Greville hesitated, but then nodded slowly. The question itself was answer enough, from the Frances Sidney who had so assiduously ignored her husband’s business for the past nine years. Still… He glanced toward the long windows, weighing his words. What could he tell her? Most of his own knowledge had been gathered from hints and by guess, from the piecing together of things heard and overheard—but then, the woman was a Walsingham, with politics bred into her very bones. Like her father, she was an utter realist—and perhaps for that very reason not the right wife for Sidney. Someone like Mary, Greville thought, fire to Philip’s air, not good, solid earth, however lovely the earth might be. All man is clay, he thought, irrelevantly. Where did that leave the Sidneys and the Dudleys, if the Cecils and the Walsinghams marked the true type of man?
He shook his head, annoyed with his own hesitation. “I don’t know that I can judge the danger, Frances. I don’t know the Scottish court very well. Philip—Philip is a master, whether he’ll admit it or not, and he usually doesn’t. He has an almost Greek fear of hubris.”
“Oh, Roman, surely,” Frances murmured, with a slight smile. Her question answered, though perhaps not in the way Greville had intended, she was willing to help him turn the subject. “Doesn’t Philip strike you as the very embodiment of gravitas? Not some prosing old stodgy fool of a Roman senator, but someone who lives his life by his code of honor, without making a martyrdom of it? And Horace says that the upright man need fear no arrow, nor venom.”
Greville blinked, and did his best to hide his surprise. The Walsinghams were an educated family; there was no reason that any of them should not quote the Odes. Still, it seemed oddly out of joint, to hear the realists speak of honor. Frances went on unheeding. “The Romans were devoted to the finer concepts of the Greeks, so doubtless they too knew the dangers of hubris. You’re right about Philip, though. He has his self-esteem—but I can’t help thinking that just a little pride might go a long way here.” She shook her head. “Do go on, Fulke. I apologize.”
“No need, “ Greville said, wondering at the exactitude with which she had crystallized his own image of Sidney. Maybe a woman of Mary’s nature wasn’t what Philip needed, he thought—if only Philip could see it. If only Frances could be brought to show him. Frances smiled up at him, the slightly blank smile of the well-bred lady.
“Let’s join the others.”
Sidney paused outside the door to his study, then turned the handle, and went in. The room was very dark, the shutters closed and barred against the night; the candle in his hand flickered and burned low, barely making headway against the darkness. The night itself seemed almost palpable, pushing against the shutters, seeping in through the cracks and fissures, rousing a host of half-forgotten ghosts. The smell of books commingled with the odor of damp, of flowers long since dried or gone to seed, of ink, papers. They hung in the still air, drifting turgidly at the edge of Sidney’s awareness. And in the absolute and strong dark silence, it all mocked at him, spoke of idleness, uselessness, futile and prideful probings into the wells of knowledge, not for the glory of God, or for any use of a God-given talent, but for the sake of the well itself, for knowledge alone, for the greedy pride of possession.
The silence hammered at the night. With a small, strangled noise, Sidney crossed the room and wrenched open two of the shutters. A cricket, startled, fell silent, but others still sang, and there was a high-pitched peeping of tree frogs beyond that—all real sounds of the night that scorned the products of febrile imagination. Sidney rested his hands on the sill and leaned out, drawing in deep breaths of the night air. It was clear, cool, damp, the stars half veiled by a mist of clouds. With a sigh, he turned and dropped onto the windowseatwindow seat, the same one from which he had watched Robert puzzle over his unlocked box. It was well past midnight; he and Fulke and the rest of his modest train would be leaving in only a few hours, but he was unable to rest.
He stared out into the darkness instead, looking away from the candle, until the darkness receded into shades of grey. Did witches have night sight? he wondered idly. It was said they did, laid to their charge, but what was the harm in it? Night wasn’t darkness. It was created as day was, by God, for rest from labor. Therefore, what was so wrong about seeing in the night? He shook his head, shaking away the pretty argument. There were other kinds of night, and Sidney feared that a very dark one lay ahead of him in Scotland. Perhaps I should’ve taken Poland’s offer, he thought, with a quick, inward smile. If not to have gained the experience of a nobility as troublesome as James’s, than because if I had, I wouldn’t be in this position now.
