The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  Marlowe grimaced, faint laughter, Mephistophilis’s laughter, brushing his ears like a lover’s kiss. “I can—and I will—do something against it, in any case.” He frowned down at his pipe, wishing it would bring him the stupor it had given him in Holland. “Damn the man, anyway.”

  “Sidney?” Massey smiled. That was more the poet’s normal tone. “He is a marvel of the age.”

  “He’s not perfect,” Marlowe snapped, “he’s not some demigod, and certainly not God Himself, despite what some of you lot seem to think—”

  “Can you list any faults?” Phillips demanded.

  Marlowe scowled, and Massey cut in, not knowing quite why he deflected the quarrel, “Well, the temper’s legendary. If the Earl of Oxford calls you a puppy, you say ‘thank’ee, zur’ and make an upstage exit. You don’t challenge him.”

  Marlowe shook his head. “It’s to the point where it’s no longer considered a fault. It lends dash.” He looked speculatively at Phillips. “What about his wife, then?”

  “What about her?” Phillips repeated uncomfortably.

  Marlowe smiled, remembering the scene he’d witnessed at Penshurst, the thin hand, laid flat, challenge naked in the small gesture.

  “Vicious London gossip,” Massey said, “that even you should be ashamed to be repeating.”

  The poet looked at him in some surprise. “You’re hot in her defense.”

  “Maybe because I’ve had not to be what people have thought me, this past year,” Massey answered sweetly. “I’m rather sensitive to gossip now, Kit.”

  Marlowe glanced down, flushing. That gentle voice still made womanhood seem exaggerated, a soft rebuke, yet utterly implacable. And if I’ve lost him, if even Penthesilea isn’t enough… He pushed the thought away, unwilling to contemplate it, or to remember his demon, laughing softly now at the edge of hearing. There were too many other things to consider now—Sidney, for one, and the dangers of the tournament—to allow something so minor to gain undue importance. He looked back at his pipe, already focusing his mind on the immediate future. He had been granted this vision: God willing, a false one, but a vision nonetheless; it would be almost a sin not to act on that knowledge. He pushed himself to his feet, a ritual already shaping itself in his mind, and nodded to the company. “Gentlemen, I’ll bid you farewell, at least until tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Castle, or picture of policy, shewing forth most lively, the face, body and partes of a commonwelth, the duety, quality, profession of a perfect and absolute Souldier, the martiall feates encounters and skirmishes lately done by our Enligh nation, under the conduct of the most noble and famous Gentleman M. Iohn Noris Generall of the Army of the states in Friesland. The names of many worthy and famous Gentlemen which live and have this present yeare. 1580. ended theyr lives in that Land most honorably.

  Title of military handbook dedicated to M. Philip Sidney

  The day of the great tournament dawned cloudy, but the clouds ran high and thin, with breaks that showed the sky like tatters of blue silk, a lady’s favor bright against steel grey. The wind was light and steady: with luck, the conditions would last the day—and the jousts were scheduled to begin at midday. By early morning, however, the knights slated to joust were already at the tiltyard, inspecting the field, their horses, and their opponents’ arms. Sidney was there with the rest of them, leather jerkin laced hastily over his oldest doublet. Unlike the English jousts, this was not the time to bring out his best clothes.

  “No one will be riding into the sun today, if the weather holds,” Greville said. “That’s good.”

  Sidney nodded, his eyes roving again over the tiltyard, from lists to the barriers to the stands where king and court would sit. The tilt barriers each had angled ends, to help the rider, encumbered as he was with a twelve-foot lance, vision severely limited by his closed helmet, to control his horse, and keep it from running into the taller barriers that enclosed the yard and protected the common spectators—an English innovation, but no one had raised any objections to it.

  Greville shook his head. “Truth, Philip, I don’t know if I’ve done you any favor, by making sure Ruthven will joust,” he began, but Sidney interrupted him.

  “Fulke, you’ve said that a dozen times.” He smiled to take any sting from the words. “Believe me when I say you’ve done me a very great favor—and his majesty, too, I hope.”

  “You are expecting—something?” Greville said.

  Sidney smiled again. “I’m not yet reckoned a fool, am I? But now, I haven’t seen any danger. I’m merely assuming it will be there, since the conditions are so favorable.”

