The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  William Shakespeare, Macbeth

  It was not a good crossing. The stiff winds, too favorable to waste, whipped up heavy seas that tossed the little cog unpredictably as it beat across the North Sea, then turned contrary as soon as the ship reached the relatively sheltered waters of the Dutch coast. Captain and crew cursed its perversity as they struggled to tack southwest toward Flushing, eyes constantly scanning the horizon for Spanish ships or renegade Dutchmen. One or two, the bravest among them, added their passengers’ names to the litany of damnations, for bringing them to a crossing at this time of year, but always in an undertone. After all, the two men had paid well, and they did serve Sir Philip Sidney. Even ten years after Sidney’s war had ended at Zutphen, the Dutch remembered him with respect and love.

  Marlowe, lying braced against the sides of his damp and uncomfortable bunk, was only too aware of that forbearance. He had been prepared to face the discomforts of an autumn passage, an unhappy crew, the uncertain weather and the constant stink below decks, compounded equally of the fish that made up the cog’s usual cargo and the uncleaned bilges, with a certain stoicism, but the sailors’ undisguised reverence for Sidney was an unanticipated annoyance. He said as much to van der Droeghe, who occupied the cabin’s other bunk, and was answered by placid, monosyllabic acknowledgement.

  “I wonder you’re not sick on all this sweetness,” the poet snapped, and added hastily, “but not in here.”

  “I am never seasick.” Van der Droeghe did not move from his position, long legs braced against the cabin’s wall, one arm thrown across his face to shade his eyes from the swinging lantern.

  “Amen, while we share a cabin,” Marlowe answered. “Or do you attribute that to Sir Philip, too?”

  Van der Droeghe shifted slightly, lifting his arm to peer under the sleeve of his doublet. “I hadn’t thought of that. It could be so.” He was smiling.

  “Pox take you,” Marlowe said, and pushed himself up out of the bunk. He clung for a moment to the nearest bulkhead before he caught the movement of the ship, and was bitterly aware of the Dutchman’s grin. Marlowe cursed again, and staggered from the cabin.

  He made his way on deck and crossed to the windward rail, clinging to the tarred rigging. The ship had rounded the headland some hours before, was now beating its way up the West Schelde to Flushing. The water of the inlet, choppy from the conflict of wind and tide, had changed from rich blue to a sort of silvered grey, touched here and there with patches of bright foam. The setting sun, emerging briefly from the low clouds, cast fugitive shadows across the waves. Marlowe smiled, moved in spite of himself by the sober beauty, but the smile soon faded. Flushing had never been a lucky town for him; he had done better service at Douai, and at Rheims.

  The cog turned north at last, borne by the flooding tide toward Flushing’s harbor. The coast of Zeeland rose out of the grey waters, at first little more distinct than a cloudbank, then slowly growing more solid, until Marlowe could pick out the squat spires of the church and the town hall, twin towers rising above the uneven line of the town’s chimneys. The harbor itself was busy, dozens of little boats crowding the grey-green water, the long quays bristling with masts. Marlowe leaned back against the railing, trying to stay out of the way of the suddenly hurrying sailors, as the captain bawled the orders that reduced sail, bringing the cog decorously into her place along the longer dock. Single-sailed craft—the poet knew them only by their French name, semaque—careened past, one so close that he could see the shock-haired man at the tiller, and the boy crouched with his dog amid the confusion of buckets and ropes in the rounded bow. One of the sailors paused in his work long enough to shout incomprehensible curses after them; the semaque’s steersman lifted one hand to gesture in languid, insulting response.

  Then the cog was alongside the dock, one party of sailors tending the lines that drew her against the pilings, another group furling the last scraps of sail. Marlowe blinked, amazed as always by the purposeful chaos, and realized that van der Droeghe had come on deck. The Dutchman had their baggage slung over his shoulder, two satchels small enough to be carried easily afoot as well as on horseback. He nodded to the poet, but did not move to join him until the cog was securely at her moorings.

  “Do we go directly to Sir Robert?” van der Droeghe asked at last, and handed the poet his satchel.

