The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  Then a hand, more terrible than the hand that had written on the wall behind Belshazzar, reached out of nothingness, and tore the air apart. The figure of a man stood there, idealized, immense, terribly beautiful, awful to look upon. The candles flickered once, then roared almost to the ceiling, smoky and unnatural, their baleful light feeding the dreadful vision. Marlowe caught his breath, and choked down the prayer that rose unbidden to his lips. He recognized the demon that had haunted him, and would not give it the satisfaction of his fear; more than that, he would not interfere with Sidney’s planning.

  “You claim to be prepared for me, knight.” The demonic shape spoke with the voice of whirlwind, of hellfire itself, a hissing shapelessness that somehow formed words. “Pray your God you are.”

  Marlowe flinched. It was a cunning attack, one calculated to make Sidney hesitate, and in that moment, he would be lost. Pride was damnable, after all; how could Sidney choose damnation, for any necessity, when his whole cause was salvation?

  Sidney did not move, or show any sign that the figure’s words had affected him. “In this place, you can only skirmish,” he said, almost softly. “I am ready for that.”

  “Oh, so-wise knight,” the figure jeered. “Are you?” Even as it spoke it lifted a hand, and the candles roared again, their flames bending toward Sidney and the kneeling king.

  Sidney smiled, lifted one hand, and the flames curled back as though they had struck an invisible wall. He spoke, quietly, and the flames turned and twisted, darting back on their creator. The figure lifted its hands, but the flames sprang past its defenses, winding it in cords of flame. The figure writhed, but could not free itself. Then, with a crack of thunder, the figure shattered, gobbets of fire scattering through the chapel. For one brief instant, as the vision shattered, the figure diminished, and became merely a man, unknown to Sidney, but recognizable to the Scots present.

  “God in Heaven, it’s Bothwell,” Mar murmured, and others echoed him.

  And then it was gone completely, figure, man, and power, the unnatural fire become merely candle-flames flickering demurely in their places. The silence thundered.

  Slowly, very slowly, James pushed himself to his feet, feeling the protecting spell dissolve around him. Something was expected of him, he knew, and turned to face his people.

  “The Earl of Bothwell,” he said aloud, experimentally, and was surprised that his voice was no more unsteady than it was. He cleared his throat, and tried again. “He was a great master of witches, but never did I know him for such himself… but England’s champion seems greater still.”

  “We don’t know that yet, your Majesty,” Sidney demurred, no longer smiling, and James darted a wary glance at him.

  “Who else could have done what Sir Philip has done today?” That was the Master of Ruthven, a boyish quaver in his voice—charming, Marlowe thought sourly, but not quite sincere. The words were perilously close to the kind of blasphemy Marlowe wanted no part of now, the kind that would tempt fate to destroy them all. For if Sidney be for us, who can… Marlowe shook the thought angrily from his mind. Leave the spell uncompleted, he told himself, it cannot harm you. He stepped forward, to stand beside the Earl of Mar. “I thought the earl of Bothwell was dead.”

  “So did we,” Mar muttered bitterly, and James managed a white smile.

  “Even then his power was to be reckoned with—and we knew it not.” He glanced around his little court, somehow summoning up the presence of a king. “I trust we will not make that mistake again.”

  Sidney remained behind as the others filed from the chapel behind the king. Greville, walking beside young Seton, saw his friend’s hesitation, and came to join him. Seton followed the court, but looked back curiously.

  “It seems we can pray for a quiet night now with some confidence,” Greville said, with a quirky smile.

  “I believe it will be so,” Sidney answered.

  Greville saw the sourness in the other Englishman’s face and sighed. Oh, yes, he thought, you’ve given Bothwell something to think about. Oh, Philip, if you give yourself up to recriminations now, when all you’ve done is for the good… He hesitated, and Sidney gave him a fleeting smile.

  “I’m not fit company for you tonight, Fulke.”

  “Nevertheless, I don’t know if I should let you stay here by yourself,” Greville answered.

  Sidney deliberately misunderstood. “It’s safe enough now, it—Bothwell, damn the man—he has been driven back, and I doubt he’d try anything again tonight.”

