The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  And if we cannot deny but that God hath given virtues to springs and fountains, to cold earth, to plants and stones, minerals, and to the excremental parts of the basest living creatures, why should we rob the beautiful stars of their working powers?

  Sir Walter Raleigh, History of the World

  “I think it is not unreasonable, your Majesty, to say that Sir Philip has overstepped his commission.” Cecil spoke in measured tones, wary of provoking another outburst from the queen, but equally determined to make his point.

  Elizabeth lifted a painted eyebrow, knowing the man’s mood, and set aside the letter she had been reading. Outside the long windows, closed now against the distinctly chilly wind, a pair of pages, briefly free from their duties, chased a ball across the frost-browned lawn. “Sir Philip is my good and faithful servant, Sir Robert,” the queen said. “I expect my embassies to overstep their commissions from time to time—as you well know. It demonstrates a pleasing initiative.”

  “I fear this initiative can only be distressing to your Majesty,” Cecil retorted. “To bring a Catholic wizard for his ally—”

  “Sir Robert, I know not whether this be malice or madness,” Elizabeth interrupted. She held up the paper he had given her. “The source of this latest titillation?’

  “As your Majesty may see, the letter is from King James’s ambassador here,” Cecil answered. “I need not say how distressed his lordship is by this—at best an inconsistent action. Can a Catholic be expected to help defend a Protestant king? And even if the help is genuinely given, what will be its price?”

  “Philip is neither child nor fool, no man less so,” Elizabeth said. “Evidently he believes this man will be of service, to him and to James.”

  “The man is an English Catholic, your Majesty.” Cecil leaned back a little on his stool, as though he had added a new dimension to the argument.

  As perhaps he had, Elizabeth thought. She slammed her hand down onto the arm of her chair, buying time. “By the mass, Sir Robert, if you accuse Sidney of anything, pray do it in any but that unctuous tone of voice. You’d not regret his lull, would you? I’ve kept him on too long a lead to suit you, he galls you with his greatness, does he? You are brilliant, sir, no one could deny that, least of all I who have been best served by your talents—but it is a regulated brilliance. It does not shine. It glimmers and gutters, finding phantoms and shadows in corners and making monsters out of human dust. It is not jealousy you feel, I’ll grant you that, but it is near kin, and I will not have it.”

  She paused to draw breath, judging her moment. Cecil was flushed, but he made no overt protest. The queen smiled, spreading her hands across her skirt in a gesture of now unconscious vanity. “Come, Robert, think. No one has a greater disdain—or reason for that distaste, distrust—than Philip has for the Catholics. They are my enemies, they have been his enemies for that cause, and, more than that, they nearly finished him in Holland.”

  “Yet he has been suspected before this.”

  Elizabeth laughed harshly. “Of what? I have had cause to curse him, now and again, and wish him at the devil—but suspect my Philip? I say again, of what?”

  “Sir Philip has many ardent admirers, your Majesty, William of Nassau and all of Poland among them,” Cecil said dryly.

  “And it’s precisely that ardent admiration that will always keep Philip true,” Elizabeth retorted. “He may not be everything that is claimed for him—but he knows by now that he had better try to be. He will remain true to me so long as he remains true to himself—my perfect knight, consecrated to England and to myself at the time when we needed such a one as he.” She smiled again, this time with gloriously patent insincerity. “But I thank you, Sir Robert, for your concern. Believe me when I say I do not ignore what you have told me—merely I choose to regard it in a different light.”

  Cecil bowed and accepted the papers she held out to him. “I will rejoice to be proven wrong, your Majesty.”

  “Then we shall rejoice together when Sir Philip returns,” Elizabeth answered, but she was not displeased with the oblique apology.

