The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  “One of you, go after him, see he does it. You—” He nodded to the red-haired boy who crouched beside the injured page, holding a blood-soaked cloth to the ugly gashes, and made himself moderate his impatient tone. “—you’ve done well, but let me have him now.”

  The red-head nodded slowly, but did not move his hands. Sidney gave him what he hoped was an encouraging smile, and ripped at the royal sheets. Hastily, he folded the torn bit of cloth into a rough pad, and slid across the floor until he was beside the red-haired boy. “You’ve done well,” he said again, and meant it. The injured page was still breathing, though the movement of his chest was too quick and shallow for comfort, and the bleeding seemed to have slowed a little. He placed the crumpled pad over the red-haired boy’s hand, and pressed down hard. The boy eyed him warily for an instant, then edged his own hand away. Sidney nodded, and eased the limp body into his own lap. He felt suddenly helpless, crouching there: the only remedies he knew were battlefield medicine; neither Languet nor Dee had ever seen much cause to teach him medicinal magic. The only spell he knew that was remotely relevant was to prevent the festering of wounds—useful, certainly, but not what was needed at the moment. And I should have known I’d need that knowledge, he thought, studying the waxy face. A soldier’s life—

  He shook the doubts away, frowning a little. Medical magic, even more than other aspects of the arcane arts, was a matter of preparation, of sigils and seals and long-brewed ointments; even if he had studied all the texts, they would avail him nothing unless he had already prepared the proper materials. The boy would be helped more by what he had learned in Holland than by all the medical books ever written.

  He looked down again, staring as though he were seeing the thin youth for the first time. The boy’s hair was the color of dirty straw, and there were freckles strewn across a face unscarred by smallpox, but in no other way remarkable. The eyes, he hazarded, would probably be grey, if the boy ran true to his race, but would bring no particular distinction. Just a very ordinary boy—not so ordinary, he corrected himself, not if he were willing to brave a demon in defense of his king.

  As if he had read the older man’s thought, the red-haired boy said, “He won’t die, will he? Not after what he did.”

  “He tried to fight it,” a plump, dark-eyed boy agreed. “He fought for the king.”

  “It’s in God’s hands, boy,” Sidney said, as gently as he could. “But we’ll do all we can.” It was not enough—it was never enough, not for the young—and then he was aware of James kneeling at his side, holding the boy’s limp hand in his.

  “In God’s hands, ay,” the king whispered, and shook his head. “Ah, Robbie.”

  Sidney, suddenly, felt very old. Surrounded by children, he thought—and James was young, too, and seemed younger— He felt every hour of his forty-one years, each one a palpable weight on his shoulders. Too old, a dry, distant voice seemed to whisper, too old, and crippled besides... Sidney shook himself then, recognizing almost too late an attack more subtle than most of those to which he had been subjected. Let us trust that old age and wisdom are allies: after only a moment’s hesitation, he let that thought wing free into the void, and turned his eyes again to the injured page. The boy was breathing still, but only barely, his skin turned cold and waxen. Sidney bowed his head, framing a weary prayer. As in Holland, form and propriety eluded him, leaving only naked appeal: Lord Jesus, don’t let him die.

  The door crashed open then, and the bedchamber was suddenly filled with a confusion of men, the royal guard clashing their pikes against the legs of night-gowned nobles, who cursed them and demanded some explanation in the same breath. A black-robed doctor, hair and beard in disarray beneath his forgotten nightcap, knelt hastily beside the king, but James waved him angrily away, gesturing to the injured page. To give the doctor his due, he took in the situation at a glance, and moved quickly and competently about his business. Sidney relinquished his hold on the boy, and pushed himself to his feet. The drugged heaviness he had felt before returned in full force, and he had to catch at the bedpost to steady himself. And was I drugged indeed? he wondered suddenly. It would not be difficult, at this disordered court, to slip something into a man’s drink. Almost against his wishes, his eyes swept the crowding courtiers as though he hoped to startle the guilt in some man’s face. He had enemies enough already at James’s court, and knew and named them, one by one, but none seemed more than honestly alarmed.

