“Easy, Nate,” he murmured, hardly aware that he spoke. “Easy, little love.” The boy’s hands tightened convulsively on the front of the playwright’s doublet, but the racking, silent sobs did not slow.
Northumberland was frowning terribly, glaring at the sobbing boy. After a moment, he mastered himself, and bent to pick up the broken mirror. He handed it to Chapman, saying, “I’m sorry, Master Chapman. I certainly owe you a replacement.”
Chapman took the mirror reluctantly, holding it by the very edge of the frame, and set it quickly on the mantel. “Thank you, my lord, but that’s not necessary. One must expect—accidents--in the pursuit of knowledge.”
“Nevertheless, I must insist,” Northumberland said, and Chapman bowed. The earl turned his gaze on the boy again. “Nathanial, I am most displeased with you. You will come to my study tomorrow morning after prayers.” Marlowe made a face, feeling an obscure sympathy—like any schoolboy, he remembered the beatings that followed such a summons—and eased Nathanial’s hands away from his doublet. The boy struggled briefly, then let go, hunching his shoulders miserably.
“Come here, Nate,” Harriot said softly, and beckoned. The boy crept to him, and, after a moment, buried his face in the mathematician’s hanging sleeve. Harriot stroked his hair absently, as he would pet a dog.
Marlowe picked up the broken mirror, studied it idly. The glass had broken in a strange, star-shaped pattern, but none of the pieces had fallen from the ornate frame. He stared into the crazed reflection, wondering what the boy had seen to frighten him so dreadfully.
“What, Master Marlowe,” Northumberland exclaimed. “Are you reconciled to ceremonies?”
“I confess, I’m curious,” Marlowe answered. In spite of everything, he grinned. “I’m almost sorry I’m not—qualified —to see for you, my lord.”
Northumberland smiled. “There are rituals that we could use, if you were willing.”
“Harry, no,” Raleigh said. “No more, not tonight.”
The earl shrugged. “He did express a cautious interest, after all. But as you wish.”
“By God, I’ll do it,” Marlowe said. “I’ll look in mirrors for you, my lord, or anywhere else you like.”
“You see?” Northumberland said. “It’s his own wish, Sir Walter.”
Raleigh hesitated. “On one condition,” he said at last. “You’ll send the boy to bed—he’s had enough to bear tonight, Harry—and you’ll take precautions, this time. Christ’s blood, I can still feel whatever it was you called.” Northumberland nodded. “Very well. Are you still willing, Master Marlowe?”
The playwright nodded quickly, before he could change his mind. “Tell me what to do.”
“Sit there,” Northumberland answered, nodding to the footstool. Marlowe did as he was told, watching the earl from under his lashes. Behind him, Raleigh sounded his bell again. The steward appeared after an interval that was barely decent; Marlowe grinned at the newcomer, and had the pleasure of seeing him blush.
Raleigh saw the byplay, but ignored it. “See his lordship’s boy to bed, Blake,” he said, coldly. “Then you may retire yourself. “
The servant drew himself up to his full height. “You’ll wait on yourself, then, Sir Walter?” Voice and posture both expressed his disapproval.
“Yes,” Raleigh answered. The steward opened his mouth to protest further, and Raleigh frowned him down. “Do as you’re told, Blake. I’ve no more need of your services tonight.”
The steward bowed. “As you wish, Sir Walter,” he said, and beckoned to the crouching boy. “Come along, boy.”
The child hesitated, and Harriot gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Run along, Nate,” he said, “it’s past your bedtime.”
Thus urged, the boy went, eyes on the floor. The steward grasped the nearest wrist, and hauled him toward the door. Harriot blinked mildly at Sir Walter.
“Perhaps someone—one of the women, perhaps—should stay with him? He was very frightened.”
“Nonsense,” Northumberland said, but Raleigh nodded. “See to it, Blake, if you please.”
“Very good, Sir Walter,” the steward answered. Marlowe, glancing sideways, saw the man’s bland expression change to a scowl as soon as Raleigh looked away, but then man and boy had gone.
“You wished me to take precautions, Walter?” the earl asked, lazily still leaning back in his chair with his feet stretched out to the fire.
