The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  Montrose cleared his throat, and the king looked at him. “Your Majesty, my wife was cousin to Forbes’s kin. If you’ll allow, I’ll speak to the wife.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” James said, with genuine gratitude. He looked back at Marlowe, the hooded eyes sharpening suddenly. “As for you, Master Marlowe, I’ll thank you to tell me how Bothwell corrupted a man I would have called my friend.”

  Marlowe hesitated again. “Your Majesty, I’m a stranger to the court, I didn’t know the gentleman. How can I know what Bothwell might have offered him?” He saw the beginning of a disapproving frown on the king’s face, and added hastily, “Or how he might have trapped him?” But I’d lay wager it was temptation, not force, he continued silently, and kept his face expressionless only with an effort. Bothwell had a gift for finding men’s weaknesses… For a moment, the vision of his private demon swam in his mind, but he put the thought hastily aside.

  “Should you find out how, or by whose agency,” James said, “you will tell me.” There was an unexpected note in his voice, one that promised a grim revenge.

  Marlowe glanced up, startled, but James had already turned away. The Earl of Mar extended a hand, and the poet took it warily, allowing the Scot to draw him to his feet.

  “You’ll tell me as well, Marlowe,” the earl said softly.

  “I’ll do that,” Marlowe answered. Mar’s momentary jealousy seemed to have vanished; the poet said cautiously, “The lady—who is she?”

  “Lady Katherine Gordon,” Mar answered, frowning again. “A word in your ear, Marlowe: she’s Huntley’s agent at the court. “ He saw the poet’s look of confusion, and sighed. “She speaks for him as leader of the papists, she and Maxwell.”

  “A woman?” Marlowe asked, in spite of himself.

  Mar’s frown deepened, the brooding jealousy returning. “You saw what she did. She’s as clever as any man—and more use to Huntley than most of his kin. “ The earl turned away then, easing himself through the crowd that surrounded the king until he stood at James’s elbow. Marlowe stared after him, but the king’s attention was fixed on Lady Gordon, and Mar’s presence remained unacknowledged. Sweet Jesus, more trouble, the poet thought, and edged toward the door. The papists had the credit for this rescue, and Mar—never the most certain of allies—seemed inclined to take this latest attack, and Sidney’s failure to prevent it, as a personal insult. Marlowe sighed as he slipped out into the empty hallway. More trouble, indeed.

  The bad news had travelled fast, Marlowe saw without surprise, as young Madox swung back the door of Sidney’s rooms. Greville was there before him, and Sidney himself was seated by the window, the crooked leg stretched out in front of him. His face was thunderous, and Marlowe made a hasty bow.

  “I beg your pardon, Sir Philip, but I’m afraid there’s been another—incident.”

  “We heard,” Greville muttered.

  Sidney gave him a quick, reproving glance, but said only, “We were told that someone tried to kill the king, someone under Bothwell’s control. Is that true?”

  Marlowe nodded, and couldn’t help feeling a sort of perverse pleasure in being the bearer of bad news. “Certainly the man was possessed by something. Two good sword thrusts didn’t even prick him; it took a silver bullet through the spine to bring him down.”

  Sidney muttered a startling oath, then looked rather embarrassed.

  Greville said, “You’ve been expecting this, haven’t you?”

  Sidney gave a twisted smile. “Say rather I’ve feared.” He became aware of the fact that Marlowe was still standing, and waved the poet to a chair. “Sit down, Marlowe, in God’s name. I’ll need your help in this.”

  After that beginning, however, he showed no inclination to continue, staring instead at the unlit logs in the fireplace. Marlowe seated himself on the stool brought by a disapproving young Madox, and waited. The silence lengthened.

  “What are the alternatives, Philip?” Greville said at last, and Sidney started.

  “I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted, with another rueful smile, and looked at the poet. “Marlowe?”

  Marlowe lifted both eyebrows, unreasonably annoyed by the question. How in hell’s name would I know? he wanted to ask. I’m not the great wizard trained by Doctor Dee. He recognized the reaction from fear, and controlled his temper. “I suppose somehow the entire palace has to be protected, so that Bothwell can’t come at any of the court—that’s the key, isn’t it, to keep him from approaching them as well as James?—but I don’t know how you’d go about sealing off a palace. I’ve never heard of a ritual so large.”

