The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  The sweat was still cold on his forehead, but the worst of the sickness had passed. He glanced down, slowly relaxing his hold on the table-edge, and saw the red stain spreading across his cuff. He knew it was only wine, not blood, but this second malignant echo was too much. He pushed himself blindly away from the table, conscious only of the need to escape the stinking, overheated hall, and stumbled toward the door. Enough others had left in the same condition for his departure to rouse only a little laughter, but he barely noticed. He blundered through the archway, almost colliding with a pair of heavily-laden servers, and emerged into the darkness of the outer hall.

  A second door stood open to the courtyard, spilling pale moonlight onto the rushes. Marlowe lurched out into that eerie light, drawing deep, grateful breaths of the chill air.

  He leaned heavily against the curve of the tower that flanked the door, suddenly aware of the pair of soldiers that eyed him from their post at the far side of the court. They were big, fairish men, with hard Scots faces, short cloaks drawn close against the night air. The lantern above the gate cast their nightmarish shadows across the yard. They eyed the poet for a moment longer, leaning, careless and professional, on their short pikes, and then one of them said something in a voice that was meant to carry. He spoke in his native Scots—it was doubtful he had much English—but the intent was clear. The other soldier laughed harshly, and turned back to the gate.

  Marlowe’s mouth twisted, but he knew better than to argue with their sort. Instead, he pushed himself away from the wall and moved on around the tower, until he was hidden in the shadow of the doorway itself. He paused there, resting his shoulders against the rough stones, and rubbed his hand across his mouth as though that would take away the taste of bile. It was cold. The night wind swept into the hanging sleeves of his doublet, cutting through the fine Holland of his shirt. He shivered convulsively, but did not go in. After his abrupt departure, there would be too many curious eyes looking for his return; he could not bear, yet, to face that mockery. He looked up, toward the empty sky. The setting moon drowned much of the stars’ brilliance, and a thin veil of cloud had crept across the zenith; there was a strange, brief flicker of light to the north, like lightning, no sooner seen than it had vanished utterly.

  “So. There you are.”

  Marlowe started, even though he recognized the voice of the man who had been sitting to his right at dinner.

  “And it was a good French wine, too,” the man continued, his English suddenly all but free of the Scots burr. “None of your Italian horse-piss.”

  “It wasn’t to my taste.” Marlowe eyed him warily, uncertain of the stranger’s motives. Certainly he was grinning, the broken line of his teeth visible in the moonlight. Strangely, though, the right side of his face was blotched with shadow, despite the light full on it—or, no, Marlowe realized almost in the same instant, the dark stain that covered most of the Scotsman’s cheek and jaw was a birthmark, or possibly a powder burn. The moonlight leeched all color from the world, making such identification uncertain.

  The Scot’s smile widened further, but before he could speak, there was a movement in the shadowed doorway.

  Greville stepped out into the courtyard, his amiable face hardening at the sight of the stranger. “Master Marlowe,” he said. “You’re looked for.”

  “And by whom, I wonder?” the Scotsman murmured. Greville lifted an eyebrow at him, but the Scot seemed unabashed.

  “He has a fine man to run his errands, at any rate,” he continued.

  “Might I ask how this is your concern?” Greville said, in his most remote voice.

  The Scot bowed deeply. “I am Ian—John Gordon, and very much at your service, gentlemen.” He glanced toward the doorway. “But I think I hear the dancing, so I’ll take my leave.” With a second, deeper bow, he vanished into the darkness.

  Greville stared after him, frowning, then turned back to the poet. “Are you all right, Marlowe?”

  The poet nodded, his words bitter in spite of himself. “I am now.”

  “Philip sent me,” Greville continued, as if he hadn’t heard the self-disgust in the younger man’s voice. “The dancing has begun.”

  Marlowe looked up, startled both by the note of compassion—of understanding—in Greville’s tone, and by the tact of the message. Now that the tables had been cleared away and the revels had truly started, almost no one would notice one more arrival in the crowded hall. He nodded his thanks, and said, “Then let’s go in.”

