The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  “My dearest lady,” Essex said. He had a marvelous voice, husky yet oddly musical, and he pitched it now to a confiding murmur. An insinuating voice, Frances thought, and became aware that he was still holding her hands. She drew back slightly, and he released her at once, with only a wistful smile. He was all in black velvet, save for falling collar and silk-embroidered cuffs, the sobriety of the doublet relieved only by huge arabesques of pearls. Black and white were the queen’s colors, she remembered, and was annoyed by her own momentary jealousy.

  “My very dearest lady,” Essex said again.

  “My lord,” Frances said. “What brings you to Penshurst?”

  A frown flickered across Essex’s pale face, was gone almost before Frances was sure she had seen it. “Matters of some importance, my lady, if I might prevail on you to hear me privately.”

  Frances hid her own frown at that, and was saved from having to make an immediate reply by Madox’s reappearance. The steward set his tray on a carved sideboard, and poured two glasses of the amber wine. Frances let him serve them in silence, and rewarded him with a smile as he backed away. She said, smiling at Essex, “The world being what it is, my lord, let’s walk apart. We can be private enough here.”

  “My lady’s wish is a command,” Essex answered promptly, and offered her his arm. Frances slipped her free hand into the curve of his elbow, and Essex tucked it close against his body, trapping her hand gently against his ribs. She could imagine with startling clarity the body beneath the layers of cloth, and glanced away too late to hide her faint blush. Essex smiled slightly, but did not press his advantage.

  They walked the length of the gallery in silence. Only when they had reached the end, and were out of earshot of the busy women, did Essex pause at last. “My lady,” he said, and pitched his voice to the very bottom of its register. They’re the same tricks that Mary Herbert uses, Frances thought, but could not break the spell.

  “I realized that it is somewhat—awkward—for me to visit here in the absence of your husband,” Essex continued, with another of his little smiles, “but I plead an excuse—besides my passion—that must satisfy even the most precise moralists.” He paused, as though expecting a cue, but Frances did not respond. “You are doubtless aware of the circumstances surrounding your husband’s mission.”

  This time, his hesitation was long enough to force some answer. “I know something of it,” Frances said, and took refuge in the wifely, downward glance. “But certainly not all the particulars.”

  Under her hand, she felt Essex take a deep breath, but she could read nothing of his emotions in his gentle smile. “You, of all women, would be aware of the larger consequences of helping the king of Scots,” he said at last, and Frances did not hide her own lightning smile. That, at least, was something that could be said in Essex’s favor: while none of Elizabeth’s courtiers could fail to acknowledge the queen’s political wisdom, he at least recognized that other women might well share her interest and ability.

  Essex went on as though he had not noticed her change of expression. “Sir Philip—forgive me, my lady, but I’m not certain he is fully aware of what may come of his actions in the north.”

  “Indeed?” Frances murmured, and was surprised at her own sudden indignation.

  Essex ducked his head in apology. “I can only ask you to forgive me, sweet lady, for mentioning what can only be an unpleasant truth. But Philip has never been the wisest of politicians, or the coolest of courtiers.”

  That was true enough, and Frances nodded, offering a rueful smile of her own.”Still, her majesty has always valued his freedom...”

  “The king of Scots may find that less—endearing,” Essex answered, with another smile, this one filled with tolerance for an older man’s folly. “More than that—it’s a delicate game her majesty is playing, and Philip’s unswerving championship of what he sees as the right may well upset the balance.”

  He paused again, waiting for some cue, and Frances responded with a soft, interrogative murmur that hid her own racing thoughts. It was true that Philip had never hesitated to speak out even at the cost of banishment from the court, as his opposition to the queen’s proposed French marriage—a crowning piece of folly, had she meant it, had been his final, bitter verdict—had amply demonstrated.

  But it was equally true that Elizabeth valued his candor even as she punished him for it, and had never allowed his rivals to take advantage of her moments of pique. So if it’s English matters you’re concerned about, she thought, I think you’re worrying over nothing. She smiled inwardly, rather touched by Essex’s feeling for his old rival. Well, perhaps not rival, truly, she amended, not in politics or—I trust—in love. Essex was speaking again, and she dragged her attention hastily back to him.

