The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  Sidney lifted a hand in appeal. His first, almost instinctive acceptance had faded; he spoke more cautiously now. “If I might beg a favor, your Majesty.”

  “Sir Philip, you have but to name it,” James answered instantly.

  Good, Sidney thought. “Your Majesty is gracious,” he said aloud. “You do me a great honor—will you permit me, and Fulke Greville, of course, as her majesty of England’s sworn knights, to return the honor? Permit us, through your chamberlains and household, of course, to have the ordering of the joust, so that we may honor you as we would honor our prince. “

  Dangerous, very dangerous, Marlowe thought. Or does Sidney know more than he’s letting on? Does this—could it mean that Elizabeth has finally made up her mind, that James will be her heir? He eyed the king of Scots with some misgivings. I cannot picture it, somehow. Thank God I’m for Holland, and will avoid this lunacy.

  “Sir Philip, I thank you and Master Greville,” James answered. “I leave the ordering of this matter to you—and my household will second you to the best of their abilities.” That, at least, was unmistakably an order. Sidney bowed again, in thanks this time, and almost at once was surrounded by younger nobles, eager either to offer their challenges or simply to find out more about the English way of managing a Tilt. Marlowe slipped away from the dais, wondering how he could warn Sidney of precisely who was behind the idea. Sidney was still surrounded, and it appeared he would be busy for some time, but Greville was free. The poet edged up to him, touched the padded sleeve.

  “Master Greville. You’d do wise to be very careful. The Master of Ruthven’s the only begetter of this—very great honor the king wants to do Sir Philip.”

  Greville glanced involuntarily toward the dais. “That young man troubles me.”

  “You’re not alone in that,” Marlowe answered, and gave the older man an impudent smile. “Does Sir Philip see it, or is it only those of—my taste?”

  Greville sighed. “I dislike an obvious slattern,” he said flatly. “And you?”

  “A touch, sir,” Marlowe answered, but sobered quickly. “Can this be made safe? For the king, and for Sir Philip.” If I can get Philip to keep his temper in check, Greville thought. Though Philip’s answer was remarkably controlled, considering. And God knows James may be right, hoping for some parallel with the Accession Day ceremonies; I’m no wizard, I simply don’t know. He smiled grimly. “Oh, don’t worry. If Philip and I are making all the preparations, nothing, I assure you, will be left to chance.”

  And scour the Trojan plain with Greekish blood. Marlowe scribbled the final word of Penthesilea’s speech and shivered, suddenly aware of the chill that had settled with the night. The fire had burned low, the logs crumbled into glowing fragments; the twin candles—not his, and tallow besides; he was not paying for the extravagance—were low in their sockets, the wax grown thick on the side away from the window. He shivered again, pushing himself up from the table, and stooped to toss the final log into the grate. The coals shattered further, throwing sprays of sparks, but a few feeble flames began to lick at the dry bark. Shivering still, the poet reached for his jerkin, shrugged it on, then pulled the borrowed academic gown on top of that. The stone jug on the hearth was almost empty, the liquored posset cold, but he upended it anyway, draining the last thick sweetness, and glanced at the sheets of paper piled on the table. The first act was finished, the second act well begun, with only the final two scenes to be written. Those were the confrontation scenes, and the first of Achilles’ great courtship speeches. Marlowe hesitated, the first lines of promise and persuasion forming in his mind, but put the temptation firmly aside. He had done enough for one night, especially if he were to sail for Holland on the morning.

  He reached for a sheet almost at random, scanning his spiky hand. Kyd had laughed, and flaunted his own ornate Italianate penmanship—but I got my own back, Marlowe thought, and grinned. He copied Doctor Faustus for me, and Edward II, too, and I paid him for it, every farthing of the copyist’s fee. Which he could not afford to refuse, not even from his rivals. The grin faded as he remembered where his own carelessness had so very nearly landed Kyd—six feet under, in a pauper’s grave, as Kyd himself had shouted at their last meeting—but he thrust the thought aside. Kyd’s innocence was admitted even by the Privy Council, and Pembroke was a better patron than that damned lawyer had ever been. It had ended better than Kyd had any right to expect, better than he deserved.