  The servants had cleared away the tables in record time, stacking the trestles against one wall and the tops against the one opposite. The remains of the food had vanished—presumably to the kitchens, to be consumed by the people who had cooked and served it—but there was still wine and beer and the fiery whiskey the Scots seemed to favor in plenty. The sweating musicians struck up a lively tune, and James led his wife onto the cleared floor. He danced only the one dance, Sidney saw, though he was not as ungainly as might have been expected, and then left Anne to the attentions of a host of young courtiers, returning to his place on the dais. The Master of Ruthven came to stand beside him; as they talked, James rested one arm comfortably about the younger man’s waist. After a few moments James lifted the other’s hand, kissed it lightly, then pushed him gently away. Ruthven bowed, not at all discomfited by his dismissal, and moved to join the dancers forming for a round-dance.

  Sidney raised an eyebrow. Even Marlowe was rarely so ostentatious, he thought—but then, Marlowe was not a king. He glanced curiously down the hall, wondering what the poet made of this, but the younger man’s expression was unreadable, watching the dancers and listening with half an ear to a fair-haired young woman in an old-fashioned gown of scarlet brocade.

  Somewhere, circles were described, and incantations shaped, spirits summoned and sent forth. Sidney lifted his head at the first whisper of power, faint as the first light breeze that prefaced a storm. Almost without thinking, he moved to put himself between the door—the source of that too-gentle touch—and the king. The musicians faltered, their instruments loud and off-key in the suddenly heavy air. The dancers stumbled to a halt. Most of them were more than half drunk, but even a drunken man could feel that sudden power. A scent of mildew, of cellars and forgotten caverns, floated into the hall. There was a shout from the courtyard, and then, from the antechamber, a woman’s shrill scream. James rose to his feet as his nobles scattered before him, seeking the dubious protection of the dismantled tables. He was on the edge of blind panic, Sidney knew.

  “If your Majesty will pardon me for a moment,” he said, pitching his voice to cut through the king’s fear, “there’s a thing that needs dealing with.”

  James sank back into his seat, hands white-knuckled on the arms of his chair. The air had thickened at the end of the hall, and tendrils of oily black fog seemed to eddy in the doorway. Even as Sidney watched, the tendrils coalesced, weaving together into a shape like a taloned paw.

  He lifted his hands, marshaling all his strength. This was the time for Virgil’s magic, not Dee’s: the Roman art was immediate, a matter of the indomitable Roman will. Not for Virgil the drawing of circles, the casting of seals and sigils: the act itself was everything. One acted when one was acted upon—and readiness was all.

  Sidney acted. Theory became practice in a splintering second, his will freezing the very air itself to stop the oncoming shape. The roiling mass of spirit energy recoiled, the air around it rolling with thunder. It recovered in an instant, rearing back like some great animal to throw itself against the barrier Sidney had so hastily erected. Sidney smiled grimly, and drove his will hard against it, holding the barrier in place. The amorphous mass hurled itself again at the barrier but could not pass it. Sidney’s smile widened, and in the same instant he felt the familiar touch of the presence he had first encountered in England. Then that was gone, and Sidney spoke a final command. The oily black cloud burst apart into a blinding shower of blue light. There was a final mutter of thunder, a
nd then all was silent in the hall.

  James rose slowly to his feet, and bowed deeply to the Englishman. “Our cousin has done us greater honor than we had suspected, Sir Philip,” he said, with only the slightest tremor in his voice. “She has indeed sent us a formidable champion. Scotland rests in your debt.”

  Sidney returned the bow. “Not yet, your Majesty. Matters are not yet concluded, I fear.”

  “Yet can we doubt the outcome?” James surveyed the hall sternly, unable to resist indulging his fondness for rhetoric. “We stand in your debt.”

