“What will become of her?” Sidney asked, and was surprised to feel so little apprehension for her. He had no reason either to trust or to distrust Gordon—or to feel such concern for an admitted witch, he added silently, but could not retrieve the question.
Gordon looked puzzled. “She’s of my kin,” he said again, as if that answered all questions. And perhaps it did, Sidney thought. It had done so in Ireland, certainly.
“My lord,” the witch said, and leaned forward against Gordon’s shoulder. “My lord, remember what I said. Watch well.”
Sidney straightened in the saddle, a deep pulse of apprehension throbbing through him. Danger assumed was one thing, every soldier knew both the feeling and its proper value, but viewed so clearly… God shield me from that talent, he prayed silently, and said aloud, “I’ll heed your words, mistress.”
Seton edged his horse forward. “Sir Philip, if this is true…”
“It is,” Sidney said.
“Then we’d be returning without delay,” Seton continued. “Perhaps now you can convince the king your method is the best.”
Sidney glanced at him, one corner of his mouth lifting into a wry smile. “And how am I to do that? Inform his majesty that a witch encountered on the borders of Holyrood park, about to be hanged for her witchcraft, gave me the information in payment for her life?”
“The source seems unimpeachable,” Marlowe murmured.
Seton said, “Need you tell him that at all? Tell him it’s your own sense of foreboding—”
“God’s blood, don’t you think I’ve tried?” Sidney bit back his anger. “You’re right, though, we should be getting back.” He glanced at the witch again. “I thank you for your warning, mistress, and will refrain from asking precisely how you know—what you know.”
She smiled, an ancient, faerie smile, and in that instant Sidney knew quite certainly that she was what she claimed to be. Not evil, precisely, but other, outside the bounds of even Catholic law. God send I’ve done right in saving her, he prayed. She pointed to Marlowe. “Ask him, perhaps. If I could be as intimate with the great ones as that one is, then I should be feared indeed... But he’s too much a part of this world—of you, perhaps?”
“Only insofar as I’m his patron,” Sidney answered. He glanced at Marlowe, wondering just what the woman had meant, but the poet’s face betrayed nothing, except, perhaps, a certain wistfulness about the eyes. Sidney started to pursue the question, then thought better of it. He said instead, “Is there anything that we may do, as well as your kinsmen?”
“Only what you’ve done already, my lord,” the witch said, “For which I thank you, and for which even the great ones may hold their hands until you’re ready.”
“Hold your tongue, Lilias,” Gordon said. He bowed to Sidney. “Sir Philip, pardon me, but we must be gone.”
He wheeled his horse without waiting for an answer, the soldiers clustering at his heels, and rode away, the witch clinging to him.
Sidney watched them go, his mind on the woman’s final words. They were troubling, but more disturbing still was the look in Marlowe’s eyes, an expression almost of loss, that haunted Sidney all the way back to Holyrood.
The sun was low on the horizon by the time they reached Holyrood, though it lacked some hours yet to sunset. Sidney’s absence had been noted, and much commented upon: the air was thick with sidelong glances, accusations unvoiced as yet but nonetheless palpable. Sidney felt himself growing tense, and had to force himself to relax, to keep himself from exploding at the wrong time or the wrong man—like an overwound pistol, he thought suddenly, and the homely metaphor eased a little of the tension.
“Shall I say something that I think would perversely please you?” he said, to Marlowe, and did not bother to lower his voice. Campbell of Ardchatten, passing down the hallway from the king’s chamber, winced noticeably, but young Seton gave a reluctant grin.
“Only if you promise I can write it down—and if my lord will bear me witness—” Marlowe added, with a glance between mischief and malice at Seton, “—so that all the world may know that Sir Philip Sidney has uttered something scandalous.”
Seton shied back a little, but Sidney smiled tightly. “If you insist.”
It was a soldier’s smile, Marlowe thought, who had known many a common soldier, and I don’t envy his enemies. “Say on, Sir Philip, the world is waiting,” he said.
