The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  Sidney dismissed his servants as soon as he returned to his rooms, and settled himself in front of the bedroom fire. Frances, sensing his mood, withdrew almost at once to the rooms she shared with her maidservants, leaving him to sit and brood in rare privacy. Sidney managed to give her a smile of thanks as she left, but soon returned to staring at the flames, so unlike the hellfires that had surrounded Ruthven. God, God, why won’t you show me the way to defeat Bothwell? For defeat him we must, and very soon. He shook his head. The ceremony that had been accomplished at Michaelmas would not last forever, and the waning year was against it. And besides, he added silently, I’ll no longer stand for remedies that disguise the symptoms and do nothing for the disease.

  He sighed, and took another swallow of his wine. There was a bleak wisdom about Bothwell, which had confounded them from the start. With a power so great that it could strike from seemingly impossible distances, one would have expected some hubris, some failure of pride, and yet the man had an infernal sense that made him hold his hand time and time again, and always to best effect. Certainly his methods were demonic, the black obverse of Doctor Dee’s teaching—and that, Sidney thought, and set the Venetian glass goblet carefully away from him so that he did not shatter it in his anger—that was the greatest problem. Bothwell’s technique was simply not related to the magic he himself used, and if there was no point of contact, there could be no engagement. And if there were no engagement, Sidney could never destroy his enemy. A humbling lesson, Sidney thought, bitterly. I wish to God Doctor Dee were here.

  He shook himself then, and pushed himself up out of his chair, turning away from the fire. There had to be a way to use the best of both systems, his own private synthesis of Virgil’s magic and Dee’s Christian cabala, against Bothwell, some way to command his presence and then to destroy him.

  Without really intending it, he began to pace the length of the room, letting his mind roam free. Patterns took shape and shifted in his mind, patterns of power he had learned from Dee, the logic he had learned from Languet and Ramus, the new magic he had learned from Virgil’s book, tumbling over each other. God forgive my pride, he thought, I never meant it as a slur on Dee or on his teachings, to look at other systems. The obvious answer is to forgo what I’ve learned from Virgil—and yet that angelic magic is not my strength. It is Bothwell’s. I cannot win on those terms, certainly—and I cannot on my own. What then? What other talents do I have? he demanded silently. There’s the soldier—and he smiled to himself. There are no city walls to scale here, or convoys to disrupt. The courtier’s rapier tongue may have its uses, but I cannot see it in this case. Dear God, I give myself up to your help. I can no more. Despite the pious words, however, he kept walking, pacing slowly up and down the length of the room.

  He did not know how long he had been walking when, unbidden, a scrap of an old ritual whispered in his mind, and the entire pattern shifted, falling like a child’s toy into sudden shape. It was a conjuration he had learned long ago, from Dee; it had been like a key for which he possessed no lock, a curiosity memorable only for its oddity. It had seemed like a bastard version of sword-conjuration, not quite like anything else Dee had ever taught him. As it whispered and re-echoed within him, he tested it, and found it reminded him of phrases more current, ones he had read in the Virgil, which defied augury and conjurations. Man is enough to act. Let him know his cause, let him know it for justice and let him be just, and man is enough to act—that was the Latin text. No time—or so he understood it now—no time and no need to protect oneself by reciting rituals and drawing circles. Let the just man act, and let the justice and purity of his actions armor him, and it will be enough.

  “Te Gladi, Vos Gladias,” Sidney whispered, remembering the key for which he’d found no lock, “Estote meum castellumque praesidium contra omnium hostes conspicuusque et nonconspicuus in quisque magiceum opum... primoque ultimo, sapientia, vita, vitro... O Sword of Swords, be my fortress and defense against all enemies, visible and invisible, in every work of magic, by the First and Last, by Knowledge, Life and Virtue... It was too close, too similar to the sword-conjuration, to the magics Bothwell himself used, and he could have wept with frustration.

  And still hast thou not known me, Philip?