  At the far end of the hall, Marlowe shook himself convulsively, one hand still clutching Watson’s sigil through the cloth of his doublet. There had been nothing he could do to help—and in any case, Sidney had used a magic like no other he had ever seen before. This instantaneous spell-casting was almost unheard of; there were always parameters, guards and guides to be set and to be ignored at your peril. These things did not vary, whether the magic was black or white. Only the words of the invocations changed, or so Watson had said…

  The poet shook himself again, forcing a sort of calm. He would find out, would make Sidney teach him, but not just now. He glanced around the hall, grinning at the sight of a pair of noblemen crawling out from under one of the trestle tables, their finery sadly spotted. And what good did they think a wooden table would do them? he wondered, and looked away. The man who had sat next to him at dinner—the mark on his face was an old powder burn, as though a pistol had missed fire right beside him—was brushing straw from the voluminous skirts of an older woman, who was busily adjusting the upper hoop of her drum farthingale. No, Marlowe realized abruptly, not adjusting the hoop, but tucking a heavy pistol back into concealment through a slit in the skirt seam. She saw his glance, and winked; the poet looked away, not knowing what to think.

  Sidney was standing at the far end of the hall, the courtiers—even those who opposed the king—crowding around to congratulate his skill. His face was very pale, paler than the bleached collar, and oddly rueful. Marlowe frowned. When the apparition had been destroyed, vanishing into that cloud of sparks, an expression almost of surprise had flickered across Sidney’s face. So it didn’t work quite as he intended, Marlowe thought, and grinned almost without malice. It was still an effective display. There was one broached hogshead of whiskey that had not been overturned in the confusion. The poet glanced around until he found a dented silver cup that someone had dropped, dusted it perfunctorily against his stockinged leg, and ladled it full of the harsh liquor. Then he worked his way through the crowd to Sidney’s side.

  “An impressive display, Sir Philip,” he murmured into the older man’s ear. Sidney turned to him, and realized that Marlowe had seen—and recognized—his own surprise. The rueful smile widened into true self-mockery.

  It was, wasn’t it?” he said.

  “Rather,” Marlowe agreed, and handed Sidney the cup. “You need it.”

  Sidney recognized the stinging smell of it, but drained the cup in one quick swallow. The Scotsmen around him applauded cheerfully, giddy with the release from fear—but to Sidney, the liquor might as well have been water. It could not compete with the thrill of power within him, was drowned by the power that he had commanded, directed, and released. And that, he realized, was where the true danger lay. Yet hast thou not known me, Philip? The words of the lesson swam in his brain, rebuking his pride. He closed his eyes for a moment. This power is a gift, he told himself. A gift to be used, yes, but not to be taken pridefully. Pride is something my opposite could use against me, I daresay.

  He opened his eyes, smiling a little. The whiskey was working, relaxing him. He felt calmer now, more secure and less frightened of what he had released. If he had not expected the outward manifestations of his power, he had successfully controlled its direction and intent, and that was what mattered. He was suddenly aware that the young Master of Ruthven was staring at him from his place beside the king—but the black eyes were void of all expression, that very lack of emotion made the gaze malevolent. A man who doesn’t want to reveal his animosity in his eyes, Sidney thought, and by hiding it, he reveals it all the more obviously. A dangerous boy… But there was something else there, deep in those shadowed eyes, the look of a man let down rather abruptly from some expected pleasure. The eyes slid away, the emotion vanishing so quickly that Sidney could not be sure he had not imagined it. Later, he told himself, later he would inquire about this Master of Ruthven, but for now he was too tired, too elated by his unexpected victory. He smiled wearily at the thronging courtiers, giving himself up to their adulation.

  The repercussions followed almost at once. The French party, which preferred James to align himself with the Most Christian King, offered their congratulations to the English wizard, but mixed their gratitude with a delicately-worded caveat. After all, their sidelong looks implied, the mysterious demon had not attacked in such force until Sidney arrived to draw its danger down on them all… The Ultra-Protestants, who disapproved of all wizardry on scriptural authority, found themselves briefly in agreement with their archrivals, and the more political recoiled in confusion. The true dogmatists, however, accepted the unfortunate coincidence of Catholic/Presbyter agreement as simply that, and were loud in their condemnation of the Englishman’s efforts. The Sunday sermon, preached in turn by members of the various Protestant factions, was slated this week to be given by Andrew Melville, the most vociferous of the Presbyterians, and Sidney braced himself to face the inevitable tongue-lashing. That freedom of speech was, after all, a preacher’s privilege; besides, Melville’s lack of moderation in the face of such an obvious danger might well sway the more sensible of the Ultra-Protestant nobles toward a decent neutrality.