“I think I envy the papists.”
Marlowe glanced warily at him, waiting for the rest, then opened his eyes in mock incredulity. “You surprise me.
“The scandal or the sentiment?” Sidney retorted.
Marlowe opened his mouth to continue the game, saw the look in Sidney’s eyes, and answered honestly, “Your reasons would interest me, sir.”
Sidney, too, looked momentarily startled, then laughed softly. “Witchcraft, wizardry, what you will… the Catholics could—can—deal with it. They have always—accepted, if that’s quite the word, met it on its own terms, at least—while we condemn. In gaining the greater truth, I think we’ve lost the trick of, well, some earthly things. I swear that if this were a Catholic kingdom still we could lock James within the confines of a church, and he would be perfectly safe there. But we have decreed that a church is a building still and only—and haven’t we robbed it of its benign influence?”
Marlowe lifted an eyebrow. “I think that’s heresy, Sir Philip.”
“Hypothetical, certainly. I can’t stop thinking.” Sidney smiled again, with more true humor. “You must be sure to credit me with that opinion, Marlowe, and not steal it for yourself.”
“Thank you, no, I won’t claim it, nor will I father it on you,” the poet answered promptly. “My reputation is bad enough, and I need a patron. If you go down, I won’t stay afloat.” He drew breath, aware of Seton open-mouthed at his elbow, and of half a dozen others within earshot, and prepared to expound on the theme, but something in Sidney’s expression checked him. “Then you believe what the woman said.”
“Don’t you?” Sidney answered, and Marlowe grimaced.
“I—” He took a deep breath. “What may I do to help you?
Sidney turned to him with a gently mocking smile. “A great sacrifice, Kit.”
The poet shrugged. “As I said, I need my patron. You brought me along because of my peculiar knowledge of devils. Perhaps if one shows itself tonight, I’ll be able to name him, and so dispel him.”
“Oh, if only it were that easy,” Sidney murmured, still with that mocking smile playing about his lips.
“People do tend to be a bit more stubborn,” Marlowe agreed, and hid the sudden flash of anger. “Demons and devils know and play by the rules. Which is why I think we’re facing a someone, rather than just something.”
“And somehow, the thought comforts me not at all,” Sidney said grimly.
They had reached the door of the royal bedchamber now, and Marlowe swallowed his quick retort. As always, a group of petty nobles had gathered, jostling each other in their attempts to have the last word with the king before he retired. Sidney set his jaw, knowing he would have to offer some apology for his earlier disappearance, but before he could give his name to the chamberlain waiting beside the door, the man had bowed profoundly.
“Sir Philip. His majesty would like a word with you.”
I do daresay, Sidney thought wearily, but said, “I am at his majesty’s command.”
The chamberlain tapped on the door, said something in a voice too low to be heard. The door opened more fully, and the Master of Ruthven bowed deeply. “Sir Philip Sidney, sire,” he said, and fixed Marlowe with a dismissing stare. The poet restrained a sudden desire to slap the pretty moll, and in a splintered second knew that Ruthven had seen his anger, and himself saw Ruthven’s response. Arrogance, certainly, but also contentment: Marlowe had conceived an intense dislike for the pretty creature the night of the banquet; he wondered now if he should also fear him.
Sidney had caught a glimpse of the exchange, but
knew he could not spare the time to deal with it now. He put it from his mind, bowing deeply to the king, who was sitting in a carved chair, his nightgown thrown loosely over shirt and hose.
“Good evening, Sir Philip,” the king said. “We missed your presence today.”
Sidney straightened carefully, allowing himself one quick glance around the room. The few privileged tonight were mostly young men, James’s friends rather than his political allies. The Earl of Mar was absent, for once, but his crony Lord Hamilton was there, leaning against the wardrobe to the carefully concealed annoyance of the royal valet, and so was the young earl of Cassilis. Lord Linton leaned against a bedpost, Stewart of Grandtully at his side: none of them open enemies, but neither had any shown themselves to be friendly to the English wizard. He said, cautiously, “I hope your Majesty will excuse my absence, in that I have been able to put it to some use.”
