The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  The service was spartan even by strict Protestant standards, a few hymns sung standing and in Scots, and then the preacher rose to his feet and crossed with deliberate steps to the pulpit. Melville was wearing a black academic gown, but that was his only concession to the traditional cassock. Geneva bands showed at his throat, the starched white linen stark against his severe black doublet. He climbed slowly up to the raised lectern—relishing every step, Marlowe thought—and stood there for a moment, his hands resting on the polished wood to either side of the great Bible.

  “Brothers and sisters in the Lord,” he said at last, and lifted the cover of the massive book. “I take for our text today these words from Joel: Hear this, ye old men, and give ear, all ye inhabitants of this land. Hath this been in your days, or even in the days of your fathers? Rend your heart, and not your garments, and turn unto the Lord your God.”

  Melville closed the Bible gently, but in the waiting silence that had descended on the church, the sound was clearly audible. At the front of the church, Sidney schooled himself to bear the attack he could guess was coming, and was aware of Greville’s quick glance, at once angry and sympathetic.

  “Hath this been in your days, or even in the days of your fathers?” Melville repeated. He turned slowly in his place, so that his stare seemed to sweep across the congregation. “The question is a pertinent one even for you this day, for which of us has seen such license given to the Devil for our chastisement? Demons stalk the very halls of royalty, yea, even into the bedchambers of kings, but what is our response? Do you search your hearts for sin, and root out iniquity from your thoughts? Do you do as the prophets bade, and fast, and weep your prayers? Do you bear your afflictions humbly, in the knowledge that your chastisement is just, a just recompense for your sins?” He paused again, then turned to stare directly at the king. “No, that is not what you have done, James Stuart. You have turned to foreign prophets—foreign wizards—and to wordly scholars, to the whisperings of women, and not to the Lord. Rend your heart and not your garments: that is meant for you, and all those who would turn to such mummery, and attempt—in vain!—to deflect the chastisement of the Lord.”

  Sidney took a deep breath, biting back his anger. How dared the man speak so to his king? And how could James permit such insolence to continue? Even as the thought took shape in his mind, he saw James rise slowly to his feet.

  “Andrew Melville, come down out of there.” James’s voice echoed in the bated silence, unexpectedly imperious.

  The preacher stopped, throwing back his head like a nervous horse. “You interfere with the work of the Lord,” he began, and James interrupted.

  “I’ve heard a great deal from you these past weeks, Andrew Melville, and I’m still waiting to hear sense. Answer me this, here in plain words: when I’m confronted with one of these demons, what am I to do, by your advice?”

  “You must endure the Lord’s chastisement, and search your heart for sin,” Melville answered.

  “Come down out of there,” James repeated, and, very slowly, Melville obeyed. The two men stood facing each other for perhaps a dozen heartbeats, the preacher in his black against a king magnificent in pale blue satin, and then, quite abruptly, James slapped his thigh.

  “Endure, is it? Contemplate my sins, is it? By God, we’ll see how you like that remedy, sir preacher.” Before Melville could move, James had caught the sallow preacher by the collar of his gown and propelled him stumbling down the aisle toward the door. The court made way for them, too shocked for an instant to speak. Melville twisted once against the inexorable grip, then submitted with what little dignity he could muster.

  “Good God,” Greville said blankly, and his words were drowned in the rising hum of consternation.

  Sidney laughed aloud, but quickly swallowed his mirth. Deserved chastisement or not, this would be no laughing matter, if the majority of the Kirk chose to take this as an attack on their power. He pushed himself hastily up off his stool, and followed the king toward the door. The rest of the congregation was moving, too, some smirking openly, some honestly shocked and angry, most caught between laughter and offense. James paused just inside the door, his hand still on Melville’s collar.

  “Follow me, my lords—all of you,” he shouted. “It’s a fair test I’m offering.” With an effort, he propelled the preacher ahead of him out into the courtyard.

  Marlowe elbowed his way through the crowd, heedless of rank and station, and managed to reach the courtyard only a little behind the king. James strode ahead of them all, shoving Melville before him, heedless of the Archbishop bobbing at his elbow, of the Treasurer’s gasping protest, of the queen, skirts hoisted ungracefully above her ankles, stumbling after him, ox eyes wide with protest. Her women hastened after her, calling disjointedly, and were swallowed in the crowd of courtiers. James was heading for Queen Mary’s closet, Marlowe realized suddenly, and did not bother to hide his grin. If even half the rumors about that place were true, Melville would get what he deserved.

  The crowd fell back a little as its leaders realized where James was going, the courtiers eddying at the bottom of the crooked stairs that led up to the closet. Marlowe used that confusion to edge past his betters, slipping up the stairway before anyone could see and protest. The upper hall was crowded, too, the guards at either end of the corridor standing slack-jawed, halberds half lowered in uncertainty. Cursing under his breath, Marlowe shoved his way along the outer wall, no longer caring who he offended, and at last came out almost at the front of the crowd. The nobles stood well back from the door, its painted cupids sadly still visible beneath the layers of whitewash, feet braced to keep from being pushed any closer by the press of men in the corridor behind.