  “Will you attend?” Greville asked, and glanced at his friend across the rim of his glass.

  Sidney grimaced, turning away from the window and the fading purple of the hills. “I don’t know. It’s the ambassador’s custom to bring his household, especially when the Archbishop or any of the bishops is preaching, and I don’t like to flout that. But…” He let his voice trail off, and Greville nodded.

  “But Melville’s another matter. God’s death, Philip, isn’t it enough to say we’re not of his church?”

  “But can we?” Sidney said, and reached for his own wine. “I broached the subject to the ambassador, and his advice was for us to attend.” He shrugged. “We will look Christian and forgiving—and properly Protestant—while Melville—”

  “—has any number of shots at a standing target,” Greville said sharply. “I don’t think it’s wise.”

  “Sweet Christ, do you think I’m looking forward to this?” Sidney snapped. He controlled himself instantly. “I’m sorry, Fulke, that was uncalled for. I think we have to trust the ambassador—after all, he’s been here longer than we have, he should know these people better than we do. It’s just unlucky that Melville is the preacher, that’s all.”

  Greville grimaced, but nodded. “Most unlucky.”

  The Sunday dawned clear and warm, a few high clouds riding the gentle wind. It was the sort of day that invited hunting, a day’s escape into the countryside. Sidney himself gave the distant hills a wistful glance, before turning away to dress himself in his most sober black. Neither he nor any of his people could afford to give the dominies anything to reproach just now. Young Madox had recognized the situation without prompting, too: the entire entourage was waiting to follow him to church, each man dressed in his best plain blue-coat livery, the two boys scrubbed to an unnatural godliness. Greville had abandoned the most startling eccentricities of French fashion, was sober and comfortable in a suit of argentine grey, embellished only with collar and cuffs of the finest lace. Even Marlowe had made an effort to be conciliatory, Sidney saw with an inward smile. The poet’s rich purple doublet was hidden beneath a borrowed academic gown, and ruff and biretta were decently fastened rather than fashionably askew.

  Somewhat to Sidney’s surprise, given the seductive summer we
ather, the church was quite crowded, most of James’s court in dutiful attendance. The sunlight streamed in through the plain glass of the windows, falling in broad bands of light and shadow across the congregation. And with His stripes, Sidney thought, we are healed. He hid a smile. Not quite what had been meant, perhaps, but the metaphor pleased him, allowed him to postpone for a few moments longer any contemplation of the service to come. He made his way up the side aisle, Greville at his elbow, responding with grave courtesy to the greetings of various members of the court, and made his bow to the ambassador, seated with his household at the head of the aisle. The ambassador, still pale and drawn from his illness, inclined his head in polite response. In the same moment, a young man in a plain suit rose quickly from his low stool, offering it to Sidney with a mute bow. Sidney thanked him, and seated himself a moment later, the ambassador’s son rose at his father’s discreet nod, offering his place to Greville. Greville accepted it with thanks, and only the faintest hint of an ironic smile. Sidney saw, but contrived to ignore it, turning his attention instead to the ambassador’s platitudes.

  Marlowe, standing at the back of the church with the rest of the lesser members of the court, saw the way the bars of sunlight slanted across the nave, and smiled sourly to himself. God’s grace, poured out at random across the crowd, separating the elect from the damned in no uncertain terms... How appropriate for this dour place, he thought, and stepped back out of a band of sunlight. No doubt someone will point up the lesson. He fixed his eyes on the king and queen, sitting together in plain, high-backed chairs just below and to the right of the dais that held the communion table. The chairs were in shadow: oh, see, see, my brethren, how neither rank nor royalty hath merit in the kingdom of heaven. Marlowe’s mouth twisted again, this time with mischief. Beyond James, in the press of courtiers who chose to stay with their master, he could just see the sun gleaming off Ruthven’s raven-black hair. If the sun touched him, perhaps this was a devil’s baptism, an anti-grace dispensed in an antichurch... The smile vanished as he realized just how true that might be, and he shook the thought away.