  “Be silent!” That was the king’s voice, rasping and painful, but indisputable proof that he was still alive. James winced as he spoke, his hand going again to his bruised throat, but the nobles quieted obediently. The king nodded to the red-haired boy. “Speak up, Andrew,” he said in an aching whisper. “Say what happened.”

  Oh, wise man, Sidney thought, and did not allow a single muscle to move in his face. If I were to tell, there would be endless debate, but Andrew’s loyalties should be beyond question for most of them.

  “Sirs—my lords, the king—”

  His voice was thin, and shook a little with remembered fear. “Speak up, boy,” the Earl of Montrose said, not unkindly. The boy shivered, but nodded. This time, when he spoke, his voice was steadier, and in the profound silence that had settled over the king’s bedchamber, it carried clearly. He told the story matter-of-factly, not dwelling on the horror of the invisible attack, but in a strange way his determined calm made the tale even more dreadful. At the end of it, Sidney was not surprised to see one or two old men cross themselves unashamedly.

  “As you see, my lords,” James rasped, “I’m well enough—thanks to Sir Philip.” He glared at his courtiers as though daring them to challenge him. When no one spoke, he nodded, and went on, whispering now, “You may return to your beds, though I thank you for your concern. Sir Philip—”

  “If your Majesty will permit,” Sidney said quickly, “I’ll watch the night out here.”

  James nodded, but his eyes were questioning. “You said before, you wished to create some protection?”

  Sidney sighed, and looked for a tactful way to say what must be said. “Before, your Majesty, it was daylight, and all the signs were favorable for the project. It would be better to wait for dawn.”

  James nodded again, his mouth curling into a self-mocking smile, but he said nothing until the last of the courtiers had filed from the room. “And if I had listened to you, this would not have happened, ay, I know.”

  “You should spare your throat, your Majesty,” Sidney said, but could not dislike the proffered apology.

  James ignored him. “I couldn’t do it then, don’t you see? Not for me. But now the boy’s hurt, I can protect us all. God forgive me.” The last was said in a dying whisper, almost too soft for Sidney to hear. He did hear, nonetheless, and felt himself strangely touched by the admission. It was not easy for a king to protect himself, especially a king who had lived all his life in fear, and had let himself be seen to be afraid.

  “Go to bed, sire,” he said, gently, and beckoned to the red-haired page. “Help me build up the fire—Andrew, is it? We’ll watch the night out together.”

  The dawn came slowly, the sky fading reluctantly to grey. Sidney watched the fire die, and the strands of cloud along the eastern horizon turn first pale and then flush pink with the dawn. As the light strengthened, James rose from his bed, drawing his nightgown more closely around his shoulders, and came to stand beside the window. The sun rose, a disk so nearly white as to be blinding, and Sidney heard the king’s sigh of relief.

  “Well, Sir Philip, “ he whispered, “your witch was right—but I’ve survived it, thanks to you.”

  Sidney bowed. “I’ll ask again only what I asked before. Allow me to ward these rooms.”

  James looked away, his sallow cheeks coloring. “I had no choice,” he said. “Yes, do it now.”

  Sidney bowed again. “Thank you, your Majesty.” He beckoned to the page. “Go to my rooms, and ask Madox to give you my ephemeris. And have someone wake Master Mar
lowe.”

  The boy bowed and vanished. James raised an eyebrow. “You need Marlowe’s help?”

  Sidney bit back a tired anger. “Marlowe is as familiar with such matters as I—and I am tired. Yes, I need his help.”

  James’s color deepened, but he made no answer. They waited in silence until the page returned. To Sidney’s surprise, Marlowe was with him, the collar of his doublet open as though he’d dressed in haste. There was something harried about his eyes, and Sidney gave him a questioning look, which was met by a stare so forbidding that the older man recoiled instinctively. Very well, he thought, not now—but later, Marlowe, I’ll know what this is about.

  “I want your help, Marlowe,” he said aloud. “His majesty has given us permission to ward these chambers.”

  For a moment, he thought the poet would say something unseemly, but then Marlowe nodded. “As his majesty wishes,” he said, almost demurely, and held out the ephemeris.