  Marlowe took it, accepting for now that they were in a sense equals, and glanced over his shoulder, judging the hour by the fading light. “It’s late,” he said. “You said you knew a place where we could lodge?”

  Van der Droeghe nodded.

  “We’ll go there, then.”

  The captain had been well paid before he agreed to leave Scotland. It was the work of a moment to give him insincere thanks for an easy passage, and then Marlowe scrambled down the unsteady gangplank. He hesitated for a moment on the dock, assailed by the smells and the foreign voices—he spoke French and Spanish well, could make himself understood in a sort of Flemish, but Dutch had always defeated him—and van der Droeghe touched his shoulder.

  “This way.”

  Marlowe nodded, and followed the other man down the length of the dock. Brick warehouses indistinguishable from their London counterparts formed a wall at the end of the docks, dark and stinking alleys dividing one from another. The poet eyed them warily, and was glad when van der Droeghe turned down a broader, though still shadowed, street. The houses’ upper floors overhung the roadway. The poet picked his way carefully, avoiding both the puddles beside the walls and the shallow ditch running down the center of the street. At the first crossing, van der Droeghe paused, and produced a battered lantern from his pack. He fiddled with flint and steel until the candle was lit—Marlowe leaned against the nearest wall, resting his bag on one booted foot—then re-shouldered his satchel, balancing the lantern in his right hand.

  Once they were away from the docks, the streets grew silent, the shops already locked behind their heavy shutters. Marlowe glanced warily from side to side, and loosened his rapier in its sheath. In his experience, empty streets were to be avoided after sunset, and the sun was almost gone. He glanced toward van der Droeghe, but the Dutchman’s face was expressionless. Marlowe allowed himself a mental shrug—surely van der Droeghe wouldn’t lead them through a neighborhood which he knew to be dangerous—but kept close to the other man’s shoulder.

  The quiet street led into a square only a little wider than the road itself. A fountain stood in the center of the cobbled space, the splash of water falling into its basin mingling with the sound of voices from the nearest side street. There was music, too, and a snatch of singing: a tavern, Marlowe thought, and slanted an envious glance toward the sound. Sure enough, lamplight spilled from an open door into the rutted street, to color the figures leaning against the doorpost. They were youngish men in slashed and tattered finery, with serviceable blades under their short cloaks and an air of watchfulness that went badly with the tankards in their hands. There were unemployed soldiers even in the Low Countries, but there was something about them that raised the hackles on the poet’s neck. Instinctively, he touched the sigil hanging at the open neck of his doublet, but kept walking. As he passed the fountain, he glanced back, and saw the first of the strangers just emerging from the side street.

  “Jan-Maarten.”

  Van der Droeghe turned, the lantern swinging in his hand. “Ah,” he said softly, and let the satchel fall from his shoulder.

  Marlowe lifted his voice, switching into French, the least offensive of his languages. “You’re looking for something?”

  The first two strangers exchanged a wary look. The third. man, coming up behind them, said something in Dutch, and laughed. Van der Droeghe sighed.

  “That’s done it,” he said, in English this time, and set his lantern carefully on the fountain’s edge. Marlowe bit back a curse, and let his satchel slide from his shoulder.

  Another man eased into the square, his cloak wrapped around his left hand. Four of them, two to one… T
he poet swore again, and drew his own blades, glancing over his shoulder for a line of escape. Two darkened streets led out of the square, both slanting away to his left. He shifted his ground slightly to allow himself the choice of either, and waited: it wasn’t much of a choice, but he preferred a fight, even at these odds, to being hunted through the unfamiliar streets.

  “What do you want?” he said, still in French, and then repeated the question in his broken Flemish.

  One of them, a dark man whose hair hung in greasy ringlets, laughed softly. Another, his face invisible in the shadow of his feathered hat, answered in English, “Your goods, gentlemen, nothing more.”

  Van der Droeghe spat onto the cobbles, and lifted his sword. Marlowe hesitated. There was something wrong here, something out of place—sober thieves, and these were sober enough, didn’t work this way, they struck from behind or not at all, rather than risk spoiling the goods. Almost without thinking he stooped, lifted his satchel in his dagger hand. He held it out slowly, ignoring van der Droeghe’s astonished glare, saying, in English this time, “Take it, then, and let us go.”

