The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  “With your permission, your Majesty,” he said aloud, “I’d like to keep this.”

  James shuddered visibly, but nodded. “I trust you, Sir Philip.”

  “Sir Philip!” Ruthven cried. “I beg you—please, will you protect me?”

  Why should I? Sidney thought, with sudden anger. You’ve just done your level best to kill me, allied yourself with demons when you knew you couldn’t touch me yourself— He put the anger aside with an effort. Charity, Philip, he told himself. That the boy was tempted I can well believe, and that he fell is perfectly obvious. My God, I can’t abandon anyone to Bothwell’s mercies, no matter how much I might like to do it. He looked again at James, and saw anger already warring with a shamefaced pity in the king’s eyes. “Your Majesty,” he said aloud, “for all his crimes, I can’t think it’s right to throw him back to Bothwell. Rather than sending him back to Edinburgh, can’t he be confined within the palace, where both he—and your Majesty—can be protected?”

  James hesitated, the anger still evident in his face, and Sidney braced himself to remind the king of his earlier promise. Then, slowly, James relaxed a little. “If you think it’s best, Sir Philip, God knows you’re the master in such matters. It shall be as you wish.” He gestured sharply to the soldiers. “Take him back to the palace and hold him in his rooms. No one is to see him or to speak to him without my personal warrant. Assign one of your men to see to his personal needs, captain—but no one is to see him without my permission.”

  The soldier bowed smartly. “As your Majesty commands.” At his nod, two of his men hauled the Master of Ruthven to his feet and hustled him away, the rest of the troop closing in around the prisoner. James turned again to Sidney.

  “Once again, Sir Philip, I’m in your debt. I trust, someday, you’ll let me reward you as you’ve deserved.”

  With that, the king turned and walked away, the others bowing deeply as he passed.

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t come to regret that favor,” a familiar voice murmured at Sidney’s side.

  “Marlowe.” Sidney allowed himself a wry smile. “What do you think?”

  “Of what?” The poet gave him a rather sour glance. “Your performance, sir, was masterful.”

  “Of Ruthven’s tale,” Sidney said, with some impatience. “Good God, you know this sort of power better than I. Is it likely to be true, and can he be trusted if it is?”

  Only ’til Bothwell whistles or the devil smiles, Marlowe thought blackly. “The tale sounds plausible enough,” he said aloud. “As for the other—am I God, to read men’s hearts? Until he does turn again to his black master, he might at least be useful.”

  “You’re a comfort,” Sidney murmured, and looked at the knights still surrounding him. “Gentlemen, with your permission—I would like to unarm.”

  There was a general outcry at that, half apology, half offers of assistance, and Sidney allowed himself to be drawn off toward his pavilion. Frances followed, and Greville did not try to stop her. Perhaps half the company remained behind, and Marlowe stayed with them, the fear-sweat still cold beneath his doublet. Christ, he thought, that was a near thing.

  “So that’s Sidney,” a voice said at his side, and Marlowe started. He had almost forgotten Fletcher’s presence, certainly had not expected to meet him here on the field. He turned to the man, and saw the look of frank admiration in his eyes.

  “Oh, Christ’s balls,” he muttered, and said aloud and sweetly, “Why, its Saint Michael, sir, haven’t you seen an archangel before?”

  Fletcher smiled. “It must be maddening, dealing with such imperfection from day to day. I commend you for your patience and your charity, Master Marlowe.”

  “I’m glad someone recognizes it,” Marlowe answered, bitterly aware of the weakness of the retort, but Fletcher had already vanished, following the crowd that still headed toward Sidney’s tent.

  “You really were worried, Kit,” Raleigh said, and laughed. “You’re never so prickly as when you’ve been sweating.”

  “He’s the most reliable and least demanding patron I’ve ever had” Marlowe began, and Raleigh grinned.

  “Certainly the most patient.”

  “And I don’t want to lose that,” the poet continued, as though the other had not spoken.

  “I see,” Raleigh answered. “Kind Kit, as ever. What do you make of all this?”