“How so?” James’s voice was relaxed. Here, at ease among his friends, one could almost see the man he might have been, had he not been a pawn from such an early age. Sidney hesitated, startled and distracted by the vision, and James frowned slightly.
“How is that?” he said again, though without anger, and Sidney shook himself back to the present.
“I have had a warning,” he said slowly. “From an unexpected source, but one that I nonetheless believe to be a reliable one. I fear, your Majesty, that you will be in grave danger tonight.”
In an instant, James’s ease vanished, dissolving into fear. Sidney watched the transition sadly, but pressed his advantage. “I am told that there will be an attack on your life tonight, an arcane attack. I beg you once again, your Majesty, allow me to ward your bedchamber.”
James had himself under control again, though the fear still lurked in the depths of his eyes. Before he could speak, however, Cassius said, “Sir Philip, is this not the chance you’ve been waiting for? After all, you know this attack will come, you are prepared—and then you could defeat it, perhaps find out precisely who is behind this, perhaps even, with God’s aid, destroy it utterly.”
Sidney breathed a silent oath, but said, “Perhaps, my lord. But it’s too great a risk to the king.’
Cassilis looked suddenly very young, blue eyes shining. “Oh, yes, but still… Isn’t it worth it, if you might destroy—” He became aware suddenly of James’s indignant glare, and faltered to a stop.
Damn the boy, Sidney thought. He said aloud, as firmly as he dared, “Your Majesty, I cannot advise it. The risk is too great.”
James fixed the young earl with a malevolent stare. He said, as though the words choked him, “Patrick has the right of it, I think. To trap this thing—it’s worth a certain risk.”
“Your Majesty,” Sidney began, then stopped, recognizing the futility of any protest. James was doing his best to act the king, misguided though his attempts might be—though why in God’s name he must choose to be fearless just when fear is justified… Sidney killed the thought, and said slowly, “Your Majesty, if you must do this, it is over my abject plea that you reconsider...
James waved a hand dismissingly, and Sidney sighed. “As your Majesty commands. But I will—I ask you to let me sleep here, in your bedchamber, tonight.”
“I would have it no other way, Sir Philip,” James answered, and somehow managed a wry smile. Incredibly, Sidney felt the sting of a reluctant admiration. Afraid though he was, at least he was facing this immediate danger with a certain bitter humor. Sometimes I think I’ve fulfilled my commission too easily, Sidney thought, as James gave low-voiced orders to his stewards. Not that it’s been easy defending him, but I know I haven’t faced the worst that this—enemy—can do. He shook the thought away. I have studied, even if James will not allow me to ward the room, and I will be prepared. With that, and prayer—no man can do more.
Chapter Eighteen
There’s no hate lost between us.
Thomas Middleton, The Witch
Sidney woke reluctantly, his tongue thick with the remembered taste of poppies. For an evil moment, he thought himself back in Holland, chained to his bed by the weakness and the terrible pain that not even the physicians’ decoctions could extinguish. There was the same drugged heaviness of body, the same light languor of mind, and he pushed himself up on his elbows half expecting to see Frances there beside him, and to feel her hands on his shoulders, easing him down again.
Certainly there were hands on his shoulder, but they were pulling, not pushing. In the same instant, he remembered where he was, and why, and heard, over a babble of Scots voices, the harsh noises of a choking man. He shook his head, trying to drive away the strange inertia, and felt himself roughly shaken.
“Sir Philip, in God’s name, the king—”
The words were Scots, but the sense penetrated the fog surrounding him. Sidney pushed himself up off his pallet, and staggered toward James’s bed. The curtains were drawn, and one of the pages had had the sense to bring a lantern, but its shaky light showed a scene weirdly unreal. The king sat bolt upright among his pillows, his hands at his throat as though to ward off some attacker. His fingers tore at empty air, but still his face darkened, and the dreadful strangled noises came from his gaping mouth. The oldest of the pages lay sprawled at the foot of the bed, a pulsing gash across his face and neck, blood staining his nightgown; the other boys huddled whimpering beside him.