  “Let me by,” a woman’s voice demanded breathlessly, and a greybeard turned sideways to let the queen into the first rank. She put her hands to her mouth, stifling any pleas she might have made, and waited.

  “Out of my way, poet,” a soft familiar voice said, and in the same moment a slight figure brushed past, pushing into the front row. Marlowe caught his breath, scalded by the casual, knowing contact of body and body, and saw the Master of Ruthven glance back at him, beautiful face alive with malicious mischief.

  “Your majesty,” the archbishop began, sounding harassed and shaken—as well he might, Marlowe thought, having to defend a man who hates him and will never be grateful—and James shook his head.

  “I will hear you later, your Grace, but not now.” He was pale now, standing so close to the place that had been the center of all the manifestations, and sweat stood out on his forehead, but he did not step away. He glanced around as though assessing the crowd’s reaction, and lifted his voice so his words would carry even to the men still on the steps. “You’ve heard the sermon that was preached today. Well, I’ve an answer to it now, and I say you all will bear witness. Tell me, Master Melville, can you endure this?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he yanked open the door to the room, and shoved Melville inside, slamming the door closed behind him. Sidney, standing with Greville perhaps three men behind the queen, could see that the king was shaking, and a detached part of his mind wondered if it were anger or fear that caused it.

  “Contemplate your sins,” James said again, but his voice cracked on the last word, and he cleared his throat unhappily. Easy, now, Sidney thought. His hands closed into fists at his side. You’ve made a good beginning; you mustn’t show fear now.

  There was a long silence in the hall, stretching for a dozen, two dozen quick heartbeats. Marlowe found himself holding his breath, waiting for something, anything, from inside the room. Then at last the silence was shattered by a shriek, a cry of pure horror, and the door was flung open from the inside. For a moment, they all saw it, the cloud of fat droning flies, corpse-flies, that swarmed around Melville, fastening on his gown, settling in his eyes and hair, and darting effortlessly away from his frantically batting hands. And then the flies were gone, and the minister stumbled out into the hal
lway, still waving insanely at the empty air, throat filled with little choking cries. An older woman in the second row crossed herself hastily, and a dozen others forgot themselves and did the same. Melville continued to beat the air, his eyes bulging madly, striking at things only he could see. The sight was suddenly ridiculous. Someone at the back of the crowd laughed weakly, and a few others picked up the sound, then more, until the entire crowd was chuckling. Melville stopped abruptly, as though the noise had broken some spell, and flushed to the roots of his hair. James forced a smile, though the sight had shaken him more than he dared admit.

  “Well, Master Melville? Do you—endure?”

  Melville’s flush deepened to the hot red of pure fury. “The Lord’s purpose is inscrutable,” he ground out between clenched teeth.

  “And even godly men may be chastised, like Job, for no fault?” James pursued, still smiling.

  “God’s will be done,” Melville spat, as though the words choked him. “Your Majesty—”

  “And I believe there is another word that applies here,” James continued mercilessly. “Judge not, the gospel says, that ye be not judged—how does the rest of it go, Master Melville?”

  Melville’s mouth tightened. James’s eyes narrowed, and the preacher said reluctantly, “For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.” He managed a stiff, uncompromising bow, his face still set and furious.

  James nodded in response. “You have leave, Master Melville.”

  For an instant, it seemed as though Melville would protest further, but then he turned on his heel and stalked away. The courtiers made way for him with ill-concealed laughter. A voice floated after him from the front of the crowd—Marlowe’s voice, Sidney realized, without surprise.

  “Thus endeth the lesson.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I sold apples, and the child took an apple from me, and the mother took the apple from the child; for the which I was very angry. But the child died of the smallpox.

  Statement made by Temperance Lloyd before her execution for witchcraft, 1682; quoted in A True and Impartial Relation of the Informations against Three Witches

  In the weeks following Sidney’s dramatic defense of the king, and despite James’s spirited defiance of Melville and all who condemned the presence of the English wizard, the king grew warier. No great rituals, especially of a public or semi-public nature, could be tolerated; Sidney could only do that which was absolutely necessary for the king’s safety.

  “The man’s a fool,” Sidney exclaimed, but even here in the privacy of his own rooms, he did not name the man, or raise his voice beyond the conversational. Madox, standing by the door in case of visitors, beckoned discreetly to the page, drawing him out of earshot.

  “He’s no soldier, he hasn’t the least understanding of simple strategy,” Sidney continued, and pushed himself to his feet to pace the length of the chamber. Marlowe, lounging in the window seat, started and looked up as he passed, then turned his head away, to stare out across the dry parkland, his mind very obviously elsewhere. Greville grinned.

  “Sit down, Philip,” he said.

  “God’s blood,” Sidney continued, as though he hadn’t heard, “he fears my powers—any display of magic, no matter how well intentioned, no matter how necessary for his own survival, by God!—and I’ll swear he fears the magic at hand even more than whatever it is that’s abroad.”

  “You’re not doing him justice,” Greville said.

  Sidney grimaced, but came back up the length of the room, to seat himself in the carved chair that stood beside the unlit fire. “Am I not?”

  “No.” Greville was still smiling, regarding his friend with unconcealed amusement.