  Cecil bowed himself out of the queen’s presence, wry rather than surprised, certainly not angry. Sidney was a chancy man, too popular with too wide a swath of humanity; it was not to be expected that the queen would be immune to his appeal. He shook his head as he made his way toward his waiting barge, vaguely impatient with himself. It was the matter of Poland that rankled: it was twenty years ago, he thought, and still I can’t bring myself to trust a man who can so easily refuse a kingdom. Still… The selfless tend to become martyrs, sooner or later. Sooner—at Zutphen, say—might have been more comfortable for England. Selfless as Sidney was, he would risk his life to see James freed from this threat—and by doing so, place all England at risk when the man became king. But it was done. He shook his head as he was handed into his boat, settling himself against the embroidered cushions. He had made his protest, and it had been rejected; the rest was up to Sidney.

  Elizabeth sat quite still for a long while after Cecil had left her, ignoring the smothered noises as her ladies crept back into the room. The meeting with Cecil had unsettled her more than she cared to admit: to be Catholic was to be, by very definition, foreign, un-English; by papal bull, to be Catholic was also to deny her right to the throne. To ally with a Catholic— She put the thought aside, and turned toward the window. The autumn sunlight filled the room—unflattering to an old face that was, she felt in her darker moments, taking on the distinctly jaded grin of an animate skull. She frowned then, and turned her face away, toward the north. Why a Catholic, Philip? she demanded silently. Aren’t there wizards enough among us? Why an English Catholic? There was no answer, except to trust her champion’s judgment. And that I will do, she vowed, for the promise I made his wife, and, more than that, for my own honor.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The profession as well of the common, as private Souldier is honorable, which resteth in the maintenance to death, of a good and rightful cause: the condition no less painful than full of peril, the quality clean, diligent, dutiful, delighting rather in brave furniture and glittering armor, than in dainty diet, womanlike wantonness, and vain pleasure.

  William Blandy, The Castle

  The morning after the tourney, Sidney felt less like a triumphant knight at the lists than a forty-one-year-old man who ought to have more sense than still to be engaging in a young man’s sport. His whole torso ached, less from the blow to his shoulder than from the unrelenting tension. I won, didn’t I? he answered the treacherous thoughts. Think what Mar must feel. And Ruthven, an inner voice added. That was a less consoling thought, and Sidney pushed himself up out of his bed, wincing at the too-familiar aches.

  Barton tenderly helped his master to dress, and Sidney bit back an impatient reproof. The man was doing his duty; he could do no other. Nate stood by, his eyes downcast, even more silent than usual. Sidney eyed him warily, but remained silent until Barton had fastened the last button of his grey jerkin.

  “Thank you, Barton,” he said. The valet bowed in grave acknowledgement, and slipped away. “Stay a moment, Nate.”

  The boy’s eyes flashed upwards briefly in surprise, and not a little fear. “Sir?”

  Watching him, Sidney chastised himself for not having taken more care with the boy in the past months. I should never have brought him with me, he thought, there was too much chance of his becoming involved in these dangers. But now that I have, it’s up to me to do—something. His own Elizabeth was a forward girl; he was always forgetting not to speak to her as he would to another adult. That had done no harm with her, much loved, indulged, and educated, but would it serve for Nate? He hesitated, searching for the right words, and there was a knock at the door. He swore under his breath, and grimaced as Nate’s eyes flew upward again. The boy started toward the door, but Sidney lifted his hand.

  “Just a moment, Nate, then you can go. I owe you thanks for your service to me, even in the face of your old master.
I think you understand as well as—perhaps better than most what’s been happening at this court, and I’ve been pleased with your bravery.”

  The boy nodded slowly. “Thank you, Sir Philip,” he murmured, then looked up sharply, as though gathering his courage. “His grace—his grace can’t hold a candle to you, sir, nor he’s never been a knight.”

  Sidney leaned back against the table, trying to keep his amusement from showing. It wasn’t fair to laugh—and it wasn’t really a laughing matter. Like everyone else, it seemed,the boy trusted him, and he would have to fulfill that trust... “No,” he said gravely. “I don’t seem to recall facing his grace of Northumberland in the lists. Now you may see to the door.”

  Nate ducked his head in a bow that would have earned him a blow from Barton or young Madox, but Sidney ignored the impropriety. “Master Fletcher, Sir Philip.”

  Sidney waved the Pléiade wizard to a seat, but his expression was somewhat abstracted. Fletcher settled himself on the low stool, drawing his long gown up around his knees. It was an old man’s gesture, from a man only a few years older than Marlowe, and Sidney repressed a quick smile, but still said nothing.