  Greville shook his head against sudden fear. “If Bothwell enters the lists—you will be in grave danger.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sidney said. He was smiling still, his voice coolly assured, as distant from arrogance as could be. The knowing competence calmed Greville considerably. So that’s what you’re up to, he thought, drawing him into a trap. Lord God, that would be a coup as great as Axell—

  “I’m just grateful there’s to be no foot combat,” he said aloud. “When I think this could have been a three-day affair…”

  “James would never make that mistake,” Sidney said. “This is very courageous of him—he could be a man, if he were permitted.”

  You may make a man of him, Greville thought, but Ruthven won’t. He glanced involuntarily toward the favorite’s black pavilion—a monstrous expense, walls and pennons all of silk brocade—but the young man was nowhere in sight. Instead, Seton rode up to them, grinning in boyish anticipation. He dismounted politely, allowing the older men plenty of time to admire his mount, and then invited them back to his pavilion for a cup of wine before they armed themselves. Sidney agreed cheerfully, and as they made their way across the yard the younger man spoke eagerly of the day’s matches. As at Whitehall, each man would ride six courses, against six different opponents. This limited the number of men who could face Sidney, and there was some resentment that so untried—so youthful, the politic said—a knight as the Master of Ruthven should be one of them.

  Seton grinned. “And so might I, didn’t I think it would prove a lesson too long in coming to him. Faith, a part of me regrets not being one of those to face you—though there’s honor enough for any man in riding at your side.” He sighed, his exuberance momentarily dimmed. “I do wish there were to be a tourney as well as jousts, but I suppose present politics wouldn’t allow it. Can you imagine it, Huntley’s kin against Moray’s friends—no mock combat there.”

  “No,” Sidney agreed drily. “I imagine it would be rather like being in France again.”

  “Someday, perhaps, when his majesty’s more secure,” Seton said.

  “Or should you travel to England, as well you might,” Greville offered, but Seton’s gaze barely shifted from Sidney. His adulation was becoming vaguely uncomfortable, Sidney thought. It should be reserved for—should be earned by—his king.

  Resign yourself to the worship of men, whispered an inward voice. It has won you the hearts and lives of the greatest men of Europe, Dee, Languet, Bruno, William of Nassau… and think how easy it would be to have this king among them. What great and good influence you would then possess…

  The devil tempts me to do good, Sidney thought. Truly, my lord Bothwell, a clumsy offering. I never sought nor desired the worship of men. The voice chuckled, fading, and Sidney winced. That, if not a lie, was not wholly the truth. What courtier did not want to influence his prince?

  He had slowed without realizing it, and Greville turned to him, frowning. He directed a pointed glance at Sidney’s crooked leg, but Sidney shook his head. “My mind was elsewhere for a moment, nothing more.”

  Greville snorted, but did not press the issue. Seton, ever the courtier, nodded to the piece of amber silk Sidney carried in his left hand, and said, “A favor, Sir Philip?”

  “From Lady Sidney,” the Englishman answered, his hand closing tight around the piece of cloth. It
had been an unexpected grace, one he still half feared would vanish.

  They had reached Seton’s pavilion then, and pages brought wine in silver cups. The knights drank the thick, sweetened liquor without really tasting it, tension already settling in their bones, and the Englishmen excused themselves as soon as they decently could. Sidney made his way back to his own pavilion—it was actually some dead prince’s campaign tent, conspicuously soldierly—and, to his surprise, found Marlowe waiting for him, an older, graying man who could only be the Pléiade wizard at his side. Sidney made himself smile, inwardly cursing-the poet. Now was not the time to greet the Catholic wizard... He put the thought aside, spoke as graciously as he could. “Master Fletcher, I believe?”

  The graying man bowed silently.

  “I beg your pardon for not having found the opportunity to thank you for agreeing to help me,” Sidney went on. “I am aware, only too well, how difficult it must be for you to come to the aid of a Protestant defender of a Protestant king.”

  “The power abroad is a threat to us all, Sir Philip. In such perilous times for godly men, vain distinctions are best ignored,” Fletcher answered.

  “Nevertheless, I do thank you.” The man had a good voice, Sidney thought. He would have made a fine preacher— He stopped that thought before it went too far, and turned to Marlowe. “I’ll want to talk to you about Holland, Marlowe, but later. Tonight, perhaps, if the banquets don’t go on too long.”