  Marlowe paused, considering. “I’m grateful he came through it in one piece. And, now that it’s happened, I can’t say I’m surprised at Ruthven. We should’ve watched him more closely.” There was such a note of anger in his voice—an inward-pointed anger—that Raleigh looked sharply at him. The poet shrugged. “Well, it’s too late now for that. Shall we within?”

  By evening, Sidney’s bruises were stiffening, and he was glad to accept the ministrations of Ewen Pette, the king’s personal physician. The man murmured learnedly over the darkening bruises, and prescribed a cordial—prepared with his own hands—to be drunk before the Englishman retired for the night. Frances intercepted it deftly, proffering her own thanks, and set it carefully aside.

  “It smells of poppies,” she said, after the doctor had left. “Not a bad thought, I suspect. I doubt you’d get much sleep, else.”

  Sidney managed a wincing smile. “I fear you’re right. But I’ve some business first. I know Fulke’s without. I want Marlowe and the Pléiadian, too.”

  “Also waiting,” Frances answered, and went to the door that led to the antechamber. She opened it, spoke quietly to Nate, and a moment later the three men Sidney had named filed into the bedchamber. “Shall I leave you, Philip?”

  Sidney hesitated, then smiled almost shyly. “Only if you wish. But I’d rather you stayed.”

  “As my lord wishes,” Frances answered demurely, and settled herself on a stool just outside the circle of candlelight. Sidney glanced up sharply, afraid he’d once again offended without intent, but there was something in her smile that reassured him.

  “First things first, I suppose,” he said aloud. “Marlowe, what happened in Holland? Van der Droeghe said you were attacked, and mentioned Robin Poley?”

  “We were attacked, yes,” Marlowe answered. “Not by Robin—at least, he didn’t show up until the fight was well begun, and then he came to our rescue.” He paused, and added in a bleakly thoughtful voice, “He killed one of our attackers. A warning, I think.”

  “And so?” Sidney prompted, when the poet showed no signs of continuing.

  Marlowe shook himself. “Then the watch came, of course, after the danger was past, and carried us all off to Sir Robert. Who was most delighted to see Robin. He insisted on Poley’s staying there as his guest for some unspecified time—he was still there when we left, and may be there still, for all I know.” He glanced quizzically at Sidney, wondering just what Poley had done to him.

  Sidney leaned back against his pillows and sipped his wine, trying to hide his pleasure. “Oh, my excellent brother. Cecil will not be pleased—and I’m not sure his displeasure won’t be directed at Poley, this time.”

  Marlowe hesitated, but his curiosity finally overcame him. “You have a grievance against Robin, sir?”

  “An old one,” Sidney answered, and smiled. “In no way related to Cecil, I might add—for once. Do you remember Babington’s plot?”

  Marlowe nodded. It had been a nine-days’ wonder nine years ago, the final plot to put Mary Stuart on the throne of England—the bungled plot that had finally persuaded Elizabeth to have her cousin executed. “Robin was spying for Walsingham then,” he said aloud. “On the conspirators, I’d thought.”

  Sidney laughed. “Oh, no, my loyalty wasn’t doubted even by my father-in-law. It was the conspirators who set Poley to spy on me. I dislike being spied upon—I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.”

  I’m relieved you didn’t say you weren’t fond of spies, Marlowe thought. And how typical of Poley.

  “Small wonder Sir Philip has little love for Catholics,” Fletcher murmured. �
�A blessed end it would be if there could be an end to this constant double-dealing.” He did not look at Marlowe, who kept his face rigidly neutral, not even the hint of a blush rising to betray him. I did what I had to do to get what was wanted, the poet thought. Any who thinks he could do better in my shoes is a liar or a fool. Or Sir Philip Sidney.

  Sidney was regarding the Catholic with lifted eyebrows.

  “Indeed, there’s fault on both sides,” he began, and bit back the rest of the argument. This was not the time for theological debate—and certainly the wrong time to antagonize Fletcher. He reached instead for the seal he had taken from Ruthven. “On more important matters—what do you make of this, Marlowe?”