The sight was enough to drive away the lingering drowsiness from Sidney’s brain. This was the sort of thing for which Dee had trained him, the demon—or at least its mode of attack—familiar from half a dozen crabbed texts. Sidney smiled tightly, and lifted his hands in a complex gesture.
“Rabdos! Strangler, leave him!” He could feel the invisible creature shifting, turning its attention away from its victim toward the new attack, and a part of him relished that challenge.
Begone, mortal, a husky voice said, out of nothingness, a deep, dry voice that was the sound of sand speaking, whispering out of some distant desert tomb. Do not interfere, or I will consume you also.
“But I know you, Rabdos,” Sidney said. It was a matter of time, he knew, of holding the demon off from James and from himself until he could remember the proper forms, the correct names and formulae, for calling up the power that was the antithesis of this particular demon. “I know you well.”
No mortal knows me, no wizard, the voice answered. Almost imperceptibly, James’s breathing eased, then hoarsened again.
“No?” Sidney asked, hastily. “What of the mere mortal who commanded you here? He knows you, even as I do, you lesser creature, accursed of God.”
There was a hissing sound, as though the words had struck home. Presumptuous mortal—
“I do not fear you,” Sidney cut in. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, I exorcise you. By the holy names of God, by the powers granted to the angels and to the archangels, by the power granted unto the apostles and prophets, I exorcise you. Begone, accursed spirit; return to him who sent you, unclean one.”
Rabdos hissed again, this time angrily, and Sidney could feel its attention fully on him. James sagged against his pillows, hands still at his throat, but his breathing had eased perceptibly. I’ve bought a little time, Sidney thought, but nothing more—until I remember. He closed his eyes, conjuring the memory of Dee’s study. He had been very young, then, first embarked on his course of study, and still filled with a sort of proud amazement that John Dee would choose him as a pupil. They had been discussing black wizards, Sidney with indignation, Dee with a sort of resigned regret that made him seem to be a fount of worldly wisdom. For each specific demon, there is an angel set against its power, on whom one may call without fear of harm, to counter such attack, Dee had said. If you will learn their names, my boy, none will be able to harm you by that method.
“Brieus,” Sidney said, and opened his eyes. “Very God of very God, who has granted extraordinary powers unto certain of thy servants, send unto us thy servant Brieus, whom thou hast given power over
this demon Rabdos, that the lives and souls of thy faithful servants may be preserved. Smite this demon through the arm of thy servant Brieus, banish him from our presence as he was long past banished from thy sight. In the name of our lord Jesus Christ, amen.”
The room was suddenly filled with a presence like a rushing wind. Sidney lifted his head, as always awed and astonished by the power that he called upon, and thought he caught a glimpse of peacock wings in the uncertain air. Rabdos shrieked, a sound to tear the ears, and fled. The rushing presence—Brieus, Sidney thought—followed, its passage scouring the room of the demon’s lingering taint and leaving in its place a faint and vanishing perfume.
James pulled himself upright, his breath coming now in crowing gasps. One hand was still at his bruised throat, but he groped with the other for the bell on its stand beside the bed. “The boy—” he began, his voice a broken whisper painful to hear, and Sidney nodded. He dropped to his knees beside the sprawled body, catching the nearest page by the shoulder. The boy—he could not have been much older than Sidney’s own Elizabeth—started back, eyes as wide and rolling as a fire-stricken horse. There was no time for sympathy, or for hysterics; Sidney shook him, saying, “Fetch a surgeon, boy.”
The page quivered, but did not move, brown eyes rolling in a chalky face. Sidney shook him again, harder this time. “Do you hear me, villain? Bring a surgeon, for him and for the king.”
The page started again, and pulled himself away. He ducked his head once, convulsively, and ran. Sidney swore under his breath.
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