The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  Not you, too, Marlowe thought, but managed to suppress his anger. He said instead, “He’s a good man—” and Fletcher nodded.

  “I know. He used to correspond with the senior members of the Academy, before Navarre dissolved us.”

  “It’s on his behalf that I’m here,” Marlowe said baldly. Fletcher frowned.

  “What would Sir Philip Sidney want with me?”

  “Nothing,” Marlowe answered, honestly. “I’m not sent to you particularly, but to any members of the Pléiade who might be willing to help. I was to go into France, but Sir Robert told me you were here, that you’d been a part of the Pléiade, and I thought I would speak to you first.” He looked up at the older man, making his expression as guileless as possible. “Time is of the essence.”

  “What does Sir Philip want?” Fletcher said again.

  Marlowe took a deep breath, trying to gauge the depth of the other’s skepticism. “Her majesty sent him to Scotland to help the king of Scots against the witches there,” he began. “I’ve brought a letter.” Quickly, he outlined the situation, trying to make things clear without betraying too much of his awkward political knowledge. When he had finished, he handed over the letter, and there was a long silence. Marlowe waited, counting heartbeats, not daring to throw even words into the gap that had opened between them, for fear of what the echoes might bring.

  At last Fletcher nodded, once, and looked up. “All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll come with you.”

  Marlowe looked back at him, unable to hide his sudden suspicion, and Fletcher frowned.

  “What, I’m to trust you and your Sir Philip, and you don’t trust me?”

  “That’s not it,” Marlowe began, but Fletcher went on as if he hadn’t heard.

  “I’ve felt it, too, damn it, something—” He gestured almost angrily, the same gesture every other scholar had used, trying to describe the enemy they’d felt, hands cupped to shape the immense power, a frown for its indistinctness, and a shake of the head to drive away both the fear and the uncertainty. “—not a demon, I’m almost sure, but evil, quite evil. And that’s not a word I use lightly.” His voice changed, became almost contemplative. “It’s been in the air here, sometimes, literally in the air overhead, streaming past on the wind. Like the Wild Hunt, but riding silent, just the rush of something between me and the stars.”

  Marlowe shivered in spite of himself, though a part of him stored the image for his Merlin play. He had never lived on the Welsh border for any length of time, was a

  Kentishman born and bred, but tales of the Wild Hunt had reached Cambridge, and one or two of the Welshmen there had sworn, lilting voices lowered to thrilling whispers, that they had heard the Hunters’ horns in the hills, and the beat of ghostly hooves in the wind.

  Fletcher shook himself then, breaking the spell. “So I will come with you, Christopher. When do you—we—sail?”

  “I don’t know,” Marlowe said, and hated himself for the remembered fear in his tone. He continued more briskly,

  “As soon as I can hire a ship.”

  Fletcher nodded. “I hope you’ll still stay to dinner?”

  Marlowe shook his head, and forced a smile. “I’m afraid I can’t,” he lied. “I need to find out if Sir Robert’s factor has found a ship yet.”

  “Of course,” Fletcher answered, and Marlowe wondered for a bitter moment if he’d heard a note of relief in the other man’s voice. “Send to me as soon as you know anything.”

  “I will,” Marlowe said, and at last managed to take his leave.

  The rain had eased considerably, but the streets were still empty. At the first corner, he paused for a moment, wondering when the bookseller’s closed and if he could persuade the cat-eyed journeyman to come with him when it did, then turned away. Safer, always, to find the accepted meeting places, find someone there who could be bought for a few coins or a pretty trinket; safer still to find a tavern, and drown memory and conscience alike with gallons of beer, rather than burying them in some willing body. And all for nothing: even if he kept the truth from Fletcher long enough to bring the scholar safely to Scotland, someone there, out of malice or simple ignorance, was bound to betray him as Fletcher’s betrayer. And even if some stranger didn’t reveal the true story, Sidney was not the man to let another go into danger for him under false pretenses. He cringed away from the thought of Sidney explaining, in his quiet, polite voice, just what he had been doing in Rheims—apologizing, probably, for sending such a man as his agent.

