The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  “One hopes,” Marlowe murmured, remembering his own months in Rheims. The English students there, who had given up everything for their religion, were more bitter even than the Jesuits against the servants of the Antichrist. “Where can I find him?”

  “He lives in the printers’ district,” Robert answered. “He writes almanacs.”

  And probably practices minor wizardry on the side, Marlowe thought. Tom Watson did, and he was just as learned as this Englishman. “What’s his name?”

  “Hal—Henry Fletcher.”

  Marlowe froze. There had been a Hal Fletcher at Douai with him, a quiet man some few years older than himself, to whom he had been inexplicably drawn. Or not so inexplicably, he thought. That Hal Fletcher, for all his devotion, had been a man who thought even while he believed, and was not afraid to probe the underpinnings of the Jesuits’ theology. His company had been a comfort in those exhilaratingly dangerous months—but his name had gone down on Walsingham’s list all the same, condemning him to death as a papist agent should he ever try to return to England. Still, Marlowe thought, Hal was never a dabbler in arcane philosophy. It may not be the same man. “How old is he, this Fletcher?”

  Robert lifted an eyebrow. “A little older than yourself.” His tone left no doubt that he knew precisely why the poet had asked the question.

  “You said I’d find him in the printers’ quarter?” Marlowe’s face and voice hardened, daring the governor to challenge him. Robert nodded. “Then I’ll look for him. As you said, if he’ll help—if he knows enough to help us—it’ll save me the journey into France.”

  He sketched a bow and turned away. Robert nodded imperturbably, acknowledgement and dismissal in the gesture, but Marlowe barely noticed the movement. He had done his best to forget the precise details of his year at Rheims, though the danger of it, the excitement giddy as passion or wine, had stayed with him ever since, and the aftermath, the degree forced from an unwilling university by fiat of the Privy Council itself, had been a triumph particularly sweet. Nevertheless, he had bought those successes with the names of men who had been his friends, and he had no great belief in his own righteousness to remove the taste of betrayal. Still, he told himself, they chose to sacrifice themselves for something unreal—I was only the instrument of the martyrdom they wanted. The memory of the mass, the sensual splendor embellishing the cold chastity of the Latin rite, mocked the easy sneer.

  “A word with you, Marlowe.”

  The poet spun, his hand going to the hilt of his rapier. Poley stood in the doorway of a side room, the chairs behind him covered with white drapes that glowed like ghosts in the rainy darkness.

  “What do you want?” Marlowe asked, and the other man beckoned impatiently.

  “In here, quickly.”

  Marlowe hesitated, glancing over his shoulder for any awkward witnesses, then stepped inside. He kept his hand on the rapier’s hilt as Poley shut the door gently behind him. “What is it?” he said again.

  “What is it?” Poley mimicked irritably. “What do you think, ass? I have a word for you, from our mutual employer. I’m to remind you of your orders, and to say again that the witches are not to be destroyed. Consider our meeting last night a reinforcement of the reminder.”

  “Listen, Poley—” Marlowe bit back his first response. Anger would do him no good here; only an explanation, a rational submission, stood any chance of convincing Cecil’s agent. He took a deep breath, and tried again, fumbling for the words that would carry the most weight. “Listen, Robin, I wrote to Cecil already, I told him that things have changed, that the enemy’s too strong for that kind of game. Either the witches—either Bothwell will be destroyed, or James will. There’s no other choice. And I don’t think he wants to see James lose.”

  Poley’s smile was contemptuous. “Sir Robert’s received your very dutiful letters. So the paper knight’s converted you, after all?”

  Marlowe’s hand tightened on the hilt of his rapier, but he made himself swallow the insult. “I’m speaking from what I’ve seen. God’s blood, I know more about this than either of you, and more than Sir Philip does. Cecil’s asking the impossible.”

  Poley grimaced, gesturing for the poet to be quiet, and Marlowe hastily lowered his voice. “All right, I’ve done, I’ll remember what he wants. But tell him what I’ve said. It’s not possible.”

  Poley lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, I’ll tell him. It won’t do you any good, Kit, but I’ll tell him.”