  The poet took the lead token warily, running his thumb over the incised surface. “A nasty piece of work,” he said, after a moment. “Rather like its bearer.” He shook his head, and shrugged. “I see nothing I didn’t know already: Bothwell commands major demons to his service. Burn it, I say.”

  He handed it to Fletcher, who held it in the circle of candlelight. The scholar crossed himself as he read the symbols. “A man of power, this Bothwell,” he said at last. “And damned beyond redemption. I agree, it should—it must—be burned, before it contaminates godly men.”

  “May I see it?” Greville asked. Fletcher handed it to him, and the older man contemplated it warily. After a moment, he shook his head, and set it back onto the table. “I thought I would be able to feel its origins,” he said, almost sheepishly.

  “I suppose if it were apparent, it would have frightened his horse,” Fletcher said, prosaically. “For God’s sake, put it on the fire.”

  Sidney nodded. “Yes, do that, Kit.”

  Marlowe took the medal, and went to kneel beside the hearth. It was one of the few times Sidney had addressed him by his Christian name, and the realization made him feel absurdly warm. He shook the emotions away, and began methodically to feed the fire, until a core of flame glowed almost white-hot. He dropped the medal directly into that core, wincing at the heat on face and hands. The black ribbon exploded into a puff of flame and ash that whipped away up the chimney. For a moment the seal remained untouched, the flames curving in strange colors around it and then, quite suddenly, it wavered and wilted like a flower, the shape shifting in the fierce heat. Marlowe nodded to himself, and stopped feeding the flames. The carved symbols were certainly gone, purged by the fire, the demonic power burned out of it. He sat back on his heels to watch the others.

  Sidney smiled at him, then turned to Fletcher. “You’ve had a more—immediate—impression of what we’re fighting than I had wished to give you. But you see why I’ve sought your help.”

  Fletcher nodded slowly. “I do indeed. A most difficult problem: yet I do feel, if what I’ve seen today was an indication of your abilities, that I will have very little to show you.”

  “You should have been a courtier, Master Fletcher,” Sidney said.

  Fletcher smiled. “But, Sir Philip, that is precisely what I am—or what I was, at any rate.”

  “I confess I hadn’t thought of the Pléiade as an academy of courtiers,” Sidney murmured. “My mistake, I see.”

  Fletcher shrugged, an almost Gallic gesture. “And what else could it be? Our ceremonies—our extravagances, if you must—rely on terms, verses that personify great forces for and through our prince. They are necessarily highly flattering: after all, who more fit to act as the personification of any virtue than the reigning monarch?”

  “It didn’t help Henri III particularly,” Marlowe muttered, and was ignored.

  “No, I see entirely now,” Sidney said, “and I think that will only make you of more help to me. The king is wary of magic—understandably enough, since it threatens him daily.”

  “As it also preserves life and soul daily,” Greville interjected, “one could wish he were more gracious.”

  “Fulke,” Sidney said, with a glance of warning. Greville sighed.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  Fletcher hid a rueful smile. God must have a sense of humor, he thought, to send me here to serve this man in what is clearly a righteous cause. Though the jest isn’t on me alone: Marlowe the so-called atheist, burdened with one of England’s most godly men for a patron, the witch-wearied king of Scots forced to depend on that same great wizard… He realized Sidney was speaking again, and dragged his attention back to the matters at hand.

  “I thought I’d made the palace safe,” Sidney was saying. “Obviously, I was mistaken, and it will take a much different—much larger, perhaps? I don’t know—ritual to make it so.” He sighed. “The whole thing begins to resemble a mad tennis match, with myself gaining the first point, then the Catholic faction—I beg your pardon, Master Fletcher. My only consolation is that the Dominies seem utterly incapable of doing anything useful.”

  “Charity, Sir Philip, I daresay they can pray,” Fletcher said.

  Marlowe laughed aloud. “You’d better not say that to his majesty, Hal. Melville—one of his more recalcitrant presbyters—did. He made the severe miscalculation of telling his majesty that he should endure like Job, and look to his soul. Well, his majesty was not feeling Job-like that day. He thrust Melville into one of the most hell-ridden places in the palace and bade him see how he liked it.” He grinned, savoring the memory. “It was a miraculous conversion.”