  “At your convenience, Sir Philip,”“ Marlowe answered. “But, if I may—”

  He sounded oddly hesitant, and Sidney looked at him curiously. The poet shrugged.

  “I know this is to be a very plain joust. I know the ceremonies implicit in the Whitehall jousts would be dangerous here. But it doesn’t seem right that you should ride without… some ceremony, no matter how private. Sir Philip Sidney should never enter the lists without a suitable impressa. “ He held out his hand. In it was a circle of hardened wax, with some small tatters of cloth dangling from it. “I’m not an artist as Burbage is—but what I could do, I’ve done. May it serve.”

  Sidney took the sigil carefully. In the smooth central space, hard to see except when the light fell at just the proper angle, was carved the single word Credo. Sidney tilted his head sideways to look at Marlowe, a trifle warily, this time. Again the poet shrugged, but there was an impudent gleam in his eye. “It’s a memorial of the ’87 tournament, Sir Philip,” he said, and would say no more.

  Sidney smiled, and closed his hand over the wax seal. It was solid, but faintly warm to his touch, and on the underside he could feel graven symbols and words. Marlowe had worked long and well on this, he realized, and could not help but be moved by that care. “Thank you, Kit,” he said, and wished he could say more.

  “Good fortune today, Sir Philip,” Marlowe answered, and slipped away, drawing the Pléiade wizard after him.

  “But not ‘God go with you’?” Fletcher asked quietly. “God alone knows what he’ll face out there, if even half of what you told me is true.”

  Marlowe turned to him, mock innocence lighting his face. “Oh, no, Master Fletcher, you know I don’t believe in God.” The mask slipped then, and he gave a wry grin. “But I can’t but believe in Sir Philip Sidney.”

  He walked quickly away, leaving the Catholic staring after him. Fletcher did his best to suppress a smile. I ought to disapprove of that remark, he thought, but I can’t. From Marlowe, it’s not even blasphemy. It’s a sort of truth, and, God willing, this profane belief may be the first step to a more sacred one. He watched the poet stride away into the crowd, and could not recognize the pious scholar he had known at Rheims. And even that was a lie, he thought. He had guessed during the voyage from Holland—and a few not-quite-casual remarks since his arrival here had confirmed it—that Marlowe had been Walsingham’s spy at Rheims, had been at least indirectly responsible for arrests and deaths since then… but he could not seem to find it in himself to feel more than a profound sadness. The anger he should feel simply wasn’t present; there was only regret, and a species of wry understanding. There but for God’s grace—and lack of opportunity—go I, he thought, and smiled suddenly. If nothing else, being understood will annoy Christopher more than my anger ever would—and this is a failure of charity which I’ll find hard to regret. Oh, let him call Sidney his deity. He could do worse, and I for one would find it hard to stay sober-faced should that one belief lead him further than he intended. God send it does.

  Shortly before noon, the king and queen arrived at the tiltyards to great ceremony. The sky still held clouds, but there was no threat of rain, and the advantage of not riding into the sun still held. Above the stands rose flags bearing the colors and emblems of the knights who were to take part. Marlowe, glancing over them, noted with some amusement that Sidney still used the porcupine—an apt symbol of his relations with England’s queen.

  James himself appeared then, to enthusiastic cheers, and Marlowe sneered, wondering if the crowd had been seeded. It could merely have been the excitement of the day, a special occasion now capped by a royal appearance rare when the king went in fear of his life and almost never ventured into crowds. Indeed, James was a splendid sight in his elaborate white and gold suit, doublet and hose both slashed with peacock blue satin. He glittered even in the clouded light, gem-crusted aigrets, marked with “A” for Anne, nodding in his hat. The queen was also dressed in gold and white, the colors not the most flattering to her extreme fairness, but excitement touched her cheeks with color so that one could not call her precisely unattractive. Frances Sidney sat at Anne’s left in the royal enclosure: a necessary honor, Marlowe thought, considering it was her husband who was providing the entertainment. Her rich azure gown was trimmed with silver braid and pearls, worn with a petticoat of dark amber brocade. She seemed a different person from the quietly dressed woman Marlowe had watched at Penshurst. There’s no lover here, madam, to lure with fancy dress, he thought, and was startled by his own indignation. If Sidney can’t keep his own house in order, it’s none of my affair. He turned away, pushing through the crowd to join the Chamberlain’s Men at the edge of the barriers.