  “I don’t know if I should let you stay alone anywhere,” Greville said, with outward patience. “I know you, Philip. You can’t hide that you’ve been shaken by what’s happened— by your own strength, I daresay. Perhaps a little frightened. God knows, you may even have enjoyed what happened today—and what of it? It’s no different from riding in tournament on the queen’s behalf. You’re her champion, and she has sent you to defend James—”

  “Damn that,” Sidney broke in. “A good sound defense, a job well done? I should be a fool not to take pleasure in those, but that’s not what troubles me, Fulke, and you know me better than that. I don’t fret over trifles—if it were only that I took joy in my duty, I’d stand head high and dare damnation, if my motives were pure. And that is what I begin to doubt.”

  Greville glanced sideways, startled, but kept his silence.

  “Pox take him, it was too easy,” Sidney went on, speaking now as though to himself. “It makes me wary—as well it ought. I know that it—he, Bothwell, wasn’t throwing his full might against me. But there’s a part of me that wonders, what if that was all? I broke him, Fulke, I held him and I beat him back—almost easily, even. I hold him, and James, God help me, in the palm of my hand. I could be master here.” He drew a deep breath. “That pride is sin, and deadly.” He paused for a long moment, then shook his head. “I need to be by myself, Fulke.”

  Greville paused, then nodded reluctantly. “Good night, then, Philip—and God bless you.”

  “Good night,” Sidney said, and even managed a smile, but his mind was elsewhere. The chapel seemed very quiet now, utterly removed from its papist origins. There was no smell of incense, or even the faint stench of still-warm candles; only the air itself, chill and quiet—unsanctified, comfortless in its simplicity. There was no comfort to be had here, in this house of God, Sidney thought suddenly; not for one who had lost his way. All his learning, all his much-praised intellect, meant little when weighed against the teachings of childhood: this power—all power, perhaps—was vanity, the devil’s gaudiest bait to catch men’s souls. Even rejecting that—as reject it he must; Languet, and then Doctor Dee, were too honest, too good to be damned by that too-simple formula—he could not deny that he had gone beyond Dee’s lessons, had made use of knowledge of which even Dee had been, perhaps rightly, skeptical. Virgil’s book, shaped and honed by his time in Holland, given form and context by the studies with Dee, was still something new and therefore dangerous, unprecedented. He had used it to defend the king of Scots, certainly, but Dee’s magic would have served for that. Virgil’s magic… The power it summoned was sheer pleasure, unbridled, outside law and structure. By using it, Sidney thought bleakly, I set myself up as equal to God. That, unquestionably, is mortal sin—but if I do not use it, I cannot save the king, and thus I cannot save James without damning myself. An all too simple equation.

  He knelt then, seeking the comfort of prayer, but the words would not come. A coldness was welling in him, a desolate pride of despair. He raised his head and stared like Oedipus into the gathering dark, and smiled bleakly. Despair was like amputation: the pain was gone; what remained—the emptiness, the body’s knowledge of the-thing-that-had-been—was perhaps as bad, but it could be borne.

  Then he heard it, the soft whispers, scuttling sounds, that warned of sprites, imps, unholy spirits, heard too a small sigh of laughter, a sound of sated lust. He lifted his head sharply, the spell broken. Not in you, he told himself, not in you, but withou
t. Damnation’s not within you; God does not create man with poison in his soul, but man takes it into himself willingly, and thereby kills himself to God’s grace. Where no man can be worthy, the gift can only be accepted. I bear this power. I know I trafficked with no demons to secure it. What I am, God Himself has created, and what I do with myself, though known to Him, is my responsibility. I may not refuse that choice—and I will not turn aside like a craven from the duty my queen, God’s own anointed, has laid on me. He laughed softly, and felt the demons retreat further. More than accept, I embrace it. I am her majesty’s true knight, and my duty to her can never be damnation. I follow my God and my queen, and serve both to the height of my abilities, whatever they may be. And if you fear me so much that you try to weaken me with this oldest of threats, then when we meet again, I shall fear you the less.

  It was gone, completely now. Sidney drew a shuddering breath, and pushed himself to his feet. He felt almost as tired as if he had ridden in the Tilts, and smiled at the simile. This time, too, he’d been the victor.