  There was a moment of silence, then Fletcher shook himself away from unchristian contemplation of the preacher’s downfall. “I will begin thinking about some appropriate ceremony, Sir Philip, as soon as I may.”

  “Thank you,” Sidney murmured, and Frances rose to her feet.

  “It’s time you were abed, sir,” she said, and darted a quick glance at Greville. “Even Fulke thinks it.”

  “That’s true enough,” Greville agreed.

  Sidney smiled, but made no protest as Frances brought him the doctor’s cordial. “I hope you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”

  “Of course, Sir Philip,” Marlowe said, and pushed himself to his feet. There were new lines on Sidney’s face, he thought—or, rather, the day’s labors had exhausted him so that the marks of his age showed clearly. Ruthven is more trouble than he can possibly be worth, the poet thought, more moved than he liked by the sight. I hope I’m there when James finally realizes it—because if any of you think this revulsion will last, you don’t know these affairs at all.

  “I hope I may speak with you again tomorrow, Sir Philip,” Fletcher said. “With God’s help, I may have something prepared by then. His majesty is, you say, wary of magic?”

  “Extremely.” Sidney smiled. “I think even I frighten him.”

  “That is not as wonderful as you might think,” Greville said.

  Fletcher continued as though the older man had not spoken, “So any ceremony I use would do well to seem as unlike magic and as much like spectacle as possible.”

  “Master Fletcher, if you can accomplish that, I will be deeply in your debt,” Sidney answered.

  “Dangerous, Hal,” Marlowe said. “The Sidneys are notoriously impecunious. “

  Fletcher ignored him as well. “I think I can do what you wish,” he said. “I wish you and Lady Sidney good night and an undisturbed rest.” He bowed deeply, and was gone.

  “Wait, Kit,” Sidney said. “I still owe you thanks for this.” He nodded to the sigil Marlowe had made for him, lying on the table beside the candlestick.

  The poet blinked at it for a moment before recognizing his handiwork. The wax had faded from its normal, rather dirty tallow color to an ashy grey, and he could tell at a glance that all the virtue was gone from it. He caught his breath at the thought of the power Sidney had used, to do such a thing, then put the thought aside. “It would be a small matter to make you another, sir, since this one seems to have served its purpose.”

  “I’d like to keep this, if I may,” Sidney answered.

  I’m drowning, Marlowe thought. I’m growing as weak as the rest of them. “Of course, sir,” he said, and kept his voice utt
erly without expression. “I bid you good night then, you and your lady. “ He bowed, not extravagantly, and slipped from the bedchamber, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Greville shook his head. “Puppy,” he said, and bowed to Frances. “I’ll bid you both good night myself. It was a lovely day, Philip.” With that, he too was gone, leaving husband and wife staring at each other.

  “Fulke has a gift for the well-chosen word,” Frances said, after a moment.

  Sidney grunted. “I feel more like a horse-coper,” he said, “he reminds me of a colt I once owned. And why in God’s name should I care whether I win him or no?”

  Frances ignored the question: he knew the answer as well as she. “Give him time.”

  “I have given him time,” Sidney said irritably, and sighed. “He’s more changeable than any woman I ever met, and less certain of temper.”

  Frances smiled, and reached for the doctor’s cordial, then poured it out into one of the crystal cups. “Thank you for the compliment.”

  Sidney went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Maybe if I could free him from Cecil—though I thought that was finished when your father died, and then again two years ago.”

  “Robert Cecil doesn’t let go of a useful tool that easily,” Frances answered, and brought the cup to the bedside. “Solve that when we’re home; you’ve more pressing worries just now,”

  Sidney grimaced, but accepted the cup and drank of the honey-sweet contents. “I know. So tomorrow we’ll see what Master Fletcher can do—I just pray I’ve not made a mistake seeking his aid.

  PART FIVE

  Chapter Twenty-Eight