  “Is there anything wrong, Sir Philip?” Fletcher said, after a moment.

  “I don’t think so,” Sidney answered. “I trust not.”

  “Your page seems a likely lad.”

  “Oh, very much so.” This time, Sidney allowed himself to smile, but he sobered quickly. “Yet I wonder if I’ve done him any favor by bringing him here.”

  Fletcher nodded. “I’ve children of my own, and wouldn’t want to see them at this court at this time. It’s a frightening place for a child—”

  “For this child, yes,” Sidney said, more sharply than he had intended. “I beg your pardon, Master Fletcher, I’ve no cause to turn my anger on you.” Fletcher said nothing, and after a moment, Sidney continued, “Nate’s seen abuses of power before this. He served the Earl of Northumberland, who bought him from his wretched parents, as a scrying boy, both for him and for the rest of the School of Night.”

  “Of which Sir Walter is an adherent,” Fletcher said, very mildly.

  “Oh, there’s no vice in Raleigh,” Sidney answered. “His powers are not great and he knows it; he is simply a scholar, fascinated by knowledge.” His face hardened. “And if you would confuse the two, Master Fletcher, I’d remind you that Raleigh is here.”

  Indeed he is, Fletcher thought, but to what purpose? He shook the thought aside: if Sidney chose to trust a man whom he must have known for years, who was a mere scholar to dispute it? He said aloud, “Still, I didn’t come to concern myself with your affairs, Sir Philip, and I ask your pardon for seeming to do so.”

  “No need,” Sidney said, and smiled, warmly this time. “I assume, since you’re about betimes this morning—no, I hope you’ve developed some notion of how we can protect the palace and the king?”

  Fletcher leaned forward, dismissing the page and the School of Night from his mind completely. “I believe so, Sir Philip—indeed, I could almost believe the time divinely ordained for my coming into Scotland.”

  Sidney lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing.

  “The Feast of Michaelmas approaches,” Fletcher went on. “What better time—what more propitious time—for defending this place against the minions of hell than on the feast day of the great commander of the hosts of heaven, one of the regents of the sun?”

  “None, I assume, unless it be resurrection morn,” Sidney said, sincerely.

  “None at all,” Fletcher said, as though he hadn’t heard the other’s interjection. “And as for making the rite acceptable to his Majesty—well, I suspect that is in truth why you sent for one of us: less for our magic than for the form of it.”

  “Not at all,” Sidney protested, less sincerely this time, and smiled in recognition of that face. “I lack the skill to use your rituals, even if I wished to create one myself. My training has been in another school entirely, a more private way—but you know that. The form is vital here, you’re right about that. We must protect the king, and also soothe his not unreasonable fears.”

  Fletcher stroked his neat beard, visibly pleased with himself. “A pageant of the sun,” he said, almost to himself. “Let it be so that his majesty will ride the bounds of

  Holyrood—a common enough ceremony, too frequently ignored. A holiday outing. Yet we can make it more than that, for he shall stop at the four compass points on his circuit, and at each one a portion of the ceremony shall be completed. His majesty himself will fulfill it—it lies in him, as God’s anointed king.”

  Sidney stood up and walked slowly across the room, pausing by the window to stare out into the crowded courtyard, the servants’ liveries bright in the late summer sun. It would suit, he thought, let the spectacle be grand enough, and James will overcome his fears.

  Fletcher watched him closely. “All the songs, the rites, I can write. This is a magic I’m well versed in.”

  Sidney glanced over his shoulder with a pained look, and Fletcher smiled. “I’ve made some plans already. As you surmised, I was up well into the night—I saw the dawn, in fact. It seemed appropriate.” There was a strange serenity in his voice, almost a satisfaction, that made Sidney turn around and look at him. Fletcher held out a sheaf of papers, and the older man took them silently, studying the neat italic hand.

  “Those taking part in the ceremony proper shall accompany the king as the lesser planets follow the sun,” Fletcher went on, “and there will be twelve riders for the twelve signs of the zodiac. As many others as wish may accompany the riders, of course, and I trust there will be many, but those are the significant ones.”