  Marlowe leaned against one of the slender columns that marched the length of the great hall, letting the crowd of petitioners ebb and flow around him. There were more than usual, he noted, and hid a grin. The Scots nobility seemed willing to risk themselves—and even a few of their women—in James’s presence now that Sidney had proved that he could drive off the worst of the manifestations surrounding the king. Even the Ultra-Protestant notables had returned: the alliance between the dominies and the nobles was always uneasy, and James’s handling of Melville, though it might be publicly deplored, did not entirely displease certain gentlemen of Melville’s own party. Certainly the Earl of Mar was far from displeased.

  Mar was very much in evidence, too, the poet thought. His smile twisted, watching the sunlight glitter on the earl’s cloth-of-gold doublet as he maneuvered his clients into the king’s notice. Mar was Cecil’s man, there was no question about it, and he had the king’s ear. Sidney should be warned—though explaining the source of that knowledge could be more than a little awkward. I can put it off, he thought, maybe drop a hint or so, prepare the ground. Cecil’s and Sidney’s interests should run together a little longer: long enough, I hope, to find a safe way to break the news to Sidney.

  There was a stir by the door then, and the poet craned his head to see, glad of the interruption. A tall man, tawny-haired and tawny-bearded, pushed his way awkwardly through the crowd toward the king. He stumbled a little as he came: drunk already, Marlowe thought, and allowed his lip to curl. He had seen the man around the court before, and it seemed a piece with his other follies, to go to the trouble of donning his best black suit and then spoil the effect by one too many drinks to keep up his courage. Then the man stumbled again, rebounding from an ancient gentleman without so much as a hint of an apology, and Marlowe’s attention sharpened. That, surely, was wrong; not drunk, perhaps, but sick, or injured.

  “My lord?” someone called. “My lord, are you all right?”

  The man still did not turn his head, or give any sign of having heard. Almost without knowing why he did it, Marlowe pushed through the crowd after him, caught at the hanging sleeve of the doublet.

  “My lord—”

  The man twitched himself free without a backward glance, but in that brief moment of contact, Marlowe felt the strangeness about him, sharp as the scent of brimstone. “Sire— My lords, look to the king,” he shouted.

  The tawny man lunged forward, upper lip lifting in an unnatural, animal snarl. Marlowe reached desperately for the trailing sleeve, but missed, cannoning into a stocky man in a long scarlet gown. The stocky man cursed him dispassionately, shaking dust from the velvet folds, but Marlowe barely heard him, his attention fixed on the knot of men around the king. They were turning, but slowly, too slowly, their faces still puzzled rather than alarmed. Then the treasurer Montrose saw the tawny man and cried out, “Get the king away, protect the king!”

  The tawny man had produced a knife from somewhere, the long blade glittering briefly in the sun. There was a confusion of movement around the king, some nobles trying to hustle James away, others—fewer of them—doing their best to place their bodies between the king and danger. The treasurer’s son John Graham flung himself at the tawny man, but the man flourished his knife, and Graham fell back, wincing, a bloody rip across the breast of his doublet. They were unarmed, of course, all the men around the king, and Marlowe groaned aloud. James’s well-founded terrors were being turned against him. Mar moved then, rapier and dagger drawn—Mar, of all of them, was privileged, Mar had the royal favor—flinging himself into the tawny man’s path even as the soldiers who had been on duty outside thrust themselves into the hall. They were too far away, Marlowe knew, even as he himself was too far from the king to do anything to help, but he kept pushing ahead as though there were something he could do.

  “William Forbes, have you gone mad?” That was Mar, old Montrose now ranged at his right, the powder-scarred man to his left.

  The tawny man snarled again, and lunged. Mar gave ground, batting the shorter blade aside, but made no riposte. “William—”

  Forbes reached for the earl’s sword hand, and Mar twitched the blade away, his face contorting. “William,” he began again, but the word died of its own futility, fading into a curse.

  “The king, my lord,” Montrose cried.

