The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  As they rode further, the mist thickened, became a steady, soaking rain. By noontime, the hard ground of the road had softened into a quagmire. Covell nursed the horses, easing them over the worst ground, but by mid-afternoon it was clear that they would not make more than twenty miles that day.

  “At this rate,” Greville said, “we’ll be lucky to make Nuneaton.”

  “How you do it…” Sidney darted an amused glance at his friend. Greville shrugged almost apologetically, and Sidney shook his head. “I’d counted on getting further. Well, you know the country around here. What’s to be done?”

  “There’s an inn in Nuneaton, a good one,” Greville answered.

  Sidney grimaced. “Will it be large enough? I don’t like inconveniencing our people.”

  “It has a good reputation, though I’ve never stayed there,” Greville said. “Myself, I’d call it a worse inconvenience to try to push on to Leicester, on a day like this.”

  Sidney nodded. “If it clears tomorrow, we can make up time then.”

  Somewhat to Sidney’s surprise, however, the inn proved to be both large and prosperous, managed by a bustling apple-cheeked woman who was the widow of a local merchant. She sized up young Madox’s inexperience at a glance, and promptly raised her prices. Young Madox, on the other hand, clung stubbornly to his notions of what was suitable for his master, and succeeded in hiring the last of the inn’s private dining rooms away from a party led by a stout preacher and his rail-thin wife. Both dining room and bedroom were spotless, with fresh linen on the table and the bed, and the meal, when it arrived at young Madox’s orders, was lavish enough to make Sidney raise an eyebrow.

  Summoned to explain himself, the steward’s son answered that, though the ordinary was quite good, Mistress Massie’s talents appeared extensive enough to allow him to order a better meal for the gentlemen, such as would serve to restore them after the unpleasant ride.

  “The rest of us are quite comfortably placed,” he added guilelessly, forestalling Sidney’s next question, “and if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll join them and make sure all’s well.” Sidney nodded dismissal, and young Madox backed away, pausing in the doorway only long enough to add, “Oh, and by the way, sir. Mistress Massie says it should be clear tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Sidney said, and the steward vanished. “Not that the roads will have dried by then,” Marlowe said, quite audibly, from his place by the fire.

  For a moment, Sidney toyed with the idea of telling the poet precisely how tiresome he was being, but put the thought aside with some regret. Instead, he nodded to Nathanial, waiting nervously at the sideboard. “You may carve now, Nate. And fill a plate for yourself when you’re done.”

  The boy managed the service deftly enough, carving the mutton and the rabbit without much grace but without waste, and hesitated only over the birds stuffed with fruit.

  “One for each of us,” Greville prompted softly, “and leave the other for later.”

  Nathanial blushed, and finished filling the plates. When he had presented them, and poured wine for Greville and Sidney—Marlowe waved the bottle away, calling instead for a mug of beer—Sidney smiled, and dismissed him to join the others. The boy bowed solemnly, but did not forget his promised plateful.

  “He’ll share that with the other one—Peterkin, is it?” Greville said idly.

  Marlowe’s mouth curved into an unpleasant, knowing smile, and Sidney lifted an eyebrow at him, daring him to speak. After a moment, the poet looked away, turning his attention to his plate. Sidney listened with half an ear to Greville’s rambling flow of conversation, wondering what precisely had troubled the younger man. Marlowe sat silent through the rest of the meal, and excused himself as soon as it was decent, saying he wanted to buy a pipe of tobacco. Sidney hid a sigh of relief as the door closed behind him.

  “Perhaps he doesn’t like getting wet,” Greville suggested.

  Sidney said thoughtfully, “I wish I didn’t find his silences more disturbing than his conversation.”

  Greville laughed, but Sidney’s smile was rather rueful. I suspect I know where Kit’s gone, he thought, but it’s not something I want to share with you, my Fulke. I’d almost lay wager that he’s gone to find a London carrier, and that there’s a letter somewhere about him addressed to Robert Cecil... He pulled away from that train of thought, forcing himself to pay attention to the other man.