“Yes,” Raleigh said, in a voice that brooked no argument. Northumberland shrugged elaborately, not moving, and Harriot cleared his throat.
“If you wish, my lord, I’ll set the circle.”
“Thank you, Doctor Harriot,” Northumberland murmured.
Harriot fumbled beneath his gown for his purse, and, finding it, emptied its contents into his hand. Marlowe watched with undisguised curiosity. Some coins, a shilling and a few pennies, a twist of paper that might hold tobacco, a pewter disk chased with peculiar symbols, a seal, a pair of bone dice—the last in particular seemed an odd thing to find in a scholar’s pouch—and finally the object of the mathematician’s search, a roundish piece of chalk. Harriot scooped the rest of his belongings back into the purse, and knelt on the rough floor to trace the first lines of the circle of Solomon. Marlowe was suddenly aware that Northumberland was staring at him, and made himself meet the earl’s gaze squarely. Northumberland was not a handsome man—he had the Percy sandiness, and the sallow skin—but his eyes were as coldly grey as a winter sky, and as compelling. The poet looked away, but found himself drawn again to the icy stare.
Around him, the room seemed to fade, yet at the same time his perception felt somehow heightened, so that he was peculiarly aware of every slightest movement, every whisper of sound, and at the same time pleasantly distanced from it. It was a warm, half-drunken feeling; Marlowe gave himself up to the sensation, and caught himself smiling into Northumberland’s cold eyes. The fire was very warm on his side, the hiss and crackle of the embers providing a counterpoint to the murmur of conversation.
He could hear the voices, recognized them as belonging to Raleigh and to Chapman and Harriot, but he could not seem to make out the words, blurred as they were by the snap of the fire and the distant rushing of the wind. Someone—Chapman, he thought—tossed a log onto the fire, and Marlowe watched the sparks swirl up, to vanish before they reached the chimney-mouth.
“Kit.” Northumberland’s voice broke the spell. Marlowe blinked hard, and pulled himself upright. Chapman’s mirror tilted in his hand, and he caught it quickly before it fell again. “There is a spell you must say, repeat it after me.”
Marlowe glanced down quickly, saw the familiar lines and symbols of Solomon’s circle, and looked up again to meet the earl’s stare. “All right, my lord.”
“Then we’ll begin.” Northumberland sketched another symbol in the air—definitely not a blessing, Marlowe thought—and intoned a string of nonsense syllables. The poet repeated it carefully, and thought he heard the wind shift outside, skirling viciously around the chimneypots. Northumberland repeated a second set of words, and this time, repeating them, Marlowe thought he recognized Greek and Latin words among the meaningless babble. He puzzled over them even as he repeated a third nonsense-phrase, but could come up with no coherent meaning. Northumberland spoke a fourth phrase and Marlowe parroted it.
“Do not repeat this,” the earl said, and sketched a series of symbols in the air between them. His voice rose almost to a priest’s chant as he intoned a final series of syllables, changing at last to something recognizable. “—audi et pare, Malcochias. Sic fiat, amen.”
The air inside the circle grew chill, as though the fire had dwindled suddenly. Marlowe shivered, and thought he saw shadows move between the line of the circle and his own shoulder, whisking out of sight behind him. It took all his strength to keep from looking round convulsively.
“Look in the mirror, Christopher,” Northumberland said.
Marlowe lifted the cracked mirror a few inches, then b
ent his head reluctantly, looking into the broken glass. For a long moment, all he saw was his own reflection, bizarrely distorted by the cracks, and behind that the distant image of the painted and paneled ceiling. Then, almost imperceptibly, the glass began to darken, shadow seeping out of the cracks to cloud the bright images. Something hovered behind him, something as black and solid as the night itself, and more tangible. Marlowe held himself rigid, knowing that something was there, and knowing with equal certainty that if he turned, there would be nothing there. Or, worse, he would see the demons Faustus conjured, and there would be no familiar faces behind the masks and the hellfire. Still, there was something there... He closed his eyes, fighting back a strange, sick fear, but opened them again as the thing stooped closer. Not knowing was worse; better to do and be damned.