  Mar struck, flicking his blade past Forbes’s clumsy parry. The rapier sank home, and Marlowe clearly saw the blade bend against bone before it was withdrawn. Forbes kept coming, his eyes fixed on the king. Someone screamed, the voice as high as a boy’s or a woman’s; Mar fell back, paling, recovered himself enough to lunge again. This time Forbes was ready. He caught the blade with his left hand—Marlowe winced in spite of himself, imagining the edged blade slashing to the bone—and wrenched it from Mar’s slackening grip. He flung the bloodied sword aside and lunged for Mar. The scar-faced man dove for his knees, trying to bring him down, but Forbes seemed to sense his movements, and dodged away. The voice screamed a second time, the sound abruptly cut off. Then there was a pistol shot, the noise almost deafening even over the noise of the hall. Forbes staggered and went down, to lie in a boneless heap. The scar-faced man pushed himself to his knees, crossing himself without shame. Marlowe glanced over his shoulder, almost unable to believe what had happened, and saw the older woman he had seen the night of the welcoming banquet, her pistol held loosely now at her side. Her wrinkled face showed no particular emotion, but the gilt buttons of her bodices winked in the sun, as though she were breathing very fast. The poet turned away then, pushing through the crowding nobles to kneel beside Forbes’s body.

  The man was dead, there was no doubt about it this time. Marlowe bit back a laugh he knew to be compounded too much of hysteria, and rolled the body onto its back, carefully avoiding the ragged hole where the ball had struck. Right through the spine too, a sure shot one way or another... He shook that thought away, staring at the twin sword thrusts, two neat—and now just slightly bloody—slits in the man’s doublet. Either one of them should have been mortal, but it had definitely been the bullet that brought him down. He looked up at the rustle of satin, to see the older woman standing beside him, her pistol tucked decorously into the folds of her skirt.

  “A fine shot, madam,” he said, and kept his voice low. “Do you always charge your pistols with silver?”

  It was a bow drawn at a venture, but the woman drew breath sharply. Then she smiled. “Only in these—most uncanny times, sir poet.”

  “Lady Gordon.” That was the king, putting his nobles aside now that the danger was over. “I owe you thanks, ma’am.”

  “Thank my father, sire, who taught me to shoot,” the woman answered, and handed her weapon to the scar-faced man. Now that the crisis was over, Marlowe thought, she was showing a womanly distaste for her handiwork—or was that directed at the men who had stood by, or acted so ineffectually? “The rest was no more than duty.”

  “Indeed, mad
am, it was all our duty,” Mar snapped. He was red with anger—with jealousy, Marlowe realized, jealousy of his position as royal protector. “Perhaps Master Marlowe could explain how these—” He gestured to the wounds in Forbes’s chest. “—struck home, and didn’t kill.”

  “It would be useful knowledge,” James agreed. There was a strange expression lurking in his eyes, fear giving way to sadness as he looked at Mar. And no one in all this assembly, Marlowe saw with sudden understanding, no one at all had feared for James, or would have mourned for him. For the king, yes, and a round dozen would have died for the king, but none for James. Perhaps not even the queen would have wept for the man alone. He crouched beside the body, struck silent, the poet’s demon within him already looking for a way to use that knowledge, a part of him uncomfortable with the pity he could not help but feel for a man of twenty-seven who was so unloved. I myself am hated, and well hated, too, but I’m also loved. That thought was even more uncomfortable, and he pushed it angrily away.

  “Well, Master Marlowe?” the king said.

  “I beg your pardon, your Majesty, I was—ordering my thoughts.” Marlowe drew a deep breath, looking down again at the body. “Bothwell’s work, I’m sure of that—”

  “As are we all,” Mar snarled.

  Marlowe managed a shrug. There were spells… Watson had at least known of them, spoken of them once as things too black even for him to soil his fingers with, but that was not something James needed to hear. Well, your Majesty, what we have here is a thing called possession, which proves that Bothwell not only trafficks with minor demons but can control one or two of the major ones. And the only cure for this that I know of is a mass exorcism… which is politically inexpedient even if I really thought it would work. He said, choosing his words with care, “I’ve heard of such tricks before. They can be dealt with, your Majesty.”

  “Do so,” James said, and gave the body one shuddering glance. “Lady Forbes must be told, poor woman. He was your friend, Johnnie, I’ll not ask you to handle it—”