“There is one other thing,” Cecil continued, more slowly.
“I have heard a whisper—servants’ talk, and maybe something more—that Sidney acquired something, perhaps a book, while he was in Europe, and that he guards it most jealously.”
Burleigh eyed his son dubiously, and the younger man shrugged.
“It is, as I say, little more than a whisper.”
“But you believe he does practice the arcane arts.”
“Yes. At least, he has a thorough knowledge of them.”
Burleigh nodded slowly. “That will have to be enough,” he said, and pulled himself upright. “There are two other things you can do for me, Robert. First, I want you to double the watch on Dr. Dee—not because I mistrust him,” he added hastily, “but because I want to be sure he’s protected. Second, I want you to forward to me every scrap of information you receive from Scotland, no matter how old or how trivial. Her Majesty will want to be informed.”
“Of course, Father,” Cecil said, but there was a note in his voice that made Burleigh look sharply at him.
“I mean it, Robert. This is no time for lesser intrigues.” Cecil bowed again.
“I’ll do as you ask, Father.”
Chapter Two
They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical persons to make modern and familiar, things supernatural and causeless.
William Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well
It hung in the air like thunder in winter, something utterly out of place and time. As with the weather, too, the animals felt it; the mare Sidney was riding was sullen and skittish, completely out of her usual sweet temper. She curveted and shied at a low jump, nearly knocking her rider into a low hanging bough. Frowning, Sidney steadied her with a hand on her damp neck. The hounds were snappish, too, the game poor—though none of the other human beings in the hunt party seemed affected. He held the mare in her place and sat still for a moment, head raised and tilted, vaguely irritated with himself, certainly exasperated that he was feeling as restless as his animals, when no one else seemed troubled.
It was nothing local. He knew that, intuitively, but something hung over Penshurst, Kent, England—Europe? He was filled with a sudden compulsion to flee the dim forest. He shook his head angrily. It was merely the undirected night fear of a child. Yet—there was something, in the verdant, overly green smell of the air. There was something...
“Philip!”
The sound of his name broke through his imposed stillness and suddenly the sounds of the forest resumed, normal and unthreatening. He turned; his brother Robert waved and urged his horse on to meet Sidney.
“What were you listening for?” Robert asked, as the two riders drew abreast. “You were as still as a poacher.”
“Something—in the air,” Sidney replied with a shake of his head. Robert looked quizzically at him, but did not pursue the point. Unlike Sidney, and like their sister
Mary, Robert lacked the arcane brilliance that was part of the Dudley legacy to the Sidney line. He was more than content to leave such affairs to his elder brother, and he did not sneer. As far as the high sciences were concerned, Robert was a stone wall—but he was happy in politics, as Sidney had never managed to be. For a second son, Robert had done well for himself in the service of his queen, having succeeded Sidney as governor of Flushing, and he stood high in the queen’s favor as one of her more reliable servants. He must have just ridden down from Westminster, Sidney realized, and smiled. Court life and royal favor suited his more robust younger brother. Robert had a nice sense of fashion, though the falling collar he wore in place of even the smallest ruff was definitely something of an innovation. The doublet, dark red leather slashed and guarded with gold braid, suited Robert’s high coloring, and his dark slops were of the first quality. Looking at him, Sidney felt a rueful smile tugging at his lips. Corn-pared with Robert, he was some small, drab songbird... Philip Sparrow, indeed.
“She wants you at Westminster, Philip,” Robert was saying.
Sidney dragged himself back to the matter at hand, and looked up in some surprise. “Why?”
Robert grinned. Only his brother, of all her majesty’s courtiers, would make that his first question—and expect the poor courier to know the answer. “Lord, Philip, am I you, to question her majesty when she doesn’t choose to tell me?”
Sidney looked at him, one eyebrow rising in mild rebuke, and Robert held up his hands in surrender. “Before you accuse me of being craven, I can tell you it has something to do with Scotland.”