He raised the mirror before he could think better of it, lifting it to shoulder height so that it showed his own face and the room behind him. A darkness swam between him and the lines of the circle, so thin that he could see Raleigh’s worried face through the veil, and yet solid enough that he could make out the shape of it, cruelly male, great wings half raised to shadow the circle. It smiled, and it was beautiful, fearsomely so, one taloned hand rising to beckon. Turn, surrender, the gesture seemed to say, turn and I will make you mine. Marlowe trembled, his lips parting almost against his will, feeling the heat of its power on his back. In self-defense, he summoned up the classical images he had learned at university: Medusa could only be viewed in the mirror of Perseus’s shield, Psyche had lost Cupid by looking on his face. To turn was death and worse than death, and he clung to that thought, his hands white-knuckled on the edges of the mirror.
The thing smiled still, and reached for him, hand cupped to touch his cheek. Marlowe shuddered, imagining he could feel the claws’ caress, but did not turn. Instead, he flung the mirror sideways, toward the fireplace. Metal and glass shattered against the bricks, and the broken fragments rained into the fire. Faintly, Marlowe thought he heard a cry of anger and frustration, and then the thing had vanished utterly.
“Christ, Kit,” someone said, in a shaken voice.
Marlowe did not answer, still crouched, trembling, on the footstool. Gradually, his heartbeat slowed, the ordinary warmth of the fire penetrating the chill of fear. If there were a man who could touch me like that, he thought, when he could think again, I would follow him to the ends of the earth. Then, impossibly, a sort of smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he added silently, and I would hate him for it.
“Kit?” Marlowe was suddenly aware that Chapman was kneeling beside him, bearded face drawn into a worried frown. “Are you all right?”
The poet shook himself, fending off final shiver. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I am.”
“What did you see?” Harriot demanded, and Northumberland added, “Why did you break the spell?”
Marlowe looked from one to the other, from Harriot’s worn, scholar’s face to Northumberland’s angry frown, and said, the words still coming slowly, “I saw—demons, my lord, as did your boy.”
Harriot crossed himself, and, a moment later, the earl did the same. Raleigh said strongly, “Then there will be no more scrying tonight, gentlemen, nor any other night until you, Harry, can tell me why you only seem able to summon such unholy creatures. George, fetch Kit some drink. God knows, he’s likely to need it.”
Marlowe accepted the cup from Chapman and drank deeply. The hot liquor scalded away the last uncanniness, and he was able to look around again with something like his usual enjoyment.
“Now, gentlemen,” Raleigh said, “I confess, I’m loath to send you each to bed, since my house seems haunted by demons. I suggest we watch the night out—perhaps with dice, and certainly with wine?”
There was a general murmur of agreement, more polite than eager, and Warner rose to fetch the dice board. Marlowe took another long swallow of the hot liquor, and did his best to ignore Northumberland’s measuring glance. Raleigh was right, he thought, though I doubt he knows entirely why. But dice and wine—good common fellowship —will do more to keep away that demon than any priestly exorcism.
It was almost dawn when Marlowe left Durham House, a cold, grey dawn heavy with the promise of river-fog. Already, the first tendrils were coiling up the rutted street, and Marlowe drew his cloak close around his shoulders. He was not—quite—drunk, but the drink he had taken was souring in him. At the first opportunity, he stepped into an alley-mouth; as he finished tying his points, he heard a movement in the street, and turned quickly, reaching for his dagger. The street was empty, no one moving among the strands of fog. He stood very still, listening both for an attacker and for the people of the neighborhood, who had to be stirring now, and might come to his aid if there were a fight. Into the silence, a small voice said, “Sir?”
The silvery tone was unmistakable. Marlowe’s hand slid from his dagger-hilt. “Boy—Nathanial?”
“Yes, sir.” A skinny figure edged out of the shadow of a doorway. When he came no closer, Marlowe beckoned impatiently, and the child scuttled forward to the corner of the house. The poet started to ask what the boy was doing, in the streets at this hour, or where he was going, then thought better of it, reading the fear in the boy’s eyes. Nathanial took a deep breath, visibly marshalling all his resources for some final effort.
“Sir,” he began again, and stopped as abruptly as he’d started. Marlowe bit his tongue to keep from speaking, afraid of frightening him away.