  “—hand of primero? I’m sure we could borrow a deck from our hostess.”

  Sidney considered the offer for a moment, tempted, but shook his head. “I’d be no match for you, I’m afraid. I’m more tired than I knew.”

  Greville nodded. “If I thought I could keep track of the cards, I’d’ve suggested maw.”

  “Oh, very well, then,” Sidney said, smiling. “But for gleeman’s stakes, no more.”

  “Agreed,” Greville answered, and shouted out the door for the potboy. The man appeared promptly, bowed in response to Greville’s order, and vanished, to reappear a few moments later with an almost new deck.

  “French suits,” Greville observed, and dealt the cards.

  They played perhaps half a dozen hands before Sidney put aside his cards. “No more, Fulke, I’m playing like a child.”

  “You, Philip, were never a child.” Greville collected the cards expertly, and pushed himself away from the table. “To bed, then?”

  Sidney nodded. “Yes. We’ve a lot of ground to make up in the morning.”

  Marlowe lay awake in the darkness of the hayloft listening to the noises of the animals in the stalls below. Their shifting and thick breath mingled with the faint snores of the man beside him, and he stretched out a stockinged foot to stroke the stranger’s bare ankle. The man shifted, edging closer, but did not wake. Marlowe sighed, grateful for the other’s warmth, but could not rid himself of a vague dissatisfaction. He had gotten what he wanted, both the carter’s promise to deliver his letter to a certain address in London and momentary oblivion in the other man’s arms, but somehow neither success seemed entirely worth the effort. Safe in the familiar stable-dark, barricaded within the ordinary sound and the smells of hay and dung and man-sweat, he let himself remember the tantalizing presence, conjuring the fear and the promise and desire. Mephostophilis should have looked so, been so, he thought. Who then wouldn’t’ve been Faustus?

  The wind shifted suddenly, rattling the loose boards of the stable wall, and sending a cold draft under the piled cloaks. The spell was broken. Marlowe cursed softly, and burrowed closer to the oblivious carter, composing himself to sleep.

  The next day dawned cloudy, too, but the wind was already warm, promising a steamy ride. The carters and other professional travelers who had to be on the road at first light, to make up for time lost in the rain, rose cursing, and grumbled their way through hasty breakfasts, hoping to be well along before the heat set in. The change in the weather woke Sidney, too; he slid from the innkeeper’s best bed, and crossed to the window, easing the shutters open as quietly as he could. Greville shifted at the faint noise, but did not wake.

  The sun was not yet up, but the stable yard was busy. Sidney frowned as the damp air touched his face, and let the shutters close again. He dressed quickly, not bothering to wake Nathanial, asleep on his pallet by the door, and made his way downstairs to the inn’s main room. The dampness had left him stiff; he leaned heavily against the stairwell, wishing he had thought to bring his cane.

  Most of his household was already awake, gathered around one of the long tables, a platter of salt herring and a wheel of cheese already set out before them. Even as Sidney watched, one of the maidservants, her cap askew and the laces of her bodice hastily done up, appeared, balancing a basket of bread and a jack of ale. She slid them carelessly onto the table, dodging a groom’s perfunctory caress, and turned back toward the kitchen, rubbing her eyes as though she were not yet awake. Another woman brought bowls of pottage, dealing them out as though she were dealing a game of cards.

  Van der Droegh
e, turning to ask for a second pitcher of beer, was the first to see his master, and pushed himself instantly to his feet. The others started to copy him, but Sidney waved them back to their places, saying, “Don’t disturb yourselves, please. Jan-Maarten, I just want a brief word with you.”

  “Of course, Sir Philip.” Van der Droeghe came forward quickly to join Sidney, bowing.

  “And what do you think of this weather, Jan-Maarten?” Sidney asked quietly.

  Van der Droeghe grimaced. “Not a good day for travelling, sir. The roads will not dry, I think. And it will be hot. Best we get an early start.”