  The threat was unmistakable. Marlowe managed a sour smile, knowing that further protest would be useless, said instead, “Enjoy your stay in Flushing, Robin.”

  Poley’s mouth twisted, but Marlowe’s hand was already on the door latch. He slipped out before Cecil’s agent could find an adequate response.

  The streets were quiet, the few citizens who could not avoid a journey—mostly women and apprentices, all huddled into heavy, hooded cloaks—hurrying along the narrow passages. The women in particular moved like great ungainly birds, skirts and cloaks bunched high to show mud-spattered ankles, hopping and dodging across the puddles. Marlowe drew his own cloak tighter around his body, hunching head and shoulders to keep the hood from blowing back in the capricious breeze. It was a long walk to the printers’ district: despite his care, he could feel the damp spreading along his neck and down his spine, and rising through the worn soles of his boots.’

  He stopped first in a modest-looking tavern to inquire his way. The surly publican left off snarling at his wife long enough to deny any knowledge of a man called Fletcher, but the woman broke the rhythm of her scrubbing to nod toward the shop next door.

  “The booksellers,” she said, in accented French, and sat back on her heels to contemplate the stranger. “They might know.”

  “Thank you, mistress,” Marlowe said, and the publican rumbled something challenging from behind his counter. The poet backed away in haste, but was uncomfortably aware of the woman’s eyes watching his departure. He braced himself, stepping out into the rain, but to his surprise it was the woman’s voice that rose in shrill vituperation, and the man who offered apologies.

  The bookseller’s apprentice, a plump boy who blushed for his breaking voice, knew nothing of an almanac writer, but the cat-eyed journeyman left off setting type and came forward, wiping inky hands on his apron.

  “Master Fletcher lives around the corner, at the sign of the black hen,” he said, in good French. The slanting greenish eyes lingered speculatively on the poet’s face, swept down to study the serviceable, ungentle clothes half revealed beneath the sodden cape. “Would you be a kinsman of his wife’s?”

  Marlowe shook his head. “No. I was at school with Master Fletcher once, that’s all, and thought I’d take the chance of seeing him again.”

  “So.” The journeyman nodded, his eyes bright and curious. “At the sign of the black hen, then, that’s where you’ll find him.”

  “I thank you,” Marlowe said, and suppressed the desire to ask the younger man’s name. “Around the corner, you said?”

  “Yes, to the left. “ The journeyman nodded again. “You can’t mistake the sign.”

  “Thanks,” Marlowe said, and made himself turn away.

  The black hen wasn’t hard to find, the glossy, freshly painted bird perched complacently in its painted nest above the door. Despite the rain, everything about the little house looked bright and new, from the whitewashed walls to the scrubbed doorstep. Marlowe jangled the polished brass bell that hung beside the door, and waited as the discordant music died away. Water dripped gently onto the step beside him, and he shifted away.

  For a long moment, nothing happened. He lifted his hand to the bell again, but before he could touch it, the upper half of the door snapped open. A small woman—a tiny woman, Marlowe thought, startled and bemused by the faerie size and female ripeness—peered out, neat hands resting on the edge of the lower door.

  “You want something?” she asked, in French-accented Flemish.

  Marlowe answe
red in French, “I’m looking for a friend of mine, Hal Fletcher. I’m told he lives here?”

  The woman took her time answering, sparrow-bright eyes darting up and down. She was a pretty thing, brown curls escaping from under her embroidered cap to frame a heart-shaped face, full breasts imperfectly confined by corset and bodice, but there was a determination in the set of her pointed chin that must, Marlowe thought, warn off her suitors.

  “Gascon?” she said at last, then shook her head. “No, English.”

  Marlowe nodded, newly wary. “Yes, mistress. My name’s Christopher Merlin. if Master Fletcher’s the man I want, he’ll know me.” And may know me all too well, he added silently. I hope to God he’ll give me a hearing.

  The Frenchwoman frowned, and for an instant Marlowe thought she meant to slam the door in his face. Then, grudgingly, she said, “Wait here, English. I’ll see if he knows you.”

  “Thanks,” Marlowe said, but she had already turned away, leaving the upper door open behind her. The poet scowled, bleakly tempted to reach inside and see if he could hook anything of value off a side table, but the little entrance hall, though neat enough, held nothing really worth stealing. At least that explains why she was willing to leave the door ajar, Marlowe thought wryly, but it’s not very flattering.