“Well?” he said at last, softly, when the boy seemed unable to continue.
Nathanial took another deep breath, spoke in a sudden rush. “Sir, will you take me with you? I’d be grateful—I’d do anything for you, anything at all.”
Marlowe blinked, somewhat taken aback—it was not usual, even in his experience, for boys to make that offer unprovoked, and with no coin in sight—and stared down at the slight figure. “Do you have any idea of what you’re saying?” he said, after a moment.
“Yes, sir.” Nathanial nodded bravely. “I’d like you to sleep with me.” When the poet made no answer, he added, “To—to bugger me, sir, if you please.”
Marlowe bit back a laugh. “Do you know what that means, boy?”
Nathanial nodded again. “Yes—” He faltered as the man raised an eyebrow. “Well, no, sir, not entirely. But if you did it, I’d no longer be suited for his lordship’s work, and I’d like that very much, please, sir.”
This time, the poet did laugh. “And why have you picked me for this—service?”
The boy frowned, vaguely affronted. “His lordship said I should be careful of you, that you liked to do—that—to boys, so I thought you’d help me.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Marlowe hesitated, torn between anger and amusement, then, slowly, began to grin. It was his own fault, for circulating the manuscript of his Ganymede the previous winter; even if the poem stated—among its other truths—that the satire’s subject was too old still to be called a boy, it was unlikely Northumberland had ever read beyond the title, or listened to more than the scandalized whispers.
“Will you, sir?”
Nathanial’s voice broke the poet’s reverie. Marlowe stared at the boy, the grin fading from his face. He owed Northumberland a bad turn or two, after the—thing—that had haunted him—the same demon, presumably, that had appeared to the boy—and this was as good a revenge as any he could have devised on his own. In the rising light, he could see the worn elbows of the boy’s jerkin, the ugly, serviceably patched hose and battered, boxy shoes. Beyond anything else, a man as rich as Northumberland shouldn’t grudge what it costs to keep his servants decently clothed, Marlowe thought. “All right,” he said. The boy’s face tensed, bracing himself for some imperfectly imagined assault, and Marlowe added hastily, “I’ll take you in for now, and we’ll decide what’s to be done with you.”
“But, sir, if you don’t,” Nathanial began, and the poet held up his hand.
“If his lordship finds you, which I do
n’t intend him to, you can tell him I’ve had you—which will save you some misery. You’re too young for me, Nate.”
Nathanial considered this for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. “All right—and thank you, sir.”
“Come along, then,” Marlowe said. “You don’t want his lordship to find you.”
It took almost three hours, counting the time spent buying breakfast—small beer and day-old bread, the best Marlowe could afford on such short notice—at a newly opened cook shop, to make the walk from Durham House to Marlowe’s lodgings in Norton Folgate. Nathanial did not seem inclined to talk, clinging close to Marlowe’s side, and as the wine he’d drunk wore off, the poet found himself grateful for the time to think. He himself could not keep the boy, even if he’d desired to do so; however, it was not easy to find willing sponsors for a boy with no particular talents. As they passed St. Giles Cripplegate, he began to ask the boy a few questions; by the time they’d reached the edge of Moorfields and turned onto Bishopsgate Street, his worst fears had been realized. Well, not quite the worst, Marlowe amended, as they turned into the sudden shadow of his own street. At least the boy could read a little, and he did have that beautiful voice to buy his way—as long as he could unlearn his northern speech. Perhaps Alleyn would take him on as an apprentice, assuming Marlowe could raise some sort of payment for his keep. If not, perhaps Sir Philip or his sister would take the boy as a page.
The door of the house where he lodged stood on the latch, as always. Marlowe pushed it open, and stopped in the doorway as Nathanial hesitated on the worn step.
“This is where I live,” the poet said, a little impatiently. The sleepless night was beginning to affect him at last; he could almost feel the warmth of his bed. “You’ll stay with me for now—you weren’t afraid to offer your virtue before, and it’s still not in danger. Come along.” He turned away before he saw the boy’s sudden flush, shouting, “Martha! Mary-Martha!”
The Armor of Light Page 8