  Sidney nodded, his own expectations confirmed. “Young Madox?”

  “In the stables, I think, sir, talking to Covell.” Van der Droeghe carefully did not smile. “We have spoken, too.”

  Sidney nodded again. “I’ll speak with him myself. Thank you, Jan-Maarten.”

  Van der Droeghe touched his forehead and backed away. Sighing, Sidney started for the stable yard. A knot of carters made way for him, and he acknowledged the courtesy with a nod and a smile. The tightness in his leg was easing as he walked; he hardly noticed the dull pain. Young Madox was nowhere to be seen in the busy yard. Sidney paused for a moment, but, when the steward did not appear, started for the stable itself.

  The dim barn was startlingly quiet. Most of the carters had already harnessed their animals and were on their way; the other animals, belonging to less hurried travelers, still stood placidly in their stalls. Sidney stopped just inside the door, one hand resting on the worn frame, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. He drew breath to call for young Madox, and heard boards creak in the loft overhead. He looked up, and saw a familiar figure stooping at the head of the ladder, one hand braced against an overhead beam. The light of the new sun fell through the tiny window below the rooftree, striking directly in his eyes; Marlowe lifted his hand against it, wincing. He was disheveled, Sidney saw without particular surprise, doublet half buttoned, stockings sagging, long face set in a curiously blank expression. Then he saw Sidney, and his expression changed, flickering from surprise to something like fear to deliberate, provocative satisfaction. He came down the ladder with a tomcat swagger, grinning. Sidney nodded blandly, ignoring the unspoken challenge, and had the satisfaction of seeing the younger man’s mask slip slightly, the wariness returning to his eyes.

  “Good morning, Sir Philip.”

  “Good morning, Marlowe,” Sidney answered, and made the words a dismissal. “Madox! Are you here?”

  Marlowe slipped past him into the stable yard, seemingly glad of the reprieve. Sidney glanced over his shoulder, and saw the poet wave to a burly man who was tightening the harness of a sturdy-looking cob. The carter paused in his work long enough to grin and nod, and Sidney’s eyes narrowed.

  “Madox?” There was no answer from the depths of the barn, and Sidney stepped back into the yard. The carter was still struggling with his harness. Sidney hesitated for an instant—do I really want to know that Marlowe’s betraying me? he wondered—then started toward the carter. The man looked up at his approach, visibly wary, and Sidney put on his most affable smile.

  “London bound?”

  “Ay.” The carter’s eyes were still wary, his face set mulishly against any self-betrayal. Sodomy was a crime against the church as well as against the state, could bring a man to the stake; Sidney kept his expression as open and innocent as possible.

  “Then Marlowe found someone to take his letter. Good.”

  “Oh, ay. “ The carter straightened, his relief plain. “I said I’d take his letter, no trouble. I’m London bound, should be there in less than a week, if the roads hold.”

  “That’s good time,” Sidney said. “I wish you luck.”

  The carter ducked his head, visibly remembering he was speaking to a gentleman. “Thank you, sir.”

  Sidney nodded a vague acknowledgement, and started back into the inn after Marlowe. The sight of the crowded main room brought him up short, and he paused just inside the doorway, considering. At the moment, he wanted nothing better than to go in search of the poet, to force a confession and demand to know the contents of the letter, but he knew that to do so would only worsen an already difficult situation. He had guessed from Marlowe’s arrival at Penshurst that the poet had been sent to spy on him, had told Greville as much before the journey had even begun. Why then, he demanded silently, should mere confirmation of my suspicions anger me? I knew what Marlowe was—I know the position he is in, and the kind of man he is. More than that, I know that company he kept, those years in London before I became his patron, and, much as it shames me to admit it, I may well need that kind of knowledge before we finish this Scottish business. He sighed deeply, then forced a smile as he saw young Madox approaching across the crowded room. At the moment, he had no choice but to trust Marlowe, and pray that that trust would not be misplaced; should the situation change, however... He put the thought aside unfinished to concentrate on what the steward was saying about the road ahead. Should the situation change, Marlowe might find that he had finally gone too far.