Sidney’s eyes darted upward, and then back to meet Robert’s. He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that Robert had learned to fear in his brother, if only for some other person’s sake. “When I wanted to go to Scotland, her majesty sent me to the Netherlands. And that remains the greater part of my experience—with a set of people as unlike the Scots as God could have framed.”
“I rather think,” Robert said slowly, “your library may have something to do with it.
“What about my library?” Sidney asked, and once again there was a hint of steel in his voice.
“I’m sure I don’t know. While I was with her majesty, Burleigh broached the subject of a book you might possess...” Robert let the sentence trail off, looking expectantly at his brother. Sidney looked thoughtfully amused.
“That’s Cecil’s doing, I’m bound. But how? Not Fulke, surely. Nor does Dr. Dee have any great love for Cecil. I wonder—Kit?”
Robert’s lips thinned. “That one would be capable of anything, as he never fails to delight in saying.”
“Oh, he’s hardly betrayed anything. He couldn’t be sure himself. I daresay—” The smile touched Sidney’s eyes. “I daresay Kit was just protecting himself.”
“Philip—what book is this?” Robert demanded.
Sidney shook his head, the smile fading from his face. Robert’s presence had momentarily dispelled the leaden feeling of the day, but now it was back, full force, like a weight oppressing heavens and earth alike. The day was cloyingly warm, but Sidney shivered. “Not just now, Robert. Come back to the house with me, then we can talk.”
Robert frowned at his brother, knowing in full frustration that there was something he was missing. Involuntarily, he glanced up and around him, as he had seen Sidney do. The sky was hazy, the air limp with springtime damp, nothing more—but when Sidney turned the dun mare back towards Penshurst house, Robert followed quickly, and kept close at his brother’s heels.
The air was cooler in Sidney’s library, and the heat of the sun had stirred up the warm, woody scents of the herbs mixed into the straw that covered the floor. Robert settled himself in a chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him, watching as his brother accepted a tray from one of the maidservants and politely dismissed her. Sidney poured the cool ale for both of them. Robert accepted his mug with a nod of thanks, but repeated, “What book, Philip?”
Sidney grimaced, and walked over to the window, staring out at the sunny day as if it surprised him. Watching, Robert shrugged, vaguely, hurt. “Well, certainly, if you don’t want to tell me...”
“No, it’s not that, Robert. I—” Sidney broke off and, with an apologetic smile, turned back to him. He settled himself in the window seat, stretching one booted leg out along the curtains. It was simply that it was all, still, so fantastic, and he did not know where to begin. In his youth, like so many aspiring courtiers, he had spent several years in Europe, travelling through France and on into Germany. There he had met and had earned the privilege of studying under Hubert Languet, unquestionably the most brilliant man he had ever known—but there had been a price. Once again, even after all the intervening years, Sidney felt an echo of the writhing embarrassment mixed with the gratification of which only youth is capable. Languet had conceived a doting fondness for him, and had appointed himself Sidney’s guardian as well as his teacher. How the old scholar had cosseted and chided, fretted over and berated his young pupil in the letters that had pursu
ed Sidney across Europe—Italy, especially, was not a proper place for someone of Sidney’s delicate constitution, or for any devoted Protestant; the Papists would surely be the death of him if disease weren’t, and he was only going there to see Don John of Austria, so like a young man.
Sidney smiled sadly at the memory. It had been a passage in one of Languet’s own texts that had sent him into Italy, though he had not dared to tell the old man that, first for fear that he was wrong in his deductions, but also because he dreaded the reproaches Languet would have heaped upon himself for keeping such a dangerous book in his library. Sidney had even half hoped that, once Languet discovered his pupil’s real intentions, that the discovery might dampen the old man’s enthusiasm a little. Unfortunately, the tale that reached Germany some months ahead of Sidney’s return had only added to Languet’s version of the Sidney hagiography.