  In his pavilion, Sidney heard the commotion greeting the arrival of the king and queen, and turned to Greville with a quicksilver smile.

  “Soon, now.”

  “Try not to enjoy yourself too much,” Greville said, with an answering smile. “You know how the presbyters would frown.” He sobered quickly, however. “Be careful today, Philip.”

  “And you. If anything looks amiss, cry off.” Sidney did not need to name the opponent he had in mind, and Greville grimaced.

  “Considering it was I convinced his majesty to let the boy joust—”

  “Fulke.”

  “Very well. But there’s no need to worry for me. They take no note of me—I’m no threat, not the way you are, and everyone knows it. It’s you I’m worried for.”

  “I will take care,” Sidney said, and pushed back the tent-flap. There were good crowds at the barriers, and the stands were filled with brilliantly dressed nobles; the Scottish knights, most of whom were already mounted, looked very fine indeed. James will be pleased, Sidney thought, and stepped out into the smaller yard.

  Van der Droeghe brought his horse, and Sidney took its reins. It was an ugly thing, a large-boned, piebald gelding, but any man who knew horses would recognize the quality beneath the ugly coat. Sidney gentled it absently, feeling the tension hovering in the air, mingling with the smell of steel and men and horses. He cast a last glance over them all, then led the horse across to the mounting block. He pulled himself up into the saddle with practiced awkwardness, van der Droeghe supporting him against the weight of the armor, then reached down to take his helm from Nate. The boy stared up at him with huge eyes, half excited, half frightened, and Sidney winced at his own thoughtlessness. There had been a withdrawing in the boy ever since Northumberland had attempted to seize the book, but there had been no time to do anything about it. Now, howev
er, was not the time to make the boy his attendant.

  “Thank you, Nate,” he said, and leaned down to touch the boy lightly on the bared head. “Now, go attend on Lady Sidney, and have no fear. This is a game, no more.”

  Nathanial nodded mutely, and took a step away. He bowed—he was growing quite courtly, Sidney thought, with a pleased smile—and scurried away, not quite running. Greville watched him go, and nodded.

  “That was well done, Philip.”

  “A precaution, no more,” Sidney answered. He lifted his hand to the amber scarf wrapped around his arm, bright as sunlight against the dull metal of his armor, then set the reins into his left hand. The manifer that protected hand and forearm—the most exposed parts of his body— rendered the limb almost immobile; he adjusted his hold with finicking care, knowing he would have no better chance later. Then the trumpets sounded, and Sidney hastily caught up his lance, lifting it to gather the other knights of his party in line behind his mount.

  Marlowe, watching with the rest of the players from the barriers just beside the stands, leaned forward as the trumpets sounded. From the two ends of the tiltyard, the knights rode in, Sidney at the head of one group, the treasurer’s son Lord Graham at the head of the other. That was a signal honor, certainly, but young Graham, though he would never match his father’s statesmanship, had acquitted himself more than well on the field. The Earl of Mar was in that group as well, flamboyant in gold-starred armor, a white silk surcoat flaunting above it. His skirts and pennon were blazoned with a plumed A: more marks of royal favor, Marlowe thought. I wish to hell he weren’t riding against Sidney. But then, Mar’s crony Lord John Hamilton was part of Sidney’s party, and the young Earl of Cassilis, too, another of James’s personal friends, so perhaps it would not matter too much. There was some remarkably fine armor, he noted, with some surprise, especially when you consider there’s no one here to match the armorers of Greenwich for providing fancies at short notice. Gilt—and golden, and silver—chasing, bright silk and brocade for the surcoats… Sidney’s armor and dove-grey surcoat looked very plain against that brilliance. A sop to Scottish sensibilities? the poet wondered. Or simple necessity? He could see that the extremely ornate armor Sidney usually wore, with its learned allusions in every bit of beaten gold, would find little favor in this presbyter plagued court, but surely such simplicity was sarcasm. Greville’s armor was less bald, Raleigh’s almost elaborate by comparison... Then the last knight entered, and Marlowe whispered a curse. The Master of Ruthven rode in black armor, as ornately chased and figured as the black velvet of his surcoat. The poet was forcibly reminded of all the times Essex had adopted the same device. Lowin laid a hand on his arm, spoke in the poet’s ear.