  After what seemed an interminable time, doors opened and closed somewhere down the dim hallway, and shapes bustled out into the rain-grayed daylight. The foremost was a man in a long gown, richly furred at neck and wrists, but neatly patched at hem and elbows: a scholar’s gown, unmistakably, Marlowe thought, even if the square black cap hadn’t marked him further. Two women followed at his back, the one who’d answered the door and another almost as tiny, drying her hands on a linen apron. Then the man had come fully into the light, and Marlowe recognized the once-familiar face. Fletcher hadn’t changed much over the years—he trimmed his beard in the French style now, and the lines running from nose to chin were deeper—but the mild eyes and the eyebrow perpetually quirked in good-humored question remained the same.

  “Christopher,” he said. “Come in out of the rain.” He lowered his voice as the poet stepped inside. “Are you in trouble? You needn’t fear—even the servants are good Catholics here.”

  Marlowe froze. He had anticipated half a dozen possible receptions, but this—to be greeted as a fellow student, a fellow Catholic, had not seemed probable. “No. I’m not in trouble,” he temporized. “It was a professional matter I came about—I understand you’re a scholar, a maker of almanacs?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the taller woman give a sigh of relief. Fletcher’s wife? he wondered. Or did he have the bad luck to be married to the miniature virago?

  Fletcher’s face took on an odd expression, a subtle wariness. “I am. But let me take your cloak, Christopher.”

  Marlowe shrugged himself free of the water-heavy wool, but before Fletcher could take it, the taller of the women had slipped forward, deftly intercepting the scholar.

  “You must be soaked through,” she said in French, sounding glad of the merely domestic concern, and Fletcher frowned.

  “Come in by the fire, then, it’s a raw day.” He glanced at the taller woman, a singularly sweet smile transforming his sternly bearded face. “Have Besje set another place at dinner, Henriette. “

  “Of course, my Hal,” the woman answered, and bustled away, the sodden cloak bundled in her arms.

  Marlowe followed the other man down the long hall toward the back of the house, trying not to stare too obviously at the rooms around him. The house of the black hen was small but comfortably—almost lavishly—furnished, the compulsive tidiness of the Dutch maidservants vying with the indulgent disorder that usually accompanied small and much-loved children. A toy horse on wheels, its bright paint somewhat battered, stood in a corner, and there was a small, smudged handprint on the wall below a framed engraving of a shipwreck. It was just the sort of picture that would fascinate a child, Marlowe thought, and felt a sudden brief lightening of spirit. In the background, the bowsprit of the sinking ship pointing accusingly toward heaven, while the gallant captain fought to drag one more man into the overcrowded boat, and—most conspicuous and deliciously horrible of all, filling the entire foreground—sharks devoured a screaming seaman.

  “It gives my son nightmares,” Fletcher said ruefully, “but he won’t let us take it down.” He pushed open the door to a side room. “In here’s my study. There’s a good fire laid, you can dry off.”

  “Thanks,” Marlowe said, and stepped past him into the study. It was a little room, well warmed by the generous fire. The poet moved close to the tiled hearth, holding out his hands to the blaze, and glanced once around the paneled walls. It was a typical scholar’s chamber, at least in that one quick look, with its cluttered table and the rack of instruments—orrery, astrolabes, a narrow brass-bound tube—balanced precariously above the precious books, and Marlowe felt his own waning confidence revive slightly. This was familiar territory, this crabbed scholarship and minor, hissed-at magic; he had been clever enough to avoid this lute for himself, but he remembered enough of it to know he could use such men.

  “Sit down, please,” Fletcher said, and settled himself in a worn carved chair beside the table. “How have you been—what have you been doing? We didn’t hear of you, after Rheims; we thought sure the authorities had taken you.” He smiled slightly. “I see your vocation was no more permanent than my own—or do I misjudge your clothes?”