  With an effort, Marlowe shook the thought away. If Sidney wished to complicate his own life, that was Sidney’s problem; his only commission was to bring a Pléiade wizard to Scotland, and that he would do. The rest was up to Sidney.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  For if they which are troubled with the disease of the eyes called opthalmia do infect others that look earnestly upon them, is it any marvel that these wicked creatures, having both bodies and minds in a higher degree corrupted, should work both these and greater mischiefs?

  W. Fulkbecke, A Parallele or Conference of the Civil Law, the Canon Law, and the Common Law.

  “The Master of Ruthven will joust.”

  Sidney paused at Greville’s words, the gold-chased manifer forgotten in his hands. There was an unholy glee in his friend’s eyes that he knew must be reflected in his own. Still, inborn caution kept his voice low, so that the armorer at work on the straps of a back-and-breast did not hear. “Fulke, you are a wonder. How did you do it?”

  “James really did most of it.” Greville leaned against the armorer’s bench, legs outstretched before him. A stream of sunlight fell from one of the high windows, pouring across his primrose stockings. His shoe-ribbons, that shade of dusted rose called love’s-longings, looked almost orange in the buttery light. “I merely asked his majesty if the Master of Ruthven fought, and, Philip, I swear, for one heartbeat he looked as you did when I told you it was certain. So, he said, ‘Shall we ask my Alexander, Sir Fulke?’, and—summoned him, from out of thin air, for all I know, that’s an uncanny one. ‘Sir Philip has done you a signal honor, Alexander. He invites you to be part of the company that will joust against his in this tourney.’ ”

  Greville paused, the glee fading from his expression. Sidney frowned, but held his tongue. Greville went on, more slowly, “For a moment, I almost think I was frightened.” Then he shrugged. “But he made the best of it suggesting he wasn’t worthy of such an honor at your hands, Philip—it was beginning to sound liturgical and vaguely blasphemous—but then James cut in in that brisk way he sometimes has, and suggested that Ruthven had better prove worthy of a knight’s honor if he expected to be worthy of a king’s favor. Oh, Philip, it was beautifully done—but I’d be wary of him in the lists. I don’t know if, after all, I’ve done you any favor.”

  Sidney shook his head, smiling faintly. “Never worry about that, Fulke. I’d rather have him on the field where I can keep an eye on him. What say you—a general challenge, skill only. You and I against all comers.” His hands tightened on the manifer, betraying a brutal excitement. Greville sighed inwardly, envying that pleasure. At forty-one, still England’s undisputed champion, Sidney always looked twenty years younger when there was a tourney at hand. Then Greville smiled. God help young Ruthven, facing that.

  “I think there are some Scots who’d rather ride with us,” he said aloud. “Young Seton, for one, perhaps Mar, probably Lord Graham, the treasurer’s son, and certainly some others. You said before you didn’t want this to become English against Scots.”

  Instantly, Sidney’s smile became apologetic, almost abashed. “I did, and you’re quite right. No symbolism, and, please God, no antagonism.”

  “Except toward the Master of Ruthven,” Greville murmured.

  “Oh, no, Fulke. No antagonism even there. Just—a salutary lesson.”

  Greville mimed a toast. “To salutary lessons, then.” And may I deliver one of them.

  There was a noise from the doorway, rid
ing over the sawing of the armorer’s knife against the well-tanned cowhide. Sidney looked up, frowning, and a brown-haired youth in the royal livery bowed deeply.

  “Your pardon, Sir Philip, but his majesty requests your presence.”

  Sidney and Greville exchanged quick glances, and Greville muttered, “God’s teeth, can’t the man look after himself for an hour?”

  Sidney suppressed a grin. “At once?”

  “If you please, Sir Philip.”

  Sidney set the manifer aside. “Then his Majesty will pardon me if I come to him as I am.”

  James had for once abandoned his privy chamber for the great hall. Sidney followed the page through the warren of corridors, and slowly became aware that they were not following the most direct route. There were more servants in evidence than usual, too, and a surprising number of men in the red sashes of the royal soldiers. Sidney lifted his head warily, wondering if there had been another attack. Surely I would have felt anything like that, he thought—wouldn’t I? He shook the doubts away. If there had been an attack on the king, the page would have brought him directly to the hall, instead of by this roundabout passage.