  “I must speak to you on a matter of some delicacy, my dearest lady, for I know I can trust you with my life as well as with England’s future.” Essex lowered his voice almost to a whisper, though there was no likelihood that the women, still sewing at the far end of the gallery, could overhear even an ordinary conversation. “My sweet, it is decided—it is quite certain—that James will be her majesty’s heir, and it’s equally certain that he will come into that inheritance in not very many years. Her majesty, God keep and protect her, is an old woman; it would be of immeasurable advantage to the country if she would admit that fact, and name her heir openly. Scotland is a dangerous neighbor, with its French connections and its troublesome nobles. Until her majesty names her heir, it is to our advantage to keep the king of Scots dependent on England in other ways. And that, dearest lady, is where Philip may destroy years of policy.”

  But not necessarily wise policy, Frances thought. Gratitude might well count for little with princes, even the gratitude for so great a favor as freeing James from the persecution of Satan’s agents, but it was a safer force than threats. Even a man as precariously poised as James would have to take risks to free himself from what he could only view as English tutelage, some day, and that would not bode well for England.

  “If he sets James securely on his throne,” Essex continued, “what reason will James have to listen to England’s advice?”

  More rhetoric, Frances thought, and I’ll have an end to it. Whose voice are you aping, I wonder? She found herself looking at Essex as though she had never seen him before—which perhaps I never have, she thought, or never hard enough to glimpse what lies behind the handsome mask. Even did I love you—and the thought was shocking now, that she might have done so—I could not love this backhanded dealing, nor countenance it for the sake of my own good name. “It’s good of you to tell me all this, my lord, “ she said, and marveled that she was able to keep up the brittle courtly tone. “But I cannot see what help it does me now. Had you told me a month ago, perhaps…” She let her voice trail off, watching Essex from under her lashes.

  “My lady—my very dearest lady.” Essex caught both her bands in his again, pulling her around to face him squarely. “I thank you for your kindness, too great to be deserved. There is one thing you can do for me—not that for which I have so ardently striven all the years, but something which I may ask and you may grant, in all honor and indeed in service both to Philip and to England.”

  Frances did not answer, schooling herself to utter immobility, and Essex hurried on. “My lady, Philip has sent no word to the court of his plans. Not even the queen knows precisely what he intends once he reaches James’s court.”

  Another lie, Frances thought. I know Philip’s sense of duty too well to believe that—and this tells me, too, that you are not so far in her majesty’s confidence as you would have me believe. There was a growing coldness in the pit of her stomach, half anger and half the pain of a lost dream. She swallowed it, tasting bile and managed to say with false concern, “Indeed, my lord?”

  “I fear so, my lady. And yet rumor speaks of unimaginable things.”

  “Rumor often does,” Frances said. “And rarely speaks true.”

  “So we pr
ay, and most devoutly,” Essex answered.

  It’s time we drew unbated blades, Frances thought, dispassionately, and high time I struck first. “My lord, I understand your worries—” All too well, she added silently, and was shocked again by the depth of her anger. “—but I cannot understand why you’ve come to me. While Philip was at home, perhaps I could have helped you, but not now.”

  “There is one thing, madam,” Essex answered. He was watching her very closely now, though he did his best to hide it. “It is said that Sir Philip can promise—and boasts he can fulfill that promise—the king of Scots many things—that he will offer to protect him against these dark powers, that he can even offer to rid the kingdom of Satan’s minions forever. A dangerous boast, my lady, if it’s true, but there is one thing more. Rumor whispers that Sir Philip Sidney owns a great and powerful book that will allow him to do these things—though rumor cannot name the author, nor the provenance of this mysterious text.”