  “Almighty God, give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life,” he whispered, certain now. It was the collect for the first Sunday in Advent—and it, or rather, what it represented, what it suggested, was the door to which he had held that key for so many years. If these powers he held were God-given, so were the other talents he possessed. Sidney smiled in joyous self-rebuke. Mary was right. Holland had both freed and determined the form of his power, Dee had given him the tools to work it, but it was the poet who must now give it shape.

  He threw open the door to the antechamber, tried to speak calmly despite the raging joy within him. “Nate, fetch Marlowe for me, and Master Fletcher. Now, quick as you can.”

  Nate was a good boy, and a perceptive one. He returned in an almost impossibly brief time with both men, Marlowe still fully clad but reeking of beer and stale tobacco, Fletcher in a gown thrown hastily over shirt and hose. Sidney did not bother to apologize, but beckoned them in, and closed the door behind them with his own hands.

  “I have it,” he said. “I know the form we need.” Marlowe looked warily at him, but Fletcher’s impassive face did not change. “Indeed Sir Philip?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sidney said. “We will have a masque, gentlemen, a masque at which we will include a rite to build the king an armor of light that will protect him from his enemy. And in that ritual will be a challenge, which Bothwell cannot but answer, and on my terms. Then I’ll have him.”

  Marlowe tilted his head to one side. “A masque?”

  Sidney nodded. “A way to formalize power—like your methods, Master Fletcher, like the Tilts, only less diffuse, more concentrated, shaped to this one active end. You saw what happened at Gowrie House, Kit—and I daresay more men than I have told you every detail, Master Fletcher! —and I think you both understand what happened then. I need a form for my power, some frame to contain both him and me and to allow us to meet on even ground—an, I pray, hallowed union of Dee’s magic and my own. If we can meet so, God willing, I can destroy him.”

  “A trap,” Marlowe said, with a slow smile. “An entire play—no, thank God, a mere masque, to snare a felon wizard.” He shook his head. “Did I believe in such things, I might say it was fated.”

  Sidney nodded. “It has all come together, hasn’t it? Frances, God bless her, had the wit to heed Dee’s sigil, and fetched the players with her, and I have you and Master Fletcher, too. I’m a poet, but no dramatist—no maker of masques. I know what must be said, and the necessary words for that one crucial part. But I need you to give this conjuration an innocent shape, one that will lull Bothwell into ignoring it until he has no choice but to answer the challenge.”

  And you did write one masque before, Marlowe thought, I know it for truth you did. Was it so bad—or is Sir Philip Sidney vain enough, human enough, to fear embarrassment before professionals? The thought was vaguely comforting, even while he cringed at the idea of writing a masque. There was nothing there save idle words, neither plot nor character to catch the heart, stop the breath in your throat—except that this one time the words were far from idle. I will weave a true web of words, not merely to catch the imagination and win silence from the mob, but to lure a soul. My words call—and Bothwell comes compelled to his doom. Oh, that’s a sorcery poor Watson never dreamed of, that Ned would shy away from, muttering about profits and losses, a sorcery the London preachers guess at, dimly, when they try to close the playhouses. A power to make the soul sing, and 1 will have it. “We can do it,” he said aloud, trying to keep the exaltation from his voice. “Yes, we can do it, Will and I and Hal.”

  Sidney nodded, and glanced at Fletcher. The Catholic wizard was frowning slightly, but
he nodded.

  “What were you thinking of for the larger plot, Sir Philip?”

  Sidney felt himself flush. “I confess, I hadn’t got so far in my planning,” he began.

  “Then may I make a suggestion?” Fletcher smiled. “Unlike Master Marlowe, I do believe in Providence. I have read a paper recently, which might be of use to us—I think it might be ordained for it, Sir Philip, and it is dedicated to you. It was written by a man called Bruno, and it deals with a trial in heaven, in which Jove casts out maleficent stars in order to benefit mankind. Let Vulcan forge an armor of light against those evil stars, as he forged great armor for Achilles: I think that is the frame we need.”