  He wasn’t sure if they understood the words, but the gesture was plain enough. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, and then the dark man said, “Set it down. And you, also.”

  The poet lowered his bag toward the cobbles, not daring to take his eyes from the soldiers, and willed van der Droeghe to follow his lead. The man in the plumed hat snapped, “The fee’s twice what they’d be carrying!”

  One of the others made a noise that might be agreement or protest, but Marlowe did not wait for more. He swung the bag at the nearest soldier’s face, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man fall staggering backward. He rushed the dark man, trying for a quick, crippling blow, and heard van der Droeghe shout something at his back. The dark man parried skillfully, trapping Marlowe’s rapier momentarily in the cross guard of his dagger and drawing it up and to the side. The poet felt the blade lock, and turned with it, spinning into the dark man’s lunge. The rapier’s point ripped across the back of his doublet, drawing blood, but the unexpected turn had spoiled the soldier’s aim. His rapier came free; in the same instant, Marlowe smashed the dagger’s pommel into his opponent’s teeth. The dark man staggered back, dropping his own dagger, left hand going to his bloodied mouth. Marlowe pursued his advantage, slashing backhanded for the dark man’s ribs. The soldier parried awkwardly with long rapier, and dodged away. Marlowe shouted after him, hardly aware of what he said, but then a second soldier lunged at him, and he fell silent, saving his breath for the fight.

  There was shouting from the side street where the tavern lay, and from the houses surrounding the square. Marlowe was vaguely aware of the noise, but did not dare take his eyes from the quick-moving blades. This soldier was good, better than the other, and this time there would be no chance of surprise. Marlowe let himself be driven back, thinking curses, looking for an escape. The soldier feinted to his right, lunged to the left. Marlowe stepped back, parrying, and knew in the same instant that it had been a double feint. He dragged his dagger back across his body, twisting away from the thrust. The blade jumped the cross guard of his dagger, skidding painfully across his knuckles, but the rapier slid harmlessly past his side. Instinctively, he shortened his own sword, stabbing blindly, and felt the blade sink home between the other’s ribs. The soldier sagged forward with a breathy moan; Marlowe wrenched his sword free, and stepped away from the falling body.

  “Jan-Maarten?” he called, and swung round to see the Dutchman standing over a fallen soldier. A third man, an unobtrusive man in a good, sober cloak, stood beside the fountain, cleaning his twin swords with a lace-edged handkerchief. He looked up then, his sandy beard catching the lantern-light, and Marlowe caught his breath in recognition. In the same moment, he became aware of the sound of running feet, and Dutch voices calling in confusion.

  “Poley,” he said aloud, and the sandy-haired man bowed.

  “At your service, Marlowe.”

  Van der Droeghe looked up sharply. “Robert Poley?”

  Marlowe nodded, but before he could say anything more, a voice said, in accented English, “Put up your swords, sirs, and come with me.”

  The poet started to obey, but checked, seeing the blood on his rapier. He stooped to clean the blade on the nearest body’s cloak, keeping his eyes fixed on the newcomers.

  There were perhaps a dozen of them, a core of solid-looking burghers with well-polished partisans and watchman’s cloaks, and behind them a straggle of householders in gown and nightcap carrying clubs or—one—a scythe-bladed fouchard. The chief of the watch, sword drawn in one hand, lantern in the other, peered warily past the circle of light.

  “To what end?” van der Droeghe asked, and sheathed his sword with an audible click of metal.

  “You disturb the peace, sir,” the chief watchman answered, still warily.

  “We were set upon,” Marlowe protested. “Must honest travelers let themselves be murdered in the streets?” He sheathed his own rapier, and then slid his dagger into the sheath fastened above his purse. The movement drew the rough cloth of his shirt across the long cut on his back. He winced, arching his spine, and reached instinctively to probe the wound. It wasn’t much, shallow and messily painful, but his hand came away bloody. He held out the reddened fingers for emphasis. “You see, sir.”