Scholars and wizards, true men and charlatans, had been scouring the countryside around Naples for over a thousand years, seeking the great Virgil’s secret resting place. Naturally interested in such matters, Languet’s imagination had been caught by the story that had spread through the scholarly circles of Europe like wildfire, the tale of a wizard from some ungodly, distant land who had come down out of the north and discovered Virgil’s tomb, the location of which had been forgotten even by the local people who were called its guardians. This person—creature, some said, for it seemed very young and very fair, and only something diabolic could seem so and still possess the necessary knowledge—had caused the tomb to open to him, and had made his way past its wards and spells, until the very bones of the great wizard were his, and at his command. The so-called guardians had been terrified, for not only had they failed, but now their protecting spirit would be taken from them.
So the stranger had bargained, and Sidney had come away with Virgil’s books, beautifully preserved scrolls that held all the learning of the greatest of wizards. He had returned to Germany on the heels of the wild story, and offered at least a copy of the scrolls to Languet, as a sort of apology for the worry he’d caused the old scholar. He could still remember the mingled shame and pride he’d felt when Languet refused. He himself, Languet had said, was not the man for them, was too old to use them wisely, or to guarantee that he could protect them. Better Sidney, who was, after all, what he was, a scholar, a soldier, a courtier destined for greatness, should keep and protect the only copy from those who were unworthy of it. Unfortunately, Sidney thought, I’ve fulfilled only one of Languet’s predictions in all the years since then. I’m at best a middling soldier, and I’ve never learned the discretion that makes a courtier.
Robert cleared his throat, and Sidney shook himself back to the present. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words would not come. Finally, with a self-mocking sigh, he gestured toward a small chest that stood on the corner of his desk. Raising his eyebrows, Robert still obeyed the movement and crossed to the desk. He set his mug down and examined the plain box, then tried to lift the lid.
“All right, Philip, it’s another of your sage tricks. There’s no lock—why can’t I open it?”
“The box that is locked may—can—always be unlocked. Only the box that is not locked cannot be.”
“Very pretty. Sophist,” Robert replied sourly. “Enlighten me, if you will.”
Sidney shifted on the window bench, dug into the pouch at his belt. From it he withdrew a small golden triangle, enameled in blue and green. He held it tightly for a moment, then tossed it to Robert, who caught it with a whispered curse. “Fit it into the back of the box,” Sidney ordered.
With a wary glance, Robert did as he was told, then stared as a thin line became visible around three sides of the box. He looked over at Sidney, who nodded.
“Go ahead. Open it.”
Robert did so, leaning back slightly as if he expected it to be none other than Pandora’s box. When nothing swarmed out, he leaned forward and looked in. There were several scrolls lying in the bottom of the box, which smelled faintly of spice, like incense. “They’re very old, Philip,” he said.
“But quite sturdy, I assure you,” Sidney said, unable to resist any longer. He got up and crossed to Robert, then reached into the box and withdrew one of the scrolls. He unrolled it carefully, though not gingerly, and held it out for Robert to take and read.
For a long moment, Robert was silent as he read the elegant Latin phrases, words he did not fully comprehend, but of which he knew at least surface meanings. Then he looked up at his brother. “Philip—what are these?”
Sidney’s eyes were dancing with an innocence that would be ludicrous in any other man of forty years. “Virgil’s texts, of course.”
It was said with the cherubic smile that Sidney performed so well. Robert restrained a brief, murderous impulse and turned his attention back to the scroll he held. “And Cecil knows you have this,” he said slowly.
“Cecil suspects I have something of value. Arcane value. And Fulke knows, of course,” Sidney said.
“Of course,” Robert echoed, trying not to feel a little hurt. Of course Fulke Greville knew. Besides being Sidney’s oldest and dearest friend, he was also a scholar to whom this discovery would mean more than it would to either Robert or Mary. “Is he here?”
“Oh, yes. He’s been here for a fortnight now. He’s doing more work on that house of his in Warwickshire. Mary’s here, too, though I daresay you know that. So you see, it’s open house here at Penshurst.”
“Poor Frances. A houseful of Sidneys. What a plague.” Robert shook himself, recalling the matter at hand. “You said—does your playwright know about this?”
