“Do they spoil your words, Will?”
“It’s all very well for you,” Shakespeare answered sourly, “but you’re not on with them.”
“I thank God for that daily,” Marlowe said, but the actor had already moved away again, to rejoin the other actors from the second masque.
Onstage, Jupiter proclaimed his intention to rid the heavens of ill-intentioned and vicious stars, so that his favored kingdom of Scotland, and the munificent king of Scots, might enjoy only happy celestial influences. With grandiloquent gestures he summoned his gods and goddesses to sit in judgment on the stars of heaven. That was the consort’s cue; music sounded, quick but stately, and the first masquers danced into view. They were magnificently costumed, each divinity badged with his proper attributes and accompanied by twin attendants, and there was another appreciative murmur from the court. The dance ended with the masquers curtsying to the king, and Ganymede draped the royal cloak around Jupiter’s broad shoulders. Mercury came forward again, lifting his staff in invocation.
That was the cue for the candles to be screened. Marlowe pointed, but the boys—the Lord Chamberlain’s apprentices, the only ones the players had been willing to trust with the effect—were already moving forward, to push black-painted screens in front of all but three of the candelabra. The light dimmed perceptibly, and there was a rustle of anticipation from the audience. Mercury’s invocation ended, and Marlowe pointed again, this time to the man who worked the curtain of the inner stage. Celestial music sounded—the consort had changed their instruments again, from viols to lute and recorder, and a boy’s choir joined with them, the high sweet voices almost unearthly in their beauty—and the masque of stars was revealed. They stood poised for a moment in the discovery space, framed by the bunched curtains, and then the first dancers made their way out onto the stage itself. At Marlowe’s signal, the apprentices slid the screens away again, so that the stage grew slowly brighter.
John Lowin watched, grumbling to himself, and glanced warily at the four stout youths from St. Andrews assigned to be his attendants. They looked as warily back at him, and Lowin sighed. Phillips was already on, and Shakespeare, both playing Disreputable Stars—even Massey, who, if he wasn’t one of the company, was at least a professional, was onstage, even now responding to Jupiter’s catechism. Lowin managed a fleeting smile, listening to the clear young voice—the man was an actor, whatever else he might be—but sobered again as he looked at the costumed students. He missed the company of his fellows, to make the waiting bearable.
“I hope to hell you haven’t been drinking,” he muttered, under cover of the first antimasque’s music, and the oldest student looked affronted.
“Never, not tonight.”
Lowin made a face, and looked away. On stage, the antimasque had ended, and the first Disreputable Star answered Jupiter’s demands. Shakespeare used his rather prominent eyes to good effect; there were chuckles from the audience, and someone cheered when the Star was firmly banished. As the first notes of the antimasque sounded, Lowin sighed. “Right, lads,” he said, “let’s be about it.”
The students nodded, and one lifted off the lid of the property barrel that stood beside them, lashed firmly to two poles. Lowin eyed it unhappily, hoping that the trick pin would hold the contraption together long enough to get him onstage and then that it would collapse as promised, then took a deep breath, and stepped inside. It was a tight fit, with all the padding; he squirmed uncomfortably for a moment, then nodded to himself.
“All right, lads,” he said aloud. “I’m settled.”
“Very good, Master Lowin,” a student said, and spoiled the effect by giggling.
You’ll get a boot up your ass if you fail me, Lowin promised silently, and braced himself to await his cue, one hand resting on the pin. Sidney, watching the struggle from the property rocks that would conceal his own entrance, shook his head. That is the difference that makes an actor, he thought. I would never submit to such a thing, no matter what the effect might be. Lowin—nor any of them—never counts the cost to his own dignity.
The third antimasque ended, but Jupiter shook his head in weighty rejection. The Disreputable Stars were banished from the heavens. The Stars dropped to their knees, Shakespeare facing James, Phillips Jupiter, and cried their appeal: was there no one, Shakespeare cried, willing to speak on their behalf?