  Marlowe forced a smile, and sat on the settle, stretching his legs to the fire. The damp leather steamed faintly, thin streams of vapor curling up off his legs. He stared at them, willing himself to think of some innocuous reply. “No, I’m no priest,” he said at last, and was violently aware of the understatement in those words. His momentary cynicism had vanished with Fletcher’s first words; he was swamped instead with fragmentary memories, guilts cold and unacknowledged, that choked any further reply. How could he explain what he’d been doing in the past eight years? Well, Hal, actually I was in Rheims just to spy on you anyway, so when I came back to England, I just gave Walsingham the names and went up to London to write plays, though I still do a little spying when I need the money. Oh, yes, and I don’t spell it “Merlin” any more— never did, much, except abroad—but “Marlowe.” Oh, that would sound a truly heroic note—and ruin any chance I’d have of persuading Fletcher to help Sir Philip. I don’t dare tell him the truth, but maybe somehow I can shape half-truth to a story that will bring him with me.

  He realized that Fletcher was looking curiously at him, and managed another smile. Before he could speak, however, there was a knock at the door, and a maidservant appeared, carrying a tray laden with tankards and the ubiquitous Dutch cheese. She bobbed a curtsey, eyes flashing in her apple-cheeked face, and set the tray on the worktable. Fletcher thanked her in Dutch, and she curtsied a second time before disappearing. The scholar turned back to his guest with a slightly apologetic smile.

  “Not the best ale, I’m afraid, but at least it isn’t sauced. That’s a habit I’ve never been able to get used to, for all we’ve been living here six years now.”

  “Not a favorite of mine, either,” Marlowe lied, and accepted the proffered mug. For a wild instant, he wished it were sauced, mixed like the cheapest tobacco with black apple and belladonna and less identifiable herbs, but shook the thought away. He would need all his wits about him now. “I see you’re married,” he said, and carved a sliver of the cheese.

  Fletcher smiled almost shyly. “Yes. While I was in Paris, I met Henriette—she’s the daughter of an old teacher of mine, who introduced me to the academy there when I decided I wouldn’t enter the priesthood. He was, I think, pleased with the match.” His face clouded slightly. “He died just after Julia-Marie was born, and then she died, too, of a putrid fever. She was always sickly, poor lamb, we were lucky to keep her two years... But Cyprian at least is healthy, thank God.”

  Marlowe nodded, nibbling the strong, salty cheese. Children, in
cluding his own nieces and nephews, were little more than nuisances to be tolerated when they could not be ignored, in his view, but at least the conversation had taken a less threatening turn.

  The respite did not last, however. Fletcher visibly shook away his own concerns, and said, “But what of you? What brings you to Holland?”

  The question could not be evaded any longer. Marlowe said, choosing his words carefully, “Your father-in-law’s Academy, it was the Pléiade, wasn’t it?”

  Fletcher nodded, unsurprised. “Yes. It’s a bit of a comedown, I admit, to be writing almanacs, but the skills required are just as great, if not as—respectable.”

  There was a faint note of defensiveness in his voice, but Marlowe resisted his desire to pick at that weakness. He said instead, “It’s that connection I’m interested in. I was told you had been a member—” He broke off, knowing more explanation was needed, and tried again. “You asked what I’d been doing. I went back to England; I’m—in service to Sir Philip Sidney now.”

  As he’d expected, the bald announcement raised Fletcher’s eyebrows. He watched the scholar work through the ramifications of the lie—Sidney was a Protestant champion, though not overtly hostile to Catholics who were not political enemies, and a scholar as well as a writer—and bit his lip to keep from adding to the story. After a moment, Fletcher said, “Then you converted.”

  Marlowe looked away. “I’ve made my peace,” he muttered. It was a phrase he’d heard Catholic converts use, when reproached for faithlessness. He hesitated, searching for a convincing reason for his defection, and finally added, “I couldn’t live outside England, in the end.”

  “Oh, Christopher.” Fletcher closed his teeth on any further reproach, but the rueful words stung. Marlowe felt himself flush painfully. The scholar regarded him sorrowfully for a moment longer, then shook himself. “You said you were a part of Sidney’s household?”

  Marlowe nodded.

  Fletcher managed a slightly bitter smile. “I suppose that goes a long way toward explaining it. It’s hard to believe a man like that could be so willfully mistaken in his beliefs.”