  The chief watchman gave him a jaundiced look, then jerked his head at the nearest of his henchmen, murmuring something in Dutch. The man nodded, and he and two others vanished around the corner, to return a moment later with a tradesman’s two-wheeled cart. One balanced it while two others heaved the soldiers’ bodies onto the shallow bed. The chief watchman said, “That’s as may be, sirs, but it is for the governor to decide. You’ll come with me.”

  His tone brooked no argument. Marlowe sighed, wincing again, but rinsed his bloody hand in the fountain’s basin. “As you wish.” Not that Sir Robert Sidney will be any too happy to see us, he added silently, at least not in this guise, or with this escort.

  “And you, too, sir,” the chief watchman said. He was staring at Poley.

  “I?” Poley mimed surprise and confusion. “I saw these gentlemen set upon, and came to help them, that’s all.”

  There had been the slightest of pauses before the word gentlemen, and Marlowe’s eyes narrowed angrily. Before he could speak, however, van der Droeghe said, “That’s true enough.”

  “The governor will want your witness,” the chief watchman answered. He nodded to his own men, the largest of whom heaved up the handles of the cart and began trundling it away down a side street. The citizens fell back, relieved that the fight was over. One grey-bearded man slipped away, clearly returning to his own fire. The chief watchman glanced around again, and lifted his lantern. “This way, sirs.”

  Marlowe fell in behind the chief watchman, taking good care to stay out of Poley’s reach. He didn’t know what Cecil’s agent was doing in Holland, or how he had happened to be so close at hand when the others were attacked, but it wasn’t a reassuring coincidence. He glanced warily at Poley, but could read nothing in the other man’s impassive face. Not reassuring at all, the poet repeated silently, and looked away.

  Robert Sidney had the governor’s palace, of course, a set of handsome, new-fashioned brick buildings arranged around a bricked quadrangle. There were more soldiers on duty at the gates—Englishmen, this time—and one of them darted ahead to wake the household. Marlowe eyed the darkened windows, and sighed. it looked very much as though Robert’s people were abed. Van der Droeghe shook his head gloomily.

  “Sir Philip will not be pleased.”

  “I doubt Sir Robert will be, either,” Marlowe snapped.

  “I meant that this wasn’t what he intended, “ van der Droeghe answered, with the first hint of temper Marlowe had heard from him. His eyes slid again toward Poley, and the poet frowned.

  “You know Robin?” he asked, in an undertone.

  “Sir Philip has spoken of him
,” the Dutchman answered, in an equally quiet voice. “He was in service in our household, once.”

  To spy on Sir Philip, I’d lay wager, Marlowe thought, but said nothing. He glanced instead toward Poley, and saw that the spy was frowning lightly. I hope you’re worried, Marlowe added, with silent malice; you’re a twisty whoreson, but Sir Robert’s cleverer than he looks. With any luck, you’ll underestimate him, and then we will see fireworks. He pushed aside the memory of his own first meeting with Robert Sidney, and with it the unhappy knowledge that he had failed to convince the governor of his innocence. He was still unsure if he owed his release more to Robert’s dislike of the accuser, or to the governor’s sense of humor.

  A door opened across the courtyard, and a steward hurried out, his fingers still fumbling with the strings of his collar. He bowed jerkily to the chief watchman, and said, “Sir Robert will be down directly, since you say it’s important, Master Hendrik. You may wait in the hall.”

  “Thank you,” the chief watchman said, not without irony, and the steward bowed again.

  “This way, if you please.”

  The great hall was still half in darkness, though a pair of servant boys in shirt and breeches were busy lighting the second great candelabrum. Marlowe glanced discreetly around, and saw a half-armored soldier waiting just inside the far door; another soldier followed them inside, and took up his position beside the courtyard door. The candles flared, sending a wave of light across the tapestries that covered the long walls. Under the sudden play of light and shadows, the antique figures seemed to shift their stance above the stacked, dismounted tables, then froze back into woven immobility as the light strengthened. The poet shivered with pleasure. One of the servants brushed past him unheeding, and knelt beside the hearth to stir the embers back into life. Marlowe watched, strangely fascinated, as the young man fed tinder and then larger wood into the growing flames. The new light turned the plain, placid face into a devil’s mask of light and ruddy shadow.