That was Lowin’s cue. The consort struck up a lively tune, and under its cover, the actor said, “Let’s go, boys.” The students hoisted the barrel, staggering until they got their shoulders under the poles. Lowin swore, and heard the patter of footsteps as Misrule’s antimasque danced past him. It was a quick, capering dance, full of trills, and there was a murmur of pleasure from the audience. Marlowe, watching from the prompter’s place at the side of the stage, saw that James was smiling.
The dance ended on a high note, and Lowin pulled the pin, kicking hard at the same moment. The barrel split apart, and he leaped out bowing first to James and then to Jupiter. There was applause, and he bowed again to the king before launching into his speech. Listening, Sidney smiled, and almost forgot his approaching entrance. It was Marlowe’s speech, and the poet had felt those words in his very soul, that much was clear. But he is right, Sidney thought; even I have to admit it, puritan though I may be. If one does not have Misrule, how can one know the Rule?
He shook himself, and made himself turn away from the stage. He was too close to his own entrance to spend time worrying about metaphysics. Heminges, who would handle the effect, gave him an encouraging smile.
“It’s very fine, Sir Philip,” he said, and Sidney shrugged, not daring to tempt fate. “We’ll go now.”
Sidney took a deep breath, suddenly overtaken by a fear as paralyzing as any he had felt in Holland. He shook himself, telling himself that he stood in no danger, and the panic eased a little. Heminges nodded to him again, his smile a little strained.
“We have to go, Sir Philip.”
The actor’s obvious concern steadied Sidney even further. “Of course,” he said, and beckoned to Fletcher. “We’re ready.”
Fletcher swallowed hard, and nodded.
“Through here,” Heminges said, and pointed to the open trap at his feet. Sidney scrambled down the ladder, moving as quietly and carefully as he dared, and took the lighted candle that the actor lowered to him. Heminges climbed down next, and then Fletcher, his face very white, and someone closed the trap over them. Heminges led them under the raised stage to the central trap, ducking under the heavy beams, and busied himself with the smudge pots. Overhead, the dancers’ feet beat against the boards, almost drowning the music. Heminges tilted his head to one side, and nodded. “Almost there,” he whispered. “Almost there.”
The music ended, the final antimasque freezing in a tableau of appeal that should, Sidney thought, leave four strong men at the corners of the trap. Jupiter spoke, the words only a little muffled, accepting the argument, but refusing to keep the Disreputable Stars in heaven, for fear that they might harm the king of Scots. That was the cue.
As the dirge sounded, Heminges set the candle to the wick of the first smudge pot, then lit the other, fanning the smoke upward. The smoke spread rapidly, rising with the music; under its cover, the dancers slid the trap away. Heminges braced the ladder and Sidney scrambled up, easing himself onto the stage behind the curtaining smoke. Fletcher followed, and the dancers slid the trap back into position, but not before Sidney had seen Heminges slide the metal covers onto the pots. He took a deep breath and stood up, aware that all eyes were on him.
At the side of the stage, Marlowe repressed a chuckle. Notably modest the man might be, but he certainly knew how to make the most of an entrance. God’s blood, Ned would be ashamed to make any more of that opportunity. Fletcher had chosen to costume Vulcan as a scholar, but a scholar in gold and black brocade, with a jeweled collar spread across his shoulders—Faustus, Marlowe thought, with sudden dread, and shook the ill-omened image away. Sidney was no Faustus
. I am certain of nothing else in this world, he thought, but that I know. Faintly, then, he thought he heard someone sigh, and darted a quick look over his shoulder. There was no one there but the Scotsman waiting by the curtain-rope, and he turned back to the stage. This was the end, the climax of everything they’d tried to do. His hands closed painfully tight, almost crushing the promptscript; he loosened them with an effort, wishing he dared pray.
Vulcan bowed to the king, and then to Jupiter, and began his first speech. Sidney’s voice was not an actor’s, but it carried well enough, so that the sense of the words reached every corner of the hall. This was in rhyme, formal and without significance, Vulcan offering his solution to Jupiter’s problem: the Disreputable Stars need not be banished, if the king of Scots can be armored against their influence. He, Vulcan, will make for him the armor of light, finer even than the armor made for Achilles.