Stop that, he told himself, sharply. This was a challenge, a challenge to his talents and to powers that remained, as yet, untested—or at least not seriously tested. This is the challenge you’ve been longing for, what you’ve watched and waited and studied for, for even longer than these last ten years, and yet you’ve tried to deny it. Afraid of pride, you desperately tried to rekindle a cooling love of the political; failing there, you turned to writing. You knew when you started revising the Arcadia, you would never finish. Your heart was never in it, you were only trying to deny your very essence. This is your gift, your talent, this power that lives within you. Once you put aside your fear and opened that book, you knew. And that’s why the Arcadia grew, became more lovingly desperate—involved and convoluted, a game of chambers within chambers. It was something to hide in, a reason for denial.
Sidney caught his breath. It was true, all of it—but not like this, not this pelting of images and thoughts like stones, like accusations. He reached up and dug his hands into his eyes until the darkness reeled. He lifted his head, leaning back against the frame, and waited until the candle-blindness had receded.
It was there again. The night had gone silent, the insect noises stifled by the louring presence. Sidney rose to his feet, feeling a cold hand on his heart. This was far more ominous than the malicious taunting he and Dee had sensed at Mortlake, more threatening than the presence that had first caught Sidney’s attention. He lifted his hand, began the first gesture of a spell that would repel it and with it his own sudden fear, but stopped in mid-movement. Something within him whispered that this was not the way or the time to face it; if it wished to hold him in contempt, to taunt him so, let it. He would take its measure, and it would still know nothing of his own abilities. He managed a taut smile. Caution was a politician’s attribute; at least he had learned that painful lesson well.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned away from the window and the night, hardening his mind. He’d done a similar thing only once before, in Italy, after he had found Virgil’s tomb. That had been a physical threat, though. Turning his back on armed men had been frightening; the space between his shoulder blades had cringed, but he had known, in some quiet corner of his mind, that he could do it, that the custodians of Virgil’s tomb could not strike down the man who had actually located it, and caused it to respond to his will. This was only more of the same.
Behind him, the presence seemed to roll forward like a wave, as though only his blind stare had kept it in check, and he knew with sudden fear that this was very different. The darkness swelled in the window frame, odd tendrils of itself creeping across the sill, touching him. It was a gentle pressure, subtle, probing, inquisitive, frightening in its very lack of force. Sidney shuddered, but did not turn. He had made his stand: he would maintain it. In the darkness, things crept and whispered, odd shapes whisking out of sight at the corner of his eyes. Minor demons, Beelzebub’s flies, petty uncleanliness muttering its spite against the world, daring him now to turn and defy them, while beyond that something else waited, pulling their puppet-strings…
He stood still, denying the presence, its power. After an interminable time, the soft touch receded, falling away like the ebbing tide. The shadow-demons slithered back across the windowsill, drawing back into nothing. As they faded, the night became normal again, cool, clear, filled with the sharp noises of the insects and the frogs
. A wind stirred and died. Then the presence was gone, its promise never fulfilled, like a distant storm that threatens and troubles, but never strikes.
Sidney shuddered, and was suddenly aware that his hand was shaking, spilling wax from the candle. He steadied himself carefully, and as carefully made himself consider the presence he had faced. It had not reached him—it could not, not so long as his stance was merely defensive—but the sheer power leashed within it was terrifying. God help me when I have to face it, he thought, when I have to attack.
“Philip? It’s late.”
Sidney shook his head to clear it; the voice had been distant, heard as though through water. Frances stood in the doorway, her brown hair spread across her shoulders. It fell almost to her waist, fine and straight, taking odd lights from the chamberstickchamber stick she carried in her right hand. The same candlelight made ivory the plain white linen of her shift, and darkened the tawny satin of the Spanish surcoat she wore open over it. She was frowning lightly, but with worry, not anger. Sidney felt his heart lift slightly, but could not find the words. “I didn’t think I could sleep,” he said instead. “Not until now.”