  Sidney was nodding even before he’d finished. “I agree. But I have heard of rituals—protective rituals—performed on such a scale—in France.”

  “God’s nails, of course,” Greville said, and Marlowe lifted his head. He had heard of such a thing, when he was at Rheims, and then vaguely afterward: of a circle of French scholars who had attempted—in vain—to protect their king from the horrors of the civil wars.

  “By the Pléiade?” he said, and was unduly pleased when Sidney nodded again.

  “That’s right. I’ve corresponded with them, I know something of their methods. But not enough to perform such a rite myself. “ He shook his head. “And correspondence is impossible—there simply isn’t enough time. “ He looked up sharply, fixing his eyes on Marlowe. “I need their help, and I need it as soon as possible, Marlowe. I’ll give you the letters you’ll need. I want you to go into France as my courier, and bring back any of the school who’ll come with you.”

  Greville stirred uneasily. “You can’t ask him to do that Philip, not after—”

  Sidney lifted an eyebrow at him, and Greville fell silent, grimacing a little.

  Marlowe’s head lifted. “I’ll go,” he said, and there was more than a touch of belligerence in his voice. “I’m willing. All I ask is that you pay my passage. “

  “That, I think, I can manage,” Sidney said, a little dryly. “But thank you, Marlowe.”

  The poet nodded, already wondering precisely why he had allowed himself to be persuaded so easily. After all, Greville had offered him, if not the perfect excuse, then the perfect bargaining point: the year he had spent spying at Rheims and then at Douai had marked him—at least in certain circles—as an English agent. But he wouldn’t play the coward, not before Greville, and especially not in front of Sidney—and in any case, he realized belatedly, the danger was only an added spice. He was aware that the older men were looking at him curiously, and cleared his throat. “If it suits you, Sir Philip, I’ll land in Holland, go overland into France.”

  Sidney nodded. “I leave that to your discretion. But what about landing at Flushing? Robert might prove helpful to you.”

  Marlowe hid a grimace. He had once, under freakish circumstances, been arrested by Robert Sidney in Holland—Flushing, in fact—for the crime of counterfeiting, and he was quite certain that the elder Sidney knew all about it. He glanced sidelong at the older man, expecting to see laughter, but Sidney’s face was unobjectionably grave. It was a sensible idea, after all, and the poet sighed. “I shall. With your permission, then?”

  “Of course,” Sidney answered, almost absently, and the poet backed from the room. Sidney glanced sideways then, and saw Greville smiling.

  “You’re a wicked man, Fulke,” Sidney said, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his own mouth.

  Greville shrugged, unsuccessfully attempting to ease his face into a more sober expression. “He wouldn’t’ve gone so willingly, if I hadn’t hinted it was dangerous. You know that. He’d’ve bargained just to spite you.”

  “Do you really think so?” Sidney asked, and there was a note of rather wistful disappointment in his voice that made Greville look sharply at him. “Well, be that as it may, he is going. And I’ll get the help I need.”

  Greville accepted the change of subject with equanimity. “You need more support than I can give you, or even than Marlowe can. But wouldn’t it have bee
n wiser to send to England? After all, the French—”

  “There are Huguenots among the Pléiade, Fulke, have no fear of that,” Sidney said. He sighed then. “As for England… There’s no one in England who knows as much as the Pleiade about this sort of magic, not even Doctor Dee.”

  He fell silent then, staring at the unburned logs in the grate. Greville sat still, waiting, said at last, “This magic—these French rituals, are they like the Tilts?”

  Sidney shook himself. “Something like, I believe. The purpose was the same at any rate. But I don’t know any more.”

  Well, Greville thought, if you won’t talk, you won’t. So be it. He said again, “At least you’ll have some help,” and did not add, once Marlowe returns.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  From all inordinate and sinful affections; and from all the deceits of the world, the flesh, and the devil, Good Lord, deliver us.