That was another cue. Marlowe swore to himself, and pointed to the musicians. The martial theme sounded, and the masque of the Myrmidons entered. Six of them carried the property forge, and set it in place in front of Sidney before taking their place in the dance.
“He knows how to wait,” Heminges said softly, and Marlowe jumped. “He might have made an actor.”
“Oh, yes,” Marlowe answered, “along with all his other accomplishments. Christ, is there anything the man can’t do?”
Heminges turned a level stare on the poet. “I hope we don’t find that out tonight,” he said, and Marlowe shivered. The masque ended before he could think of a response.
“Your Majesties,” Sidney said. The pasteboard armor Burbage had so lovingly gilded lay at the base of the property anvil, and he lifted it into sight. “I have offered you the armor of light, to protect the king of Scots against his enemies. This petty shell will become that, by the grace of God.”
There was a stirring in the audience at this shift from poetry to prose, and Sidney smiled. “A song, now, while we set the stage.”
The consort struck up again, and a single boy’s voice rose in gentle appeal. Fletcher bit his lip, and traced the last of the symbols in the carven circle. His hand was shaking so badly that he could barely write. He frowned, and steadied himself, ducking his head to keep from seeing the onlookers. When he had finished, he bowed, and stepped outside the circle, then bowed again to the king, and scuttled from the stage. To his intense relief, no one laughed.
Sidney lifted his hands, aware as never before of eyes watching him, of a focused attention too intent to be merely human. He allowed himself a taut smile, knowing now that he had calculated correctly, and spoke. “Heavenly Father, very God of very God, I stand here for the king of Scots, to beg Your protection for him as you granted protection to your champions of old. I pray you, by the grace granted in times past to Joshua, to David, and to the sons of Mattathias, allow Thy angels to pour out their grace and power onto this the visible symbol of Thy protection.” His voice strengthened. “And I challenge under Thy hand the enemy of the king of Scots, who sends demons against him. By Thy names, which I am unworthy to utter, I bid him appear, or be forever banished by the virtue of this symbol.”
His incantation had gathered and focused the powers latent in the masque; he could feel the web of words grow taut and strong in the air around him. He laid a hand on the armor, and heard as if from a great distance the consort begin the last of Fletcher’s measured pieces. The Myrmidons were dancing again, forming a ring around the anvil, the moving bodies hiding precisely what happened there. Sidney saw them only vaguely. The air thickened, and he heard a faint familiar laughter.
A voice—not the mocker’s voice, Sidney thought—said, “So you summon me at last, Englishman.”
“I summon you,” Sidney agreed. A shape writhed in the air before him, its unstable form briefly manlike, then wavering into something less recognizable, but certainly inhuman. The voice spoke from its center, the same hissing voice that had spoken in the royal chapel.
“A grievous error.”
“I think not,” Sidney said, and lifted his hand again, tracing the first of his prepared signs. “I bid you come here, Bothwell, and you will obey.”
The changeable shape wavered, and Sidney felt it pull away briefly. Then, quite suddenly, the tension vanished, and Bothwell—or something that had once been Bothwell— stood laughing. He was a tall man, gloriously clad in crimson and gold, but the brocade of his doublet was tattered, as though he had not changed it in some months, and his skin was filthy, hair and beard unkempt and matted. There was a carrion scent about him, and the circling dancers faltered briefly in their steps.
“I’m here, Englishman,” Bothwell said, “but not at your bidding.”
Sidney smiled, and felt the other’s rage like a banked fire.
“I will have your heart in my hand, Englishman,” Bothwell said softly, and his hand closed over empty air.
Sidney lifted his own hand, gestured, felt the attack deflected into nothing. Bothwell snarled, and struck again, pulling fire from the air to rain down on the other man. Sidney spoke, and the flames melted, became like the petals of some exotic flower, before they vanished into nothing. At his feet, hell gaped; he closed it with a word. Bothwell glared, breathing a little hard, and swore.
“I’ll have you,” he said again. “I’ll pull you down to hell with me. Rabdos, Belial, veniri!”