Frances came further into the room, lifting the candle slightly to look at her husband. There was something in his voice, in the odd expression in his eyes, that made her voice sharpen slightly. “Are you all right?”
Sidney shook his head again, and raised a hand to rub at his eyes. The candlelight trembled on the gold threads in his ice-green doublet. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”
“What was it?” she asked.
“A… power. Wanting to test me, I think, for all it’s scornful of my abilities—which I made sure it did not.”
“So soon?”
Her voice sounded odd, and Sidney took a step toward her, frowning now with concern. She turned away from the conjoined light of the two candles, but he caught her arm gently, turning her back to face him. Frances looked up at him, her own face set with an unfamiliar concern. “If it’s started now, Philip … what will you be facing in Scotland?”
“I wish I knew what it was I faced just now,” Sidney answered, with a rueful laugh. “Or who.”
Frances touched his cheek lightly. “Philip—oh, it sounds so lame.” She shook her head, her mouth twisting, but did not look away.
Sidney, greatly daring, reached out to smooth her long hair, then let his hand rest on her shoulder. He could feel the sharp bones through the cloth, as uncompromising as everything about her. She was thin, too thin, or so Mary said, but dangerously strong. “I give you my word, I will be careful—if you will, too.”
“I?”
Sidney could feel that he was on thin ice; the wrong word, and everything the two of them had accomplished would be shattered beyond repair. He spoke slowly, choosing his words with almost painful care. “Together, perhaps, Essex and I would make an ideal man, the gallant as well as the scholar. But we both have our faults.”
There was a momentary hesitation, and then Frances met his gaze frankly. “He’s very… facile, Philip. Very gallant.” She studied her husband’s face for a long moment, then, very slowly, nodded. “Very well. I promise to—be careful.”
And that was all she promised, Sidney thought. He did not dare press for more. Still, if anyone could see past that facility, she could. He glanced toward the darkness beyond the windows. “What’s the time?”
“Gone three,” Frances answered.
“And I intend to be on the road to London early,” Sidney said wryly. “Poor Fulke. I’m going to be foul company.”
“Not you, Philip,” Frances said, with a sudden, almost startling warmth. “Come to bed.’
Sidney looked at her, one eyebrow lifting, and she laughed softly, the color starting to her cheeks. “I’m not here to tempt you, “ she said, “you’d be in even worse shape tomorrow morning. But…” Her chin lifted slightly. “I thought you might want company.”
Sidney looked into her eyes for a long moment, then nodded. “I might, at that. “ He turned away, crossed to the opened windows. He stood before them for a moment, afraid somehow that if he relaxed his vigilance the presence would return, but the night was empty and free. He pulled the shutters closed again, fastening latch and bar, and, after a moment’s hesitation, blew out his own candle. Frances slipped her free hand into his and drew him away.
Chapter Ten
Methinks there be not impossibilities enough in religion for an honest faith.
Sir Thomas Browne, Religio Medici
The party set out from Penshurst on a foggy morning, a modest cortege, a dozen servants, all mounted, and a single baggage cart. It was an easy day’s ride to London, but young Madox, who would have overall charge of the servants’ train, fretted over the preparations as though they would have to cross fifty miles of trackless waste. It was the first time the steward’s son had had the sole responsibility for managing his employer’s travels, and the strain showed. Sidney charitably turned a blind eye to the young man’s drawn face as they set out, concentrating instead on the pleasures of the ride. He was tired after the previous night’s exertions, but not as much as he had feared he might be. It was more lack of sleep than any great effort on his part, he reflected ruefully. He lifted his face to the fog, and let its cool damp touch sharpen his senses.