  “It’s a waste,” Sidney said, “a waste of my time and energies to follow him around like—like some black hound, when I could as easily set wards around his chambers, let him sleep without fear. God’s name, I’m not some sort of talisman!”

  “Obviously his majesty thinks you are,” Greville answered, and darted a sly glance at the poet oblivious in the window seat. “He’s had plenty of hangers on, and a good many favorites, but I don’t think he’s ever had a talisman before.”

  “You’re very merry.” Sidney gave his friend a sour glance.

  Greville shrugged, his smile fading. “And I say again, with no jesting, you do him less than justice, Philip.”

  Sidney grimaced. “Fulke, he won’t let me defend him fully. What am I to think?”

  “That he has good reason for his decision,” Greville answered. “Think on it. With the papists on one side, offering him their rites to use as he’d use magic, and the presbyters on the other, damning him to hell for so much as uttering a prayer for help instead of repentance, how can he blithely take what you’re offering? To do so would be to alienate the presbyters—who don’t like you much anyway, my Philip—and drive him into the arms of the Gordons or some other Catholic family. And that would serve no one.”

  “You sound like Burleigh,” Sidney said. “I’m not completely ignorant of politics, Fulke. I would simply wish his majesty of Scotland could understand that if I don’t set wards, he’s not likely to live long enough to juggle his factions again.”

  “Is it that bad, Philip?” Greville pushed himself to his feet, frowning slightly.

  “Not yet,” Sidney answered, with a reluctant smile. “But it could be. And, God help me, I think it will be, if I’m not allowed to set the wards I want. I can’t be everywhere, Fulke; I need a line of defense I can fall back on when I’m hard pressed. It’s a matter of sound tactics, if nothing else.”

  Greville nodded, almost to himself. “Have you tried that argument on him?”

  Sidney looked away, shamefaced. “I’ve been afraid of losing my temper with him. Much good that would do.”

  “With your permission, then, I’d like to try what I may do?” Greville asked.

  “Always the courtier,” Sidney muttered.

  Greville shrugged. “There’s less at stake for me.”

  Sidney grimaced. “I beg your pardon, Fulke, I’m not fit company for the beasts today, and you’re too good to bear it. Please, go to the king, and God send you can persuade him. I’m even further in your debt for the attempt.”

  Greville smiled, but shook his head, his hand already on the latch. “No talk of debts between us, Philip. This—we’ll see what a change of tactics can do.”

  Sidney swore half-heartedly at him, but Greville was gone. He stood up abruptly. The day was overcast, with high, scudding clouds. A good hunting day, he thought, longing for Penshurst and the familiar land around it. No man, no man is so bound and driven, coddled and used, as I am at this court. Feared, too—but clutched at. He sighed, staring out the open window without seeing the rough hills that sloped down to the firth, a long finger of the sea. It was all so unnecessary, and dangerous, too, for until he had the leisure to discover who or what was behind James’s torment, he could do very little more than what he had been doing. And he would not have that leisure until the king relented, and allowed him to set the wards he so desperately wanted.

  Sidney smiled rather bitterly at that. Doctor Dee would approve, he thought. Dee’s magic had in fact answered admirably the situations he had faced so far, indeed was the only kind of magic that could ward off these attacks, if only he were allowed to apply it—except for that first night, at the banquet, when there had been no time for anything but action. And it had been glorious. He remembered it with a shudder in his soul, and turned his thoughts away from the tantalizing memory. A dangerous memory, certainly—everything here was dangerous to man, in one way or another. Body and soul were in peril here, and there was a very fine line between saving the body and damning the soul. He did not care to think whose either body or soul might be.

  “I need air,” he said aloud, and pushed himself away from the window. “Accompany me, Marlowe?”

  Beware, Marlowe thought, still unmoving
in the window seat, though of what he was uncertain. He understood enough of the cast of Sidney’s soul to guess that the powers he had mastered troubled him, and did not understand his own forbearance. He had never had patience for men who were frightened of their own talents—and yet Sidney was not of the common sort, recoiling from talents and responsibilities almost wholly imaginary. Where the fear was real, Marlowe thought, and the ability as well, there are no words to express either.

  “Well?” Sidney said, impatiently, and the poet dragged himself back to the present.

  “As you wish, Sir Philip.”

  Sidney was uncharacteristically curt with his grooms, who came very near to tripping themselves in their anxiety to please. Only when he had dragged himself gracelessly into the saddle, hauling the stiffened leg into its stirrup by main force, did his expression ease. Then his face hardened again, and Marlowe, wrestling with the spirited hack his patron had provided for him, glanced over his shoulder to see Lord Malcolm Seton, the Earl of Dunfermline’s eldest son, striding across the stable yard toward them. Sidney could not repress a forbidding frown, but Seton did not seem to notice it, smiling knowingly up at the Englishmen.

  “You’ve chosen a fine afternoon for a ride, Sir Philip,” he said, in lilting English. “Or could one say it was forced upon you?”

  “Hardly that, my lord,” Sidney demurred, and forced a small, stiff smile. “Every man needs to recoup himself whenever he can. This seemed like an ideal opportunity.”