Sidney frowned. “I don’t believe so. Of course, Kit has free run of my library—but he couldn’t get into the box, and I doubt he’d try. He has his own sense of honor, you know. Any betrayals on his part would be on a grand scale, nothing so petty as snooping in locked boxes.”
“But if he knew, somehow? Don’t you think he’s more than capable of giving the information to Cecil?”
“But why?” Sidney asked.
“To protect himself?” Robert answered, and when Sidney frowned, added, “Well, you said earlier—”
“I know,” Sidney said. “On consideration, though, I don’t see how it could protect him. And I don’t think he even knows of its existence. Kit’s talents are along an altogether different line. You said it was Burleigh who mentioned a book?”
Robert nodded.
“Dr. Dee knows I have a book I treasure, and he would tell Burleigh, not Cecil. I suppose it’s possible that’s how they knew.” He rubbed his chin, then shrugged. “I don’t think it really matters. Still—a book in my possession, and Scotland. That’s interesting.”
“I’ve told you all I know,” Robert said warily.
“No, I’m sure. But Scotland, and my book—are James’s witches stirring again, I wonder?”
“Would her Majesty trouble herself and you over another outbreak of hedgerow wizardry?” Robert asked.
Sidney glanced up at him. “You’ve been talking to Dr. Dee again, haven’t you? That sounds like his turn of phrase.” Robert smiled, nodding, but Sidney’s mind was already elsewhere. “Her Majesty shouldn’t need me for something like this, God knows—but I can’t think why else I’d be chosen. “
“Send a wizard to cure a fear of witchcraft?” Robert said, dubiously.
“Ah, but so very unprepossessing a wizard could not possibly strike fear into anyone’s soul.”
“You terrify me, Philip, let me tell you that.”
“You flatter me, I fear.”
“Hardly.” Robert gently let the scroll roll up, and set it reverently into its box. Sidney closed the top and retrieved the enameled wedge. Once again, the box was a sphinx, its lips closed on its secrets.
It took the better part of a day to ride from Penshurst to London, for all that the Sidneys could travel light when they chose. The abbreviated train, mostly grooms of Robert’s household, reached Robert’s London house in the ear
ly afternoon. It was too late to make the trip upriver to Westminster, a fact for which Sidney was distinctly grateful. The ride had tired him more than he liked to admit, and the wound he had gotten at Zutphen ached dully. All in all, he was not in a suitable condition to face her Majesty. He would be better for a good night’s sleep, and knew it.
The next morning dawned cloudy. Sidney, dressing quickly but carefully, could hear the watermen cursing the last of the fog, and knew that Robert’s barge-master would be furious that there was no sun to gild the fantastic carvings decorating the long barge. The oarsmen, on the other hand, would be grateful.
As he had more than half expected, the barge drawn up at the water gate was the one which had belonged to his late uncle. Nothing but the best had served for Leicester; every conceivable surface had been gilded, and anything that did not glitter gold had been painted in colors as bright as Florentine enamel. Even the seat cushions were covered in tapestry rather than the more serviceable leather. On the other hand, Sidney thought, allowing the barge-master to hand him down into the canopied seats, Leicester had also had a sense of humor. The beasts that formed the gilded bosses were porcupines, Leicester’s chosen crest, and despite the carver’s best efforts to instill ferocity the animals still looked merely plump and content. Sidney settled himself against the embroidered cushions, smiling slightly. He had adopted the porcupine himself after his uncle’s death: it seemed an appropriate symbol of his occasionally difficult relationship with the queen.
It was a slow journey upstream, the heavy barge awkward against the current, leaving too much time for fruitless speculation. Sidney was very glad when the barge finally drew up at the dock that served Westminster. One of the royal pages came forward, bowing deeply; beyond the dock, a knot of ladies-in-waiting sat sewing, listening to a singer on the lawn beside the banqueting house. Their gowns were blindingly white against the red stone and the vivid green of the lawn.
The Armor of Light Page 3