“They cannot,” Sidney said, and felt a sudden stabbing pity. The form of the masque, the careful classical ritual, had closed Bothwell off from his demons; when he had entered the circle—and he had done so willingly—he had left their powers behind. He was a man again, a filthy, unkempt man whose talents had devoured him, and left him a shell for the wind to whistle through. There’s nothing to be done but make an end, Sidney thought, and lifted his hands.
“No!” Bothwell cried, and raised both arms in appeal. “Air, bear me, make me of your form, by the prince of your power, carry me hence!”
His shape seemed to fade, became translucent, wavering like a fish seen at the bottom of a shallow pool. Sidney frowned and reached for him, but his power slipped away from this demonic talent as it had slipped at Cowrie House. He tried again, drawing on every reserve of strength and will, but his attack slipped past, finding nothing on which it could fasten. Oh, God, he thought, God, he can’t escape again. Don’t let this all have been in vain. He spoke, throwing a net of words across the circle, but already Bothwell was dissolving, his power washing through the meshes as though he’d never been.
At the edge of the stage, Marlowe saw Bothwell’s shape appear, and then, as its attacks failed, begin to fade again. That can’t happen, he thought, and in the same moment felt the demonic presence hovering close. A tall figure moved among the dancers, dark face smiling—one too many on the stage again, Marlowe thought hysterically, don’t you ever get tired of your effects? Bothwell was fading, mad laughter distorting his features, and Marlowe threw back his head.
Mephistophilis!
He never knew if he had spoken aloud, but the tall dancer slowed, spun aside, dark face no longer laughing. Mephistophilis, I name you. I abjure you, In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and bid you be gone—
There are laws that bind even hell, my Christopher, a demon-voice whispered. It shall be so.
Inside the circle, Bothwell shrieked aloud, his body suddenly his own again. He tore at his own body in disbelief, nails like talons rending cloth and flesh alike. Sidney winced, and drew himself together.
“This must end,” he said, and again heard the strange pity in his voice. “Father Almighty, let it end.” He gathered his power, shaped it to an arrow as bright as the sun, and let it fly. Bothwell shrieked again, and fell, the arrow flaming in his chest. As Sidney watched, the flames spread, preternaturally strong, until body and bones alike were consumed, and crumbled into dust. On the anvil, the pasteboard armor glowed with a light more vivid than the sun.
“Oh, Father,” Sidney said, swept suddenly with weariness an
d fear, “Lord Jesus, let this have been well done.”
He laid a trembling hand against the gleaming armor, and the kingdoms of the world were opened before him. In Whitehall, the queen of England danced, an old woman, frail and glorious, and a world danced with her: the kings of Europe seemed to bow to her, each one in his court, dancing at last to her tune. And in Scotland, the king of Scots bowed his head in prayer and rueful laughter, the tears running unashamedly down his face.
The light faded from the armor, and Sidney slowly raised his head, blinking back tears of his own. The music stopped—somehow, Marlowe had managed to give that cue—and the dancers made their shaky obeisance to the throne. Sidney lifted the armor, and in the sudden silence carried it down from the stage and laid it at the king’s feet.
“Your enemy is no more, Sire,” he said, and did not care who heard or did not hear. “I give you this in token of the victory.”
James laid a trembling hand on the older man’s head. “I have no words to thank you, sir.” He took a deep breath. “Should the masque continue?”
Sidney nodded, still kneeling. It must continue, he wanted to say, all of this must be channeled and finally released, but he was too tired, too drained to find the words. James looked down at him with a crooked smile.
“I think it must,” he said softly. “Sit you here, Sir Philip.” He gestured to the actors, still standing frozen on the stage. “Play on, my masters, it must be so.”
It was as though none of them had seen the halls of Holyrood before, like awakening from a murky dream. Even the torches seemed to burn brighter than before; the musicians played more skillfully, and the dancers—nobles now, and gentlefolk, celebrating with the players the end of danger—trod more nimbly. A new aura seemed to surround James, a new and palpable majesty, and, seeing it, Sidney sighed, longing to see England, and England’s queen in the flesh, so transfigured.
“England,” Fletcher murmured at his side. “You cannot know, Sir Philip, how I long to return.”
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