  The page paused then before one of the doors to the hall, and spoke softly to the soldier on duty there. The man stiffened to attention, and swung open the door. “Sir Philip Sidney,” the page announced, and Sidney stepped into the hall.

  The door through which he had entered was not commonly used; he stood for a moment in some confusion, trying to get his bearings, and then the king’s voice spoke from uncomfortably near at hand.

  “Sir Philip. Forgive me from taking you away from your preparations for what is, after all, my entertainment—but there are some people arrived whom I thought you’d wish to see at once.”

  Sidney swept automatically into his bow, his mind racing. He was not in the mood for games—but there was a note in James’s voice that reminded him of his own daughter’s, the time she had presented him with a nightcap embroidered with her own hands. He straightened, and saw, beyond the king’s shoulder, a familiar figure—two familiar figures, he amended silently. But what in God’s name had brought either Frances or Raleigh this far north?

  James smiled. “Lady Sidney is twice welcome,” he said, “as your wife and for her own fair self. And Sir Walter’s reputation precedes him.” He gestured then to the knot of men in plain, serviceable clothes who stood a little behind the rest. “And the Lord Chamberlain’s Players, as well—I vow, my court shall shine as bright as any in Europe. How bereft England must feel, since so many of her brightest stars now shine in our northern firmament. Come, come, Sir Philip, greet your lady wife. I shan’t intrude any longer, I assure you.”

  He turned away, drawing the laughter of the court with him, but Sidney was still aware of their eyes on him as he stepped forward to take Frances’s hands. She smiled at him—she must have changed clothes, he thought, bemused and delighted, that sanguine gown was never meant for riding—and he bent to kiss her hands, not certain how the kiss he suddenly longed to give her would be received. As he straightened, he thought for an instant he read disappointment in her eyes, but then Raleigh had stepped forward, and the two men embraced.

  “Small wonder Essex thinks he can control that one,” Raleigh said softly. “Faith, Philip, you’re looking hearty.”

  “Essex?” Sidney repeated, glancing from one to the other with new wariness.

  Frances nodded with a humorless smile. “Indeed. He’s doing his level best to destroy whatever it is you’re trying to do. I doubt he really means it—he hardly thinks enough to recognize consequences, if he thinks at all. I spoke—very circumspectly, I assure you!—to her majesty, but you had to be warned as well.”

  “I thank you,” Sidney said. He did not ask why she had not merely sent a letter: there were bound to be sane, sober, Walsingham reasons for it, and he preferred not to hear them just now, to cherish the thought, illusion though it might be, that she had preferred to be with him, as she had been with him in Holland And yet, he thought, she practically called Essex a fool.... “The danger isn’t really Essex,” he said slowly. “It’s those he can inspire.”

  “Or those he can be used by,” Raleigh interjected. “Philip, there’s a demon just to the south you’ve not been chary of.”

  “Northumberland?” Sidney shook his head. “No. I’ve been ware and chary, I promise you. But I know his power—and so do one or two others in my household, even were I mistaken—and this—” He broke off, realizing just how much he still had to explain to both of them, and finished rather lamely. “The great danger here is from someone else, the Earl of Bothwell, in fact. Northumberland’s a conjurer, a middling Faustus.”

  Frances smiled in spite of herself at the scholarly disdain in her husband’s voice, and Raleigh had the grace to look away. “Still,” he said, “join what power he has with Essex’s charm?”

  Sidney winced. “Then it’s a mess indeed,” he said shortly. There was a moment’s silence. Then he saw the players, still huddling together just out of earshot, waiting for someone to notice them. He smiled, and beckoned to them. Burbage and Heminges, the senior shareholders, stepped forward, bowing; at Burbage’s hasty gesture, Shakespeare joined them.

  “Welcome, masters,” Sidney said. “How is it you’re away from London at this time of year? I trust—not plague?” His voice sharpened in spite of himself, imagining his Elizabeth alone at Penshurst.

  “No, no,” Burbage answered hastily. “Or, rather, a plague of wit, and deadly enough to our season.”