  Sidney caught his breath, excited almost to tears. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes. With your help, both of you—and God’s—we have him.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Almighty God, give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness and put upon us the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life....

  Collect for the first Sunday in Advent

  The candles were lit in the great hall. The court entered laughing from the banquet, and the actors, hidden from them only by the thin curtain, heard the air grow suddenly murmurous. Augustine Phillips, death-pale as always before a performance, groaned aloud, and pushed his mask up onto his sweating forehead.

  “God in heaven, listen to them, they’re drunk already. Why in the devil’s name did we ever say we’d play a masque?”

  John Lowin, already grotesquely padded for his part of Misrule, the wild-man beard dangling on its strings around his neck, crossed himself unashamedly. “Mind your tongue, man, think what’s to happen tonight.”

  “I am thinking,” Phillips retorted, and shuddered. “We’re mad to do it, John.” He started as a giggling boy, his robe of silver-tissue hiked almost to his waist and chaplet of stars askew, pushed past to join the rest of the chorus of stars, then stared after them with loathing. “And they’re no better than amateurs.”

  “They’ll be all right,” Lowin said, but his tone was less certain than his words. Most of the singers and the dancers for the masques and antimasques had been recruited from the colleges at St. Andrews and among the more adventuresome of the young nobles; they had performed well enough in rehearsal—the masque made no demands beyond the common ability to dance and follow music—but there was no promise that they would maintain their composure before an audience. At least the principals—the speaking parts—were taken by the London players.

  Phillips shuddered again. “I just hope the stage holds together. Scottish carpenters…” He sat down heavily on the property anvil, and put his head in his hands.

  “So do I.” That was Burbage, already costumed as Jupiter, over sleeves tied back in preparation for his entrance by way of the wooden eagle that would be winched down from the heavens. He laid a consoling hand on Phillips’ shoulder, smiled benignly at Lowin. “We look very fine, my masters.”

  Lowin returned the smile a little crookedly. “You certainly do, Dickon, very fine indeed.” He was less certain about his own costume’s great belly and swollen legs, broad baldric sewn with bells and scarlet sleeves that hung in tatters almost to his ankles, and a wreath of feathers for his head above the shaggy wig and beard—but refrained from further complaint.

  Burbage, who knew that the white and gold brocade of his antique suit flattered his dark color, could not keep a certain complacency from his expression. That vanished as he glanced behind him. “Where’s that damned boy?”

  “I’m here, Master Burbage.” Robert Goughe, the oldest of the apprentices, came scrambling up, Jupiter’s cloak tucked under one arm while he struggled with the points fastening his brief hose. The tunic of crimson figured satin scattered with pearl pins in the shape of stars and eagles—he was playing Ganymede—left his arms and legs bare, and he shivered in the cool air.

  “Stay with me, how many times do I have to tell you that?” Burbage growled. “Miss your entrance, and you’ll get such a beating—”

  “Mind the fabric,” Phillips exclaimed, and dragged the boy bodily to him. He knotted Goughe’s points, muttering to himself, while the boy obediently shook out the magnificent cape. It was carved velvet, royal purple, but so encrusted with embroidered figures that it was almost impossible to determine the original color.

  “They’ve spared no expense, I’ll say that for them,” Lowin muttered, then turned away, mentally rehearsing his opening lines.

  Sidney heard the raised voices, and glanced toward them; seeing only Burbage, he turned back to his much-interlined copy of the script, studying the third masque for the final time. Fletcher, peering over his shoulder, murmured something that sounded very like a prayer. The man was the color of new paper, and Sidney forced an easy smile that he did not entirely feel.

  “Courage, Master Fletcher. It’s not long.”

  Fletcher’s answering smile was very weak. “Too long, and not nearly long enough, Sir Philip. I wish it were over.”