  There were even rough sketches for the costumes—solar livery—to be worn by the principals, Sidney noted, and recalled with some longing the days when there had been so many masques surrounding the queen. There did not seem to be as many, any more. And so many dead, he thought suddenly. Not only Leicester, the greatest giver of masques, but Hatton, Sir Francis Walsingham, and so many others who had been stars in England’s firmament when Sidney had been boy and youth. There is beauty still to rend the soul and offer it a taste of heaven… The thought was too melancholy even for poetry, and he put it firmly aside.

  “You’ve set yourself a pretty problem, determining who shall take these principal parts,” he said briskly. Fletcher looked sideways at him, and Sidney would have taken his oath that the Catholic scholar looked sly.

  “Oh, but, Sir Philip, you’ve dealt with that matter at-ready, and neatly, too.”

  Sidney could not hide his sudden suspicion, and Fletcher looked pleased. “The jousts, sir. The places of honor shall go to those who particularly distinguished themselves in the king’s lists. Which gives you pride of place, and the opportunity not merely to oversee the ceremony but to remain close to the king, in case anything should, God forbid, go awry.”

  He looks inordinately pleased with himself, Sidney thought, but God knows he has a right to be. He glanced at the sketches again, studying the intricate patterns. Gold satin, painted with symbols, gold velvet and laurel leaves...

  “Will it suit, do you think?” Fletcher asked.

  “It’s very much to the purpose,” Sidney answered. “I offer you my thanks and congratulations, and repeat you should have been a courtier. His majesty, I think, will be pleased.” He looked at the neat writing again, piecing out the whole in his mind, and could feel the rightness of it, sensed a pre-echo of the magics it would invoke. The Pléiade’s magic was more impressive than he had thought—such pretty innocuous figures, to create such power. The basic rules were those he had learned from Doctor Dee, but they had been heightened, painted over with a shiny glory almost of myth, rendering them invisible, or at least easily overlooked—and as such, it was a suitable power for use about princes who could not afford to risk the accusation of too great a familiarity with wizards. He nodded again, and looked up to meet Fletcher’s almost challenging stare. “It will serve.”

&
nbsp; Fletcher let go of a breath he had not quite known he had been holding. He had known Sidney understood the Pléiade’s magic, but after witnessing the display of power on the tiltyard he had started to worry. He didn’t know this magic Sidney used, didn’t recognize the school or the teaching; he knew only what any wizard would have seen, that this magic was too immediate, too accessible—a temptation, certainly, and possibly a threat. He had half expected that Sidney would have changed his mind, and been ready to dismiss the formal, magnificent magic of the French Academy. He had done the man an injustice—and this same respect, Fletcher thought, demands my respect in return. I cannot condemn it out of hand, but, by God and all his saints, it frightens me. He rose to his feet and bowed.

  “If you’ll excuse me, then, Sir Philip, I’ll continue to work on this.”

  “Of course,” Sidney answered, and grinned. “And I shall bring the proposal to the king.”

  James was holding court in his privy chamber, surrounded today by the courtiers he counted as his closest friends. Ruthven, pleasantly, was not among them, but Sidney could not help wondering—ungratefully, he knew—just where he was, and who was watching him. A page, this one dark and plump as a pony, bowed deeply and announced, “Sir Philip Sidney.”

  James rose to his feet as Sidney made his own bow, glancing at his friends. “Gentlemen, give me leave. I wish to have some private discourse with my champion.”

  I wish he wouldn’t do that Sidney thought, as he bowed again in acknowledgement of the favor. Not only does it give his own people more cause to dislike me, but I can’t think her majesty would be pleased to hear him call me his champion. For an instant, he imagined he could hear her tart voice—Not yet, dear cousin, and never, if I don’t make it so!—and could see the thin eyebrows lift into astonished arches. Then the vision passed, and he said, “Your Majesty honors me beyond my merit.” Try as he might, he could not keep an echo of Elizabeth’s asperity from his voice, but James did not seem to heed it.