  The Litany

  That night, it was as if William Forbes had never been. His own kin, certainly, were absent, but the rest of the court dined in state in the great hall. The last dishes had been carried in and broken open, the courtiers toying with the heavy sweets, and the wine flowed freely. The candles were low in their sockets when the word was mentioned. James lifted his head sharply, glad of the diversion. “What’s that, Alex?”

  The Master of Ruthven turned to him, an eager light in his dark eyes. “It has occurred to me, Sire, that in Sir Philip Sidney you have at court one of the finest knights in Europe—not merely a poet and a scholar, but a master of arms, as well. Wouldn’t it be a shame not to take the chance to do him honor?”

  James sat up straighter and considered. Tilts, such as those that annually celebrated his English cousin’s accession to her throne, were popular everywhere; James himself was fond of them, though he was well aware that malicious tongues said it was only because the rebated weapons were kept well away from the royal person. It was true that Sidney was redoubtable in the lists, and equally true that it would honor both Sidney and Scotland if the Englishman would fight. But had he ridden much, since his near death in Holland? The title of Queen’s Champion could be merely honorific. James glanced down the length of the hall, to see Sidney deep in conversation with the Earl of Mar. I think he has, James thought, I’m almost certain… but it wouldn’t do to embarrass either Sir Philip or myself, The poet Marlowe stood nearby, his back against a pillar, a slight, sardonic smile on his face. It was a disquieting expression, scorned itself as much as the world around it... James pushed the thought away. Sidney thought much of the man, and that must be enough. He nodded to Ruthven. “Fetch Master Marlowe.”

  Ruthven bowed and moved away, his walk an impertinence. James watched him approach Marlowe, and saw the poet’s reaction to Ruthven, a sort of withdrawing in spite of himself. It was a reaction the king understood, better than many men. Marlowe found Ruthven attractive —as who would not, did they dare to admit it, James added silently. But the poet would not tamper. Touch me not, for Caesar’s I am, James quoted to himself, pleased with himself, with Ruthven, and even with Marlowe, for his compunction. The rest of the couplet floated through his mind then, less comforting—And wild for to hold, though I seem tame—and he was glad when Marlowe made his bow before the dais.

  He was a fine-looking man, in a dark way—not as Ruthven was, all milk and ebony, but as though his own black nature was prefigured in his face and body. A dangerous man, Master Marlowe, James thought, if even half the things Mar said about him were true, and he looked it. His face was long, with high, narrow cheekbones and dark shadows hollowing cheeks and temples. The dark brows were almost straight and very thin, the eyes beneath them bright, with cynical lines at the corners. He was long-bodied, a lean man, with a good leg even in patched stockings; his dark brown hair curled over his narrow ruff, long and thick with a stubborn wave that must cause him much repining. James was aware of the desire to tangle his fingers in that hair, and recalled himself sternly to the matter at hand. He beckoned the poet onto the dais, saying, “You’ll be able to answer a question for me, Master Marlowe, one I’m almost embarrassed to admit to.”

  “It would be an honor, your Majesty.” Marlowe spoke with perfect deference, but there was a lilt in his low voice that bordered on mockery. James caught his breath.

  “It has been suggested that we honor our guest by holding a joust—except I know not whether Sir Philip does indeed still enter the lists.”

  Does he not, Marlowe thought. He could still remember, with almost violent clarity, the first Accession Day he’d witnessed. That had been nine years before, in November of 1587; he himself had only just come to London, a new-minted Master of Arts fresh from his triumph over Cambridge University in the matter of his degree. Sidney had just returned to England the wounded hero, and the echoes of the thanksgiving sermons had not yet died from the London churches. He was not yet Champion then, and no one had expected more than a ceremonial appearance, if that, perhaps with some suitably apologetic impressa, linked emblem and motto, on his pasteboard shield.