  Sidney touched his arm gently, not knowing quite what to say. He himself had taken part in several of the masques written for Elizabeth; his own nervousness was overlain by anticipation, and by the knowledge that the masque itself contained nothing he had not already experienced, and knew he could master. He smiled rather wryly to himself. The Tilts had taught him the value of a good entrance, and he had demanded one here, costume and effects perfectly matched to assure he would command the stage from the moment he stepped into view. After that—his smile became a tight grin. After that, it was even more like the Tilts, a challenge made, and a battle to follow. And, God willing, God grant it of His grace, a victory at last. He became aware again of Fletcher’s wondering stare, and shook away the excitement.

  “Tell me, Master Fletcher, did you never take part in the entertainments you created in France?”

  Fletcher shook his head miserably. “No, Sir Philip, we had actors for that, and singers.”

  “You’ve done very well,” Sidney said. Fletcher had the unenviable but necessary task of closing the Solomon’s circle already carved into the stage floor before the challenge was issued. He alone would be the focus of the courtiers’ eyes for some interminable moments, and he had never been on stage before—it was no wonder, Sidney thought, he looked a little ill. He smiled again. “Truth, Hal—and there’s no one else I can trust with it.”

  Fletcher murmured something in a self-deprecating tone of voice, but managed a weakly grateful smile.

  Marlowe, peering out the slit in the watchet-blue curtain, the prompt-copy ready to hand, watched as the noble audience settled itself on the long benches, their finery glittering in the candlelight. The flow of arrivals had slowed to a trickle, and he glanced over his shoulder, making sure the musicians were in their places. They were ready, the peppery little consort-master scowling at the middle trumpet, and Marlowe turned his attention back to the audience. How I let myself be talked into holding book, he thought, and tensed as the hall’s rear door opened again. A red-clad page stood there, a taper in his hand. That was the signal for the king’s entrance, and the poet lifted his hand.

  “Places, masters, the king approaches.” He pointed to the musicians. “Now, Master Baillie.”

  The consort-master nodded to his men, and lifted his own trumpet. He sounded the first notes of Fletcher’s royal fanfare, and the other trumpets picked up and echoed the complex theme until the long hall rang with harmony. James entered that music flanked by torchbearers, his queen at his side, and his court bowed down before him.

  Very pretty, Marlowe thought, but could not summon his usual cynicism. The strange music, the musique mesurée of the Pléiade, compelled worship, banished detachment. And that, he thought, is a truly dangerous power. I wish we had Ned Alleyn here, and his safe music. He glanced over his shoulder again, and met his Ganymede’s curious look. My Ganymede, and no other’s, he thought, and not even that any more. Massey, costumed for the speaking part of a Beneficent Star, grinned nervo
usly at him, then turned back to his fellows.

  Two thrones had been set up directly before the stage. James seated himself, Anne at his right hand, and the torchbearers whirled their torches overhead, then crushed the embers out against the ground. Marlowe held up his closed fist, and the consort ended the fanfare with an extended flourish. In the center of the stage, Mercury—George Bryan, resplendent in the traditional costume—closed his eyes and recited a hasty prayer. Marlowe took a deep breath, and nudged the man who worked the curtain. The Scot grinned back at him, and hauled on the rope. The thin blue cloth rose, pulleys creaking, and the consort struck up the first interlude.

  There was a patter of polite applause as the scene was revealed, and Mercury came forward to recite the opening verses. They were broad flattery, and Marlowe could not repress a sardonic grin, even as he nodded to the man who worked the winch. The trumpets sounded at the same moment, masking the noise of pulleys and rope, and Jupiter descended from the heavens astride his gilded eagle. There was more applause, and murmuring; Burbage waited for it to end, then bowed low to the king. In the wings, the masque of gods and goddesses came to attention, the young men from St. Andrews nudging each other in an ecstasy of excitement.

  “Damn them all,” Shakespeare muttered, and Marlowe grinned at him.