The weather had been unseasonably dry for the first months of the year, worrying the farmers, but hardening the roads. As long as it stayed dry, Sidney thought, even the cart would give them no trouble. He turned in his saddle, glancing back along the line of riders. Of the dozen servants, all but two were well known to him—three of the four undergrooms had been born on the Sidney estates, and the fourth came from no further away than Sevenoaks, while the head groom, Jan-Maarten van der Droeghe, had been sergeant-major in Sidney’s Holland company and gone willingly from the Dutch armies to the more congenial household post. Even the boy who tended the cart was the son of the oldest undergroom, and Frances Sidney had stood godmother to him. Sidney smiled, looking at the pair of boys perched atop the bundled baggage. Peter Covell’s Peterkin was just shy of fourteen, a good age—just old enough to handle his duties, but not so old that he would not make a friend for Nate Hawker. Sidney’s smile faded a little, watching the smaller boy. Perhaps it wasn’t wise of him to bring the boy along, when their road led through Northumberland’s holdings, but he did need a page. Besides… Sidney’s expression hardened. He would not mind the opportunity to tell Northumberland just what he thought of using boys for man’s work.
“Worrying about your Yorkshire lad?” Greville reined in gently, matching his horse’s gait to the pace of Sidney’s mare.
Sidney smiled. “Yes, in part, though how you know... I’m not sure it’s fair to ask him to start his duties as my page at the royal court of Scotland.”
“Lord, Philip, how royal can it be? I wouldn’t fear,” Greville said. He lounged comfortably in his saddle, the practiced slouch of a man who could—and did—ride for days on end. “My Ralph says young Madox says he’s shaping up nicely.”
And if young Madox said it, as panicked as he was about every aspect of the journey, Sidney thought, Nate would do. He nodded. “Thank you, Fulke. I’m relieved to hear it.”
“Poor Madox,” Greville said, and grinned. “Between his father and his own pride, the man’s run ragged.”
“He’d better not be, so early in the journey,” Sidney answered. His voice was oddly grim, and Greville lifted an eyebrow.
“And what’s amiss with you, Philip?”
Sidney made a face, unable to put words to the sudden feeling that had grown on him as the fog burned off. It was not as frightening, as oppressive as it had been three weeks ago, when Robert first brought the Queen’s message to Penshurst… or as malicious as that which he’d felt the night before… but it was definitely there, a strange, circling presence. He shrugged, unhappily aware of his own edginess, and Greville stiffened.
“Is it trouble?” He reached for the pistol cased at his saddlebow, lay
ing his hand gently on its butt. The movement, shockingly reminiscent of Holland for such a quiet English lane, brought Sidney back to himself.
“No—no real trouble, at any rate, just…” He shrugged again, still unable to find the words he wanted. “Shadows, Fulke, a touch of… something. Nothing for arms, yet.”
Greville nodded, and let the pistol slide back into its case. Sidney glanced over his shoulder, hoping none of the others had noticed. The boys were still on the top of the cart, heads together; Covell slouched on the tongue, hands loose on the traces, letting the draft horse pick its own way. The grooms followed in a laughing knot. Greville’s Ralph rode a little behind them, holding himself aloof as befitted a gentleman’s valet. Only van der Droeghe seemed to have seen the movement, but he had also seen its sequel, and rode easy in the saddle, eyes flicking only occasionally toward the hedgerows. Even young Madox seemed to have relaxed a little, was smiling in the sunshine.
Sidney turned back to the road, shaking his head at his own foolishness. The probing touch of the night before was causing him to over-react, of that he was certain. The presence hovered, watched, but did not threaten; it kept its distance, for now. When we get a little further north, though… His mouth tightened. There were arms in the baggage, more heavy pistols and heavy falchions for each man, and van der Droeghe had drilled the undergrooms, at least, in the rudiments of their use. Once the party reached York, he would distribute them, and make sure the men rode armed.
They reached London toward the end of the afternoon, clattering through the gates of Robert Sidney’s townhouse into the cheerful bedlam of the courtyard. Sir Philip allowed himself to be spirited indoors, and submitted to the combined ministrations of his valet and Robert’s chief steward, but, once he’d bathed and rejoined the others, he could feel the cold nervousness on him again. He frowned, withdrawing himself deftly from the conversation, and leaned against the long window, staring out across the city. The spire of St. Mary’s rose sharply above the householders’ roofs, turning his unease to sudden resolve. At the first break in the talk, he touched Robert’s beribboned sleeve, drawing him gently aside.
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