking in the poet’s rather battered finery, Greville’s dove-grey magnificence, the boy Nathanial dwarfed by his plumed cap and braided doublet, listening huge-eyed to Barton’s last-minute instructions, and nodded to himself. “Is the escort here, Madox?”
“Just arrived, Sir Philip.” The steward bowed, his hand on the door.
“Then let’s go,” Sidney said.
The escort, a pair of liveried servants and a very superior-seeming secretary in a soberly expensive brown velvet suit, led them through the long halls, past knots of courtiers who bowed with practiced insouciance and then whispered together eagerly as soon as the group had passed. Sidney was very aware of the chorus of voices, but did not dignify it with his notice.
The royal reception room was crowded, sunlight streaming in through the long windows to make the courtiers’ satins and velvets jewel-bright, and striking cold sparks from gold braid and precious stones. The secretary paused just inside the doorway, and announced, “Sir Philip Sidney!”
There was a moment of silence, and then a quick murmur of interest. Sidney took a deep breath, and started toward the paired thrones that stood at the far end of the room. Nate Hawker kept pace at his side, carrying the elaborately sealed letters of introduction. Among the groups of brightly-dressed courtiers, Sidney could see a few men all in black, some with Geneva bands, some without, and then still others in drab academic gowns. Protestant divines, he guessed, and possibly scholars from St. Andrews, but pride forbade him to be seen to look more closely. At the base of the low dais, he paused, bowing deeply.
“Welcome to Scotland, Sir Philip,” James said, and pushed himself to his feet. James’s queen followed suit, her heavy gown rustling loudly.
Sidney blinked at the unexpected honor, but said, with tolerable aplomb, “May I present my credentials, your Majesty?”
As he had been taught, Nathanial came forward to kneel at the king’s feet, offering the sealed letters. James took them with a nod of thanks, and a flickering glance toward someone standing in the crowd behind Sidney, and broke the first seal. Sidney allowed himself an almost noiseless sigh, and glanced toward the king, studying him curiously.
James of Scotland was a man of middling height some twelve years Sidney’s junior, but he seemed shorter than he was because of bowed legs and a tendency to stoop. To make himself a smaller target, Sidney guessed, with a quick rush of sympathy. His face was long, saturnine, and made even longer by a pointed sandy beard. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes were oddly restless. Even while he read, they darted about almost of their own volition. Anne of Denmark waited patiently at her husband’s shoulder, her good-natured mouth curving into a faint calm smile.
Her brown eyes were her best feature, letting a man overlook the aggressive nose. Ox-eyed, Sidney thought, ox-eyed Hera, and somehow it was a flattering epithet for the woman James had called his “earthly Juno. “ Her gown was cut scandalously low, her breasts only partially veiled by a lace kerchief tucked into the front of her bodice. For an appalled instant, Sidney thought he saw not merely the lace edge of her chemise, but the coral edge of a nipple, and looked away in haste.
James finished looking through the documents—more thoroughly than was strictly polite, but Sidney felt no offense had been meant. James was simply determined to prove to all and himself that he had no further need of guardians or regents or protectors. He looked up and smiled at the English ambassador, and the movement completely transformed his face, so singularly sweet was the smile.
“Well, Sir Philip. It’s honor enough to welcome the first gentleman of Europe, but now I may greet you as England’s ambassador. And ’tis a fair honor our cousin Elizabeth does us. Pray make your companions known to me.”
Sidney bowed again. “With pleasure, your Majesty. I present to you Fulke Greville, secretary of the principality of Wales, gentleman of her majesty’s court, poet, scholar, and historian.”
Greville made his best bow—a gesture Elizabeth had often commended—and James nodded his appreciation.
“Master Greville, aye, sir, we have heard your name spoken here, and always with respect and affection. England flatters our appetite for learning mightily, I fear—and yet, it’s most kindly thought on, Sir Philip.”
“I thank your Majesty,” Sidney murmured. “Knowing of your Majesty’s love for the theater, I took the liberty of bringing along my protégé, Master Christopher Marlowe.”
An almost frightened light flared in James’s eyes, but it was immediately suppressed, as though from long practice, and replaced by a look of wary interest and frank assessment. Sidney restrained a sigh, and then a grin. James might well prove to be Marlowe’s match, sharing his taste in bedmates, and likely to be more interested in Kit than t
he poet would be comfortable with. And Marlowe was looking rather handsome, in a particularly raffish way... Marlowe discomfited: it was an interesting thought.