  “Then let’s begin.” Sidney turned away without waiting for an answer, nodded to James. “If your Majesty would be seated... ?”

  “And stay out of the way?” James murmured, with a crooked grin, but did as he was told. He settled himself in the carved chair and drew one leg under him like a schoolboy, watching avidly as the wizards began their work.

  The ritual was a simple one, based on the same principles that created the smaller circle of Solomon, but strengthened by siting the symbols according to the positions of the planets in their ruling houses. The symbols would have to be changed as the year waxed and waned again, but there was no stronger method of creating such protection. At Sidney’s low-voiced direction, Marlowe sketched the outline of the circle in chalk, adding the lesser symbols, while Sidney himself consulted the ephemeris and made his calculations. The poet finished first, and stood waiting; Sidney looked up after a moment.

  “We will pray first,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Marlowe looked aside, but, reluctantly, bowed his head.

  “Almighty God, who art a strong tower against the face of our enemies, we yield thee praise and thanksgiving for our deliverance from the great dangers of this night past. We beg your mercy and your grace for the boy Robbie, wounded in the service of his king, in the performance of his duty, and beg also your strength and protection in this which we now attempt.” Sidney looked up abruptly, fixing his eyes on Marlowe. “Amen.”

  “Amen,” James echoed, and, a heartbeat later, Marlowe said, “Amen.”

  The rest of the ritual proceeded quickly enough. Sidney directed the placement of each symbol, and himself closed the ring. When they had finished, he closed his eyes, feeling a new resonance, a new harmony within the royal chambers, and knew he had succeeded. He smiled, allowing himself a moment’s pleasure in a job well done, and the king cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, Sir Philip,” he said.

  Sidney bowed, suddenly feeling the effects of the long night. “With your Majesty’s permission?”

  “Of course,” James nodded his dismissal. “I am grateful.”

  In the hallway outside the royal chambers, Sidney stretched luxuriously, not caring who saw. “God, I’m exhausted,” he murmured. “I’m for my bed.”

  Marlowe made a rather odd noise, and Sidney turned on him, every sense suddenly alerted.

  “Well?”

  “Sir Philip, there’s a matter you should know of first.”

  “God’s nails,” Sidney said. “I should have known.”“ He took a deep breath, controlling his temper. “Well, what is it?”

  “I’d rather you saw it first,” Marlowe answered. “Or—felt it rather.” He smiled crookedly. “It’s nothing of immediate danger, but I think it might be of some interest.”

  Sidney stopped in the doorway that led to his rooms, his eyes sweeping over the scene. Greville sat in the window seat, his expression unusually grave; Nate Hawker crouched at his feet, his eyes huge and frightened. Madox had bullied the rest of the household into continuing with their duties, but their eyes roved nervously toward the corners, looking for something. There was a sour taint in the room, hanging high in the corners like smoke; even as Sidney became aware of it, it faded and was gone.

  “Something—” he began, and stopped.

  “Something wanted very badly to be in this room, last night,” Marlowe said. “I stopped it.”

  Sidney nodded. He could almost smell the last ghost of it, frustrated rage as pungent as musk. “How could it attack two places at once?” he murmured, and swept his eyes across the room. The scent, sense, a sensation indescribable except by inadequate metaphor, seemed strongest by the door to the bedroom. He moved toward it warily.

  Marlowe shrugged, his dark eyes ablaze. He’s enjoying this, Sidney thought, with some envy. Frightened he may have been, but he liked the testing. He stopped beside the door and glanced back at the poet. Marlowe bared good teeth in a grimace that might have been intended for a smile. “That’s the question I would’ve asked you, sir. If it’s the same. Because, by God, we—” he pointed to Nate, “—we know who’s behind this sending.”

  Sidney paused, testing the taint in the air, seeking the fading hand behind it. I’ve felt this workmanship before, he thought, felt this craft, this malice. “Alnwick,” he said at last, and looked at Marlowe.

  The poet nodded. “Oh, yes, it’s Harry Percy’s hand that raised this.” And mine that stopped it, an inward voice exulted. He controlled that sternly, watching the older man.