  Chapter Eleven

  Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air.

  Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair.

  Then thrice three times tie up this true love’s knot,

  And murmur soft: She will, or she will not.

  Thomas Campion,

  “Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air”

  Frances Sidney rested her needlework in her lap, staring at the intricate geometry, black silk on white linen, without really seeing the pattern that was emerging under her hand. The windows were open, to let in the unusually warm air, and with the faint breeze came the sound of a rider, hooves and furniture jingling as he made his way along the approach road. She cocked her head to listen, but the sound faded without bringing a call from the stables. Not a visitor for us, then, she thought, but did not resume her stitching. A bird was singing somewhere nearby—perhaps in the elaborate, untenanted gardens—each heavy note piercing the quiet. The air smelled sweet and soft, soft as the ground washed by the May rains. There was a trill of laughter from the hall below the gallery, and she frowned, recognizing the voice. The youngest of the housemaids, who was maid no longer, but who would be a wife before the babe was born, if Frances had anything to say in the matter, was at her tricks again… Frances shook away the uncharitable thought, and reached for the bell that would summon the housekeeper. Before she could ring it, however, there was a knock at the gallery door, and Madox himself appeared.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, and Frances saw with a little thrill of fear that he was looking unusually grave. Not Philip, she thought, not again, and Madox continued, “The Earl of Essex is below, and craves a moment’s private speech with you.”

  The man’s mad, Frances thought, but knew her face did not betray her anger. How dare he even offer to compromise me so? She could read the veiled disapproval in Madox’s face, and her lips thinned. “Tell his lordship,” she said, steadily, “that I will see him here. Bring refreshments, please, Madox. I believe his lordship is partial to Philip’s Rhenish wine.”

  Madox bowed unspeaking. At her back, Frances heard the rustling of skirts, and knew that her women were gathering themselves to depart. She turned then, allowing herself a small, malicious smile only when her back was to the steward. “No, ladies, you must stay. We’ll talk at this end, if his lordship really must be private.”

  Madox bowed again, more deeply, and Frances felt a momentary pang of guilt. She should not tease him, merely because she was out of temper... She said, with more grace, “Show his lordship here, please, Madox.”

  “Yes, my, lady,” the steward said, and disappeared down the stair that led to the hall.

  Frances cast a quick eye over the room and her women, dispassionately assessing the picture they presented. The two housemaids in their neat blue dresses, busy at the household’s constant mending, her own maid deftly stitching new gilt braid on
to an old gown, her own embroidery, all were emblematic of the virtuous household. That should put him in mind of who I am, she thought, and bent her head to her stitching. A part of her wished she had chosen to wear a more becoming gown, but she killed the thought, stabbing her needle into the inoffensive linen. Sad colors became her, and it was just as well for her reputation that she was wearing a closed bodice.

  She could hear footsteps on the stairs now, Madox’s heavy tread and a lighter, younger step, and in spite of herself her heart gave a little skip of pleasure. She could feel the hot blood rising in her cheeks and bent her head even lower over the embroidery until she had mastered her face.

  “The Earl of Essex, my lady,” Madox announced from the doorway, and Frances made herself look up slowly. Robert Devereux bowed gracefully, flourishing his plumed hat, and came forward, a warm smile—the smile of a man quite certain of his welcome—curving his full lips. Frances rose to meet him, holding out her hands in greeting. Essex, covering, folded them into his larger palms and bowed again, reverently, bestowing a light kiss on each set of fingers. Frances shivered at the touch, even as she wished he would not be so obvious in his attentions in front of her household.

  “Welcome, my lord,” she said, and was pleased that her voice sounded as cool and remote as she had intended, betraying nothing of her inward excitement. “Madox, if you’d fetch wine for his lordship?” That was a mistake, she knew—she had already ordered that—but Madox did not betray his thoughts by even the flicker of an eyelash. He bowed profoundly, saying, “Very good, my lady,” and disappeared again.