  Instead… Sidney had appeared all in white and silver, riding a white horse, accompanied by pages in long white robes. His impressa, borne before him by the smallest of the pages, had showed as its emblem a new-born child, a falling star, and a rising sun, and the motto beneath had been Reborn to her service. Marlowe had listened with increasing disbelief as a second page recited the usual verses. In the usual idiom of the Tilts, the new-born knight declared that, while lying wounded and near death, a hermit—it was always a hermit, Marlowe had sneered at the time—had spoken to him of a greater lady than the star he had once worshipped, and the new-born knight had made a vow to see that lady for himself, should he recover. Recover he had, and now that he had seen her, he freely admitted the superiority of the hermit’s lady; he begged only that he be allowed to do her service by breaking a lance or two that day.

  There had been a murmur almost of awe from the crowd then: Sidney sat his horse stiffly, and his face was very pale beneath the silvered helmet; the white plumes trembled a little, and not with wind. The queen herself had risen to her feet to accept the impressa, as was the custom; now, uncustomarilyuncustomary, she beckoned Sidney closer. They had spoken, and then Sidney withdrew, shaking his head. By the laws of chivalry, having accepted the service, Elizabeth could not forbid the fight. She sat slowly, her frown visible even from the spectators’ runs along the sides of the tiltyard. All of that, Marlowe thought, had been comprehensible, graceful, courtly, but not exceptional. It had been what followed that had shaken him. One by one, the other knights had ridden forward, touched Sidney’s impressa-shield in token of their acceptance of his challenge, and then, one by one, driven lances into the ground in front of Sidney. There would be no fight; they conceded their defeat before a single course could be run. Sidney’s face… Marlowe shook his head. The man had been honestly angry, even to the point of spoiling the presentation by arguing with Greville and with Sir Henry Lee as they made their submissions. The crowd at Whitehall had nearly deafened the knights with their applause. No man, Marlowe had said then, speaking to Watson, but not caring who overheard, no man who’s neither fool nor Machievil can be what Sidney seems. That thought had sustained him until the day Sidney stepped into Eleanor Bull’s Deptford tavern, and saved one poet’s life. He shook his mind away from that still almost inconceivable act, and looked up at the king.

  “Oh, yes, your Majesty. Sir Philip still jousts.” The word was inadequate, but, knowing none better, he let it stand.

  “Splendid,” James said, and nodded to Ruthven. “An excellent notion, Alex.”

  Marlowe’s eyes widened. If this was Ruthven’s idea, he thought, I want no part of it. “Forgive me, your Majesty,” he said aloud, “but is this a wise time for such things, when your Majesty is so threatened? To risk your best defender?”

  James smiled. “It’s known even in Scotland that the Tilts are more than mere entertainment, Master Marlowe. It seems worth the danger—and
I have every faith in Sir Philip.”

  Marlowe mimicked the words savagely in his head, but bowed as James rose to his feet.

  “My lords,” the king said strongly, and a slow silence descended in the hall. “My lords, we have long sought and are most pleased to declare that we have found some means to do honor to our guest, England’s champion and our own most gallant defender. We will hold a joust, to celebrate the presence of so notable a knight.”

  At least he’s left Sidney a loophole, Marlowe thought. If it’s just to celebrate his presence, he doesn’t have to joust. But that was a forlorn hope, and even the poet knew it. The man who had tried to fight in ’87 was not the man to refuse a challenge here, even under these peculiar circumstances.

  Sidney rose slowly to his feet, and bowed profoundly. “Your Majesty does me too much honor,” he said. “Nonetheless, I would be pleased to run a course or two, for my own queen’s sake.”

  Marlowe bit his lip to control the desire to grin. Sidney’s voice was entirely too sweet, too reasonable. ’Ware fireworks, he thought, but Christ’s nails! did you have to accept? Is this the time for such trivialities? Oh, no, you wouldn’t think of that, just of your own damned honor…

  “You must forgive our importuning you,” James said, “but the chance to see you in the lists must tempt any prince who has the means to provide you with a fitting arena.”

  “I should be delighted, your Majesty,” Sidney said again. “And to joust against whomever your Majesty names as his challengers.”

  And that puts this squarely into the realm of the political, Marlowe thought, even more than before. At least James doesn’t quite seem to realize all the implications.

  “Excellent, Sir Philip,” James said. “If you will acquaint our chamberlains with anything you require, it shall be done.”