  Frances made herself meet Essex’s stare with wide and innocent eyes. Behind that mask, her thoughts were racing. She knew of Virgil’s book, and Philip knew she knew of it, though he had never spoken of it to her; she could only guess, though she was no such scholar as the Sidneys, at the powers it commanded. The mention of Virgil’s name would certify the magic to be of the whitest, that she knew, and put an end to some of the whispering—but setting any parameters to the powers Philip wielded might well endanger him, give his unknown Scottish enemy some advantage. Better in the end to risk the accusation of black magic, than to betray anything to Essex. “I fear, my lord,” she said slowly, “I know nothing of such matters. I am not learned in the arts, though I have ever believed—and do still believe—Philip’s magic to be of the purest.”

  “I have no doubt of that, my lady,” Essex said, with a quick and private smile. “It is this rumored book that concerns us all.”

  “Us, my lord?” Frances asked, and winced as Essex gave her a rather sharp look in return.

  “Why, the court, my lady, and the queen.”

  “Indeed,” Frances murmured, and did her best to sound impressed by his superior knowledge. Apparently, the pretense satisfied him, and he returned to his primary interest.

  “Has Philip never said anything to indicate that he might own such a fabulous thing? Is there nothing he treasures so highly, or has forbidden to you? Anything at all that you can tell me, dearest lady, would serve not only me but Philip, too.”

  Frances fought down her surging anger, and shook her head. “I regret, my lord, I know nothing that would help you—nothing that would indicate either that he has or does not have such a thing—should such a marvelous book exist at all. I cannot help wondering if common folk have been deceived, or have perhaps tangled Philip’s library—which is a marvel in and of itself—with his more arcane studies.”

  That was a bow drawn at a venture, but she was pleased to see a flicker of consternation cross Essex’s face. It might not discomfit a more knowledgeable man, but any doubts she could sow would only help Philip.

  Essex bowed again. “That might in truth be so,” he conceded, and straightened. “My lady, I am most grateful to you for receiving me, all unannounced, and with only your women to accompany you.”

  What, will you leave me already? Frances thought. A most ungallant gallant! She suppressed the temptation to continue with the game, to force Essex to play out his lover’s hand, and schooled her expression to a wistful smile. She allowed Essex to extricate himself from the situation with only the minimum of protest required to keep the earl from suspecting her revulsion of feeling—a surprisingly small amount, she thought, but then, he’s always had a great conceit of himself. She walked with him to the main door, calling for Madox to have the earl’s horse brought, and stood for a long moment in the open doorway, watching her would-be lover ride away. When at last the little cavalcade disappeared around the distant curve of the approach, she turned away, and sought refuge in Sidney’s study, ignoring Madox’s wary, scrupulously unquestioning presence.

  Once inside, the door firmly latched behind her, she leaned against the edge of the massive table, staring blindly at the shuttered windows, closed to keep the room safe against Sidney’s return. Oh, fool, fool, she repeated silently, though of herself, Essex, or her husband, she was uncertain. There was cause enough on all three parts, that she knew, and writhed inwardly at her own guilt, but of the three, Philip’s was the most minor folly. It was a folly of honor and loyalty that had brought Essex into her company in the first place, and a further folly that allowed him to remain there, to court her still. And how could Philip, of all men, have ever so adored that foppish fool? she railed, but knew the answer even before the question was fully formed. Essex had seemed to be everything Sidney was and all he had never been as well, the successful courtier and favorite as well as the poet and patron and soldier. I felt that too, she thought, I was drawn to that—that pliant charm that Essex has and that Philip never could possess. But beneath that pretty surface, there’s none of Philip’s steel.

  She trailed her hand along the edge of the table, aware of the birdsong outside, so different from the uncanny silence of his last night at Penshurst. They had been so close then; everything could have been made new again, with just a little time. Essex’s plan threatened that, too—and God help me, she thought, with a ghostly smile, I’m woman enough to count that the greatest of his sins.

  She looked down at the table. On it—it was as though he had just left—a quill lay across a blotted page, and near it lay the simple ring Philip always slipped from his hand when he was working. Frances picked it up, closed her fingers over it, fancying it still warm from his hand. There was much to consider now, plans to make, but she needed knowledge before she could act to any purpose.