  Sidney’s eyebrows rose in spite of himself, and he darted a questioning glance at Shakespeare. The player gave a rather chagrined laugh.

  “No, Sir Philip, not my play. I—we—did as you suggested, and pulled it from our repertory. Little good it did us, though, when someone else offended.”

  “Marlowe is with me,” Sidney said, half to himself, and frowned. “Who, then?”

  “Jonson,” Heminges answered, with loathing in his voice.

  Sidney shook his head. “I don’t know the name.”

  “I wish the rest of London were in that blessed state, Sir Philip,” Burbage said.

  “He’s a new man,” Heminges said, “quite young—writes comedies, mostly, full of bawdry—and a friend of Thomas Nashe.”

  “I take it that’s where the trouble lies,” Sidney said.

  Burbage snorted. “Never trust a bricklayer with so delicate a thing as wit. What can be applied daintily will be taken for beauty, but applied with a trowel—it can only offend.”

  ‘What was this play?” Sidney asked, bemused. He had rarely seen the Chamberlain’s Men so exercised about anything.

  “It’s called The Astronomers,” Shakespeare answered. He gave a wry smile. “A satire, of sorts. The important thing is, the Master of the Revels refused to license it, but Pembroke’s Men played it anyway—at the behest, they say, of the Earl of Essex.”

  “Indeed?” Sidney murmured. He glanced at the players, but no more information seemed to be forthcoming—and I should know better than to ask for it in the present circumstances, he thought. Later, when we can be private. He beckoned instead to the nearest page. “See that the players are well bestowed.” He turned back to Burbage. “His majesty will doubtless be demanding. You may well find yourselves almost as busy as you would be at the Globe.”

  “The better for us, if so,” Burbage answered, and bowed. “Thank you for your kind welcome, Sir Philip.” He bowed then, and backed away, then followed the page from the hall.

  Sidney turned back to the others, trying desperately to keep the sudden longing from his face. He could not meet Frances’s eyes, looked instead at Raleigh. “I can’t say I’m sorry to see you here, Walter. If only because I’d welcome another skilled knight at my back.”

  Raleigh frowned, puzzled. “Are things that bad?” he began, and Frances said, almost impatiently, “A tournament—isn’t it, Philip?”

  Sidney nodded.

  Frances shook her h
ead, frowning now in thought. “What purpose does it serve?”

  “That remains to be seen,” Sidney answered. He grimaced. “It’s all too complicated to explain here—suffice it to say it was proposed by a man—a boy, really—who shows no signs of loving me.” He nodded discreetly toward the crowd of nobles who surrounded the king at the far end of the hall. “The one all in black. The Master of Ruthven.”

  “A pretty bit of poppetry,” Raleigh said.

  “As darkly fair as Lucifer himself” Sidney said, and was surprised by his own words. He added, striving for a lighter tone, “Except that he has unfortunate hands.”

  “Ah, well.” Frances smiled at him, matching the change of mood perfectly. “I could never be convinced by a man with ugly hands.”

  Raleigh sighed theatrically, and displayed his own hands, long-fingered, but square and hard, common hands. “Alas, I am already rejected. Madam, I am devastated.” Frances lifted an eyebrow at him, and he went on, more seriously, “Philip, I’ll ride with you, or do anything else I can to aid you. We were good friends, once, and I’m not sure but you don’t have the right of our quarrel—or mostly so, at any rate. And I’ll be damned if I’ll be anyone’s tool.” He snapped his fingers for one of the hovering pages. “In the meantime, I’ve my household to see lodged, and I know you’ve things in hand.” A moment later he was gone, his short cape swinging gracefully as he made his bow to the king.

  Left alone with his wife, Sidney hesitated, knowing that the Scottish courtiers were watching covertly from the far end of the hall. He forced a smile, knowing the expression to be both formal and stilted, and said, “Would you care to retire to my rooms, at least until the king’s chamberlains can attend to your household?” He paused again, then added recklessly, “Though I hope you’ll consent to share my lodging.”

  Frances smiled, with sudden, almost startling warmth. “I had hoped that would be acceptable,” she murmured.