  Sidney glanced at Greville. “Fulke, are you all right? And is Nate? What happened?”

  Nate managed a white-lipped smile, but Sidney could see the fear still lurking in him. Greville nodded, and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We’re—unhurt,” he said. “As for what happened…” He glanced helplessly at Marlowe, who said nothing. “Something tried to enter your bedroom, Philip. We could hear it—and smell it, by God—scratching at the windows, and crawling along the walls. Beyond that, I don’t know.” But I wouldn’t like to hear that sound again, not if I live to Methuselah’s age, he added silently. It was not a thought to be spoken before the servants.

  Sidney sighed. He knew, or could guess with a certainty that approximated knowledge, what the sending had sought: Virgil’s book lay safely sealed in its casket beside the head of his bed. He could see it from where he stood, could feel that its seals were intact; though he still longed to be absolutely certain, to see the scrolls for himself, and so verify their continued existence, he made himself stay where he was.

  “Was it the same?” Marlowe said again, more insistently this time.

  Sidney paused, considering, matching the memory of the night’s battle to the thing that had been in his rooms. “No,” he said at last, “no, I don’t think so. “This is—” He stopped abruptly. He had been going to say more recognizably a man, but perhaps that was not the thing to say now, with so many people listening. “This is somewhat different,” he said instead, and Marlowe grimaced.

  “Northumberland has an interest in Scottish politics, and in the succession,” he said.

  Sidney shook his head, more certainly now. “No. Or, not enough of one, even—maybe even because of—Raleigh’s interests in that regard. It’s not Northumberland who threatens the king.”

  “Who, then?” Greville asked, and Sidney shook his head.

  “I wish I knew.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  There never was a merry world since the fairies left off dancing and the parson left conjuring.

  John Selden, Table Talk, XCIX

  The heat was prodigious for so far north. Stephen Massey winced, wiping sweat and dust from his face, and loosened two more buttons of his doublet, so that only the collar was closed beneath the falling band. The sleeves hung open too from wrist to shoulder, but there was no wind to provide even the slightest relief. He was lucky, he knew, in his more rational moments—after sunset, usually, when the air had cooled and it was possible to lie in shirt and drawers and let an evening breeze stir sweat-mat
ted hair. He was only a hired man, and there were sharers in London companies who lacked positions; he should be grateful to have work—but why, he thought, what devil prompted me to the Chamberlain’s Men, and the north?

  “I could’ve been in Cornwall with Master Alleyn,” he muttered, and was instantly ashamed. if nothing else, there were fewer men in this company who thought of him only as Kit Marlowe’s Ganymede. He glanced hastily over his shoulder, but no one seemed to have heard. Augustine Phillips and George Bryan walked to one side of the cart’s track, just out of its dust, heads together and gesturing in one of their interminable arguments. The youngest of the apprentices, his face unhealthily flushed, crouched whimpering in the back of the cart among the property-hampers; Robert Goughe—like Massey, a refugee from the Admiral’s Men—walked beside him, his expression torn between sympathy and envy. Massey sighed, wishing he could ride, and could not refrain from an envious glance at Richard Burbage. The leading actor bestrode his tired bay hack like a conquering king. More important than that, Massey thought, he’s not walking, and he’s out of the dust. He was being unfair, and knew it, and John Lowin’s rich chuckle did nothing to restore his good humor. “When you’re his equal, lad, then you can think of riding.”

  Massey turned on him, a blistering retort trembling on his lips, but the sight of the older man made him bite back the angry words. Lowin was as red-faced as the apprentice, though he had long since discarded his doublet, and wore only shirt and open jerkin over his loose slops. He had sweated off some pounds since Newcastle, when the heat set in, but his belly was still the size of a small ale-barrel: no easy burden, in this weather.

  “And will you mock at me for saying I envy our Dickon?” Shakespeare asked mildly. He pushed the sweat-damp hair off his high forehead and set his battered hat back in place, grimacing at the hazy sun. “I’d as soon ride, and so would you, Johnny.”

  “It’s a bad business,” Lowin said. “A damn bad business.”