  “Madox!”

  The steward appeared so quickly that she knew he had been hovering in the hallway, but in her present mood she could forgive him much for his loyalty to Philip. “My lady?”

  “Tomorrow I will travel to Mortlake, to Doctor Dee. My errand should not take more than the day, but in the event that I must remain overnight you must see to matters here. If my lord of Essex should return, tell him—” She paused, trying to think of a lie that could not be disproved too quickly. “Tell him that I have gone to Wilton—no, better still, tell him I’ve ridden out to oversee some little matters concerning the estate. On no account must he know I’ve gone to Mortlake.”

  More than surprised, but trying not to let it show, Madox bowed. “Very good, my lady. Will you take Fischer with you?”

  “Yes. And I want to travel quickly. Tell the grooms.”

  “I shall, my lady.”

  Frances watched him go, smiling faintly in the shadowed light. Both Philip and Essex thought they knew her well. They were both about to find out how wrong they were.

  The ride to London had never seemed to take so long. The household was up before dawn, and Frances herself was dressed and ready well before Fischer brought the horses around to the main door. She checked briefly, seeing that the groom had a pillow prepared for her so that she might ride pillion like a great lady, but allowed Madox to throw her up behind Fischer without open protest. When the cortege—Fischer and four grooms, each with a cased pistol at his saddlebow—reached Sevenoaks, however, and Fischer called a halt to breathe the horses and feed the men, Frances slid from her seat with an impatient frown. She glanced around the busy inn yard, gauging the place’s resources, and her frown eased a little.

  “Fischer, I told you I was in haste. Hire me a woman’s saddle and put it on the bay gelding. I’ll ride the rest of the way myself.”

  “But, my lady—” the groom began, and stuttered to a stop as Frances turned on him.

  “It’s a matter of importance, man. Do as I tell you.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Fischer swallowed hard. “And Hugh, my lady?”

  Hugh was the groom who had been riding the gelding. Frances controlled her annoyance with an effort. “Let hi
m stay here—or hire a hack for him, if your sense of propriety’s too nice to let me travel with only four to my escort. We’ve money enough. But I will ride.” She paused, and managed what she hoped was a winning smile. “Let’s spare the horses, Fischer, as much as we may.”

  The groom’s expression softened a little. “Very well, my lady,” he said. “If your ladyship would accept a glass of ale, we’ll be about it.”

  “Thank you, Fischer,” Frances answered, and bunched her skirts together to slip into the inn’s main room. The innkeeper and his wife bustled about her, neglecting their lesser patrons, but she declined more than the pot of ale and a single savory tart. By the time she had finished it, and shaken off their further courtesies, Fischer had negotiated the hire of a woman’s saddle. He had also, she saw with some amusement, hired a piebald hack for the extra groom.

  “Well done, Fischer,” she said again, and was gratified by his sudden blush. “Are the men seen to?”

  “Yes, your ladyship, thank you.”

  “Then we ride,” Frances said, with decision, and swung herself up into the new saddle, arranging her skirts deftly as she settled herself.

  It took them much of the daylight to come within sight of London. Fischer led them by the best roads, hardened now by a few weeks of summer warmth. The rolling land was planted now, the fields ripening toward the promised harvest, the hedgerows already bright with early flowers. The youngest of the grooms sang cheerfully to himself, his voice rivaling the birds that answered him from the clustered trees; twice a peasant girl straightened from her labor to stare after him, and, glancing back, Frances saw one pause and pluck a hedge-rose, setting it defiantly between her breasts.

  “Pity you won’t have the picking,” an older groom said, and the singer blushed and fell silent.

  Frances lifted an eyebrow, but could not bring herself to reprove either man. There were too many things at stake now, too many uncertainties, to waste time on such trivial matters. Her mouth tightening again to a grim line, she set spurs to her horse, urging it to a faster trot. The grooms exchanged nervous glances, their teasing forgotten, and followed her.