James’s dark eyes flickered back to Sidney. “A formidable array of talent you’ve brought with you, Sir Philip. It does our court honor. “ The eyes slid sideways again, glancing from Marlowe to the person in the crowd, and back to Sidney. “And yet from what our cousin of England says, you are the most talented of the lot, Sir Philip. A gentleman well versed in arcane matters, she says.”
Sidney bowed again, hiding his surprise as best he could. He had expected James to conceal that part of the queen’s letter, or at least to gloss over it as quickly as possible—and if he didn’t, Sidney thought, with a sudden chill, it can only mean that things have gotten worse since I left London. “I have made some study of such things, your Majesty,” he temporized. “It is kind of you to mention them.” The exchange of compliments past, he returned to his original script. “Her majesty has entrusted me with a gift for Prince Henry, to commemorate his safe recovery, and sends with it her prayers for his continued good health.”
At Sidney’s discreet gesture, Nathanial held out a red velvet purse embroidered in gold with the Scottish lion. Inside were five hundred pounds in gold, and a gilt-silver plate: more contributions to the king’s economy, under the fiction of a present for the year-old prince. James took the purse, whistled softly at its weight, and beckoned to a grey-bearded man in a long gown.
“I’ll give this into your charge, my lord Treasurer, for it seems to belong to your department. You may tell her Majesty that I—and my son, of course—are very grateful for her generosity.” Sidney bowed in answer, and the king continued quickly, “But for now, Sir Philip, I’d be grateful if you would give me the benefit of your learning, in private. Johnnie—” He nodded toward the Earl of Mar, in the front rank of the courtiers. “—I trust you’ll see our guests are properly entertained.”
Mar bowed deeply in acknowledgement, murmuring some deferential response.
“Your Majesty honors me,” Sidney murmured, and was aware of Greville’s whispered exclamation at his back. So you’ve come to the same conclusion, Fulke, he thought. I just wish the matter were in your hands, and not mine.
“Then let’s withdraw.” James turned without waiting for an answer, and started toward a painted door set into the wall beside the dais. His bowed legs made his walk ungainly. We must make quite a pair, Sidney thought, with an inward smile, my limp and his stagger. He could hear the rising noise of the courtiers behind him, but did not turn. Greville would have no difficulty dealing with Mar, or with keeping Marlowe in line—though from all accounts, the poet’s behavior was no worse than the king’s.
The withdrawing-room was hung with tapestries, some panels slightly faded from the sun that streamed in the single long window. French work, Sidney thought, and wondered if they had belonged to James’s unfortunate mother. Then the king had seated himself with a grunt in the room’s single chair, and waved for Sidney to take one of the padded stools. Sidney did so, and a spotty page brought wine and comfits. Sidney refused the latter—he disliked sweets at such an early hour—but the wine at least was good. He sipped cautiously at it, regarding James over the rim of the silver goblet. The king picked nervously at the tray of sweets, then, sighing visibly, dismissed the page and leaned forward slightly.
“Our cousin of England has offered me your services in our troubles,” he said abruptly. “Are you willing?”
Sidney blinked, somewhat taken aback by the abruptness of the request. “I will of course do all I can to aid your Majesty,” he temporized, “but I must confess, I’m not sure what it is you’re asking of me.”
James smiled briefly, but his eyes slid away toward the tapestries as though he expected to see something lurking in their folds. “You will have heard that we have been plagued by witchcraft here in Scotland.”
The statement seemed rhetorical, but the king paused as though he expected some answer. After a moment, Sidney said, “Her majesty did tell me that much, sire, yes. But she didn’t tell me anything of its—manifestations.”
“Oh, we’ve had enough of those.” James bit back some further comment, his hands closing into fists. “Things that creep about the corridors at night, things that whisper in corners, things that laugh and make mock—” He broke off then, and managed to continue more calmly. “That is bad enough, and dangerous enough. But at least they’ve done no overt harm, though they’ve frightened the women at the court half to death—you may have noticed, Sir Philip, that there’s a shortage of wives and daughters here at Holyrood? It’s because they’re afraid to stay, and I cannot blame them for it. And there’s no telling what harm these things might encourage in persons who are—shall we say, weak-minded? Perhaps already have done… “ He took a deep breath. “More important than these—hauntings—is this: there was a poppet found, in the rooms of a noble whom I had cause to suspect of treachery. He was a friend of Lord Home, who in turn is an ally of my great enemy Bothwell. Sir Philip, that poppet was meant for me, and only God’s providence allowed us to find it before it was used against me.” James shuddered visibly. “We sought to arrest and question him, of course, but he evaded us. We found him two days later, dead—strangled—at the bottom of the deepest oubliette in Edinburgh Castle, with marks on his neck made by no human hands.”
“God have mercy on him,” Sidney murmured automatically, then wondered if James would consider the reaction entirely appropriate. He said, more loudly, “And from that time forward, you’ve had no clues as to who might be behind this?”
James shook his head, and managed a bitter grin. “Suspicions I have in plenty, Sir Philip—I can name you three men who consider themselves to have more right to the throne than I, and if I’m killed there’s only baby Henry between themselves and rule—and then there’s Bothwell, who’s played these little games before—but no, I have no real proof of anything.”
“Bothwell? Secretary Burleigh mentioned the name to me.”
James took the bait without looking twice at it. “And well he might. Five years ago—he was behind that plot, playing master to that coven of witches.” He leaned forward even further, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “And I tell you, Sir Philip, I’ve made a study of such matters, and I know. These were real witches, pledged to the devil himself. Why, one of them told me exactly what I’d said to Anne on our wedding night—” He broke off, flushing. “But no matter. It was Bothwell who egged them on, who paid for the materials they needed for their noxious rites. Still, I banished him last year, and as best my spies can determine, he’s still in France. Surely no witch has that much power, to torment me from across the seas.”
“It seems unlikely,” Sidney agreed. Privately, he was not so sure. Certainly the presence he had experienced was that powerful—but there was still no reason to think it was the Scottish earl. “Did Bothwell ever show any signs of possessing so much power?”
James snorted. “A good deal of impudence, yes, but not so much power. Had he been so strong five years ago, I wouldn’t still be living.”
It was a good point, but not decisive, Sidney thought. Men could learn much in five years. Still, the point remained unsettled, and he put it aside. “How may I serve your Majesty?”
James shuddered again, his eyes roving nervously around the room. “Last night,” he said softly, “last night as I lay abed, I felt a chill. I looked up, and saw the bedcurtainsbed curtains opened, and a—a demon peering through them. It had eyes like hot coals, and teeth like a wild boar’s, and it stank of carrion. It laughed at me, Sir Philip, laughed at my fears and laughed when I called on God to protect me. It could have killed me then, and I don’t know why it didn’t.” He looked directly at Sidney then, his dark eyes haunted. “Protect me, Sir Philip. And find out who is behind this—this plague of demons.”
Sidney sighed, unable to refuse the appeal, but equally uncertain of how he should begin to deal with the threa
t.
“I’ll do my best, your Majesty,” he said, and tried to keep his voice as ordinary as possible, after James’s heightened tones. “As her majesty no doubt told you, however, I have been primarily a scholar all these years.” He saw the disappointment in the king’s eyes, and added, with a smile, “Still, I think I can contrive something.”
James sighed, only somewhat appeased. “I have told the court what you are and why you’ve come here because I think at least some of them are involved, or at best would not be sorry to see me weakened.” He grinned suddenly. “And I would like them to think you can protect yourself.”
What you want is a stalking-horse, Sidney thought, but James’s manner was so unapologetic that he found himself smiling back. After all, it was a king’s prerogative to have others face danger for him… but one could wish that James were a little less cavalier about it. He bowed politely. “I’m happy to be of service to your Majesty.”
“I trust you and your people will enjoy the banquet tonight,” the king said, and levered himself to his feet. “Shall we rejoin the others?”
Sidney rose, bowing again. “As your Majesty wishes.”
Once the formalities of the reception were ended, Marlowe managed to slip away from the rest of Sidney’s party. The English ambassador had not been present at the reception—an oddity in and of itself—and the poet’s second report to Cecil was beginning to be something of a weight on his purse, if not his conscience. He turned into a long empty hallway, dimly lit by windows at each of the ends, and paused in confusion. Obviously, he thought, I misunderstood the damned directions—and where the hell is a servant when you need one? He turned back toward what he hoped was the main body of the palace, swearing under his breath.
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