  He glanced again at the paper, but the pleasure of the words, of Achilles’ challenge and Penthesilea’s furious response, had dimmed a little, and he put it aside. Still, even on sober reflection it had been a good evening’s work. It was almost a pity, with things beginning to work so well, that he had to go to Holland. His mouth twisted then, into an expression not quite a smile. If one other’s work were not being even more successful, he would not be sailing on the noonday tide…

  Something rustled in the corner of the room, well outside the circle of candlelight and the lesser glow of the fire. He spun round with a gasp, snatching up the candlestick as though it were a weapon. Tiny lights sparked like eyes, and a finger-long shape scuttled hastily along the boards into shelter. A mouse, he thought, I’m cowering like a woman at the sight of a mouse, and set the candlestick back on the table. His heart was racing; faintly, very faintly, he felt a thrill of something, the breath of a dark wind against his neck. It was gone in an instant, but he recognized the touch: Bothwell’s demons were in the castle.

  He shivered, once, but stood very still, straining every sense to follow that black progress. Wood creaked somewhere, the great beams settling into their places; there was a ghost of laughter—a woman’s laughter, a servant’s laughter, imperfectly hushed—and then silence again. The poet hesitated. Sidney would deal with this, as he’d dealt with every other attack, petty or great, that threatened the king. Except that Sidney had not dealt with the last attack because no one had known of that temptation, that seduction—or conquest, to give the devil his due—until the man had drawn steel on the king. He hesitated for an instant longer, trying to ignore the dangers, then reached for the satchel lying open beside the table. Sidney might have his precious book, he thought, but so do I—even if I strongly suspect mine to be less powerful. Still, they say you fight fire with fire, and this magic, I know, is kin to Bothwell’s.

  He shook the thought away, and flipped through the worn pages until he found the design for which he had been looking. Two pentagrams, each circumscribed with names and symbols of power, bound to each other by the double twist of the lemniscate, its curves also chalked with names and symbols. A note in Watson’s sprawling hand filled the page’s outer margin: To bind any spirit sent for mischief, and to compel its answers; very sure. Very sure indeed, Marlowe thought. I recognize those names.

  He reached into the bag again before he could change his mind, and drew out the lump of chalk. He kicked aside the rushes until he had cleared a length of dirty floorboard perhaps six feet in length, then brought the candlestick from the table and set it down in the center of the space. He knelt beside it, head cocked to one side, studying the book for a final time. Then, very carefully, he drew the first lines of the first pentagram, copying each of the controlling signs in its proper place, and surrounded that with the familiar protective circle. He pushed himself to his feet and measured off three paces from the edge of the first circle, then knelt again to draw the second pentagram. This would confine Bothwell’s demon once he had called it; the symbols at each point of the star would compel it to give truthful answers to his questions. He drew the lines with finicking care, and brought the candlestick closer to be certain everything was correct, before he finally closed the circle.

  Only the lemniscate remained to be drawn. He rubbed damp palms along his thighs and made himself stoop, muttering the protective prayer Watson had taught him. He drew the double circle, a numeral eight, the number of eternity and immortality, the meeting of heaven and hell, marking each sign in its proper
place. He took a deep breath, closed the final circle, and stepped back into the protection of the first pentagram. Nothing happened, and he allowed himself a sigh of relief. Nothing should have happened at that point, but it was as well to be prepared.

  He opened Watson’s book again, turned the page to the invocation that accompanied the double symbol. It was hard to read in the fading candlelight, the thick letters running into each other, but the words were clear enough.

  “In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ,” he began, not quite self-consciously, his voice small in the chill air. “Who delegated His power unto his disciples and apostles, that they might bind and loose the powers of darkness, I, Christopher Marlowe, scholar, command the unclean spirit that has entered this place to appear before me in the circle of binding prepared for it. I command it by the holy names, Adonay, Amay, Horta, Vegedora, Mirai, Hel, Suranat, Ysion, Ysey, by all the holy names of God and by all he-saints and she-saints, by all the angels and archangels, by the powers, denominations, and virtues, by the name that Salomon did use to bind the devils and shut them up, Elrach, Ebanher, Agle, Goth, Ioth, Othie, Venoch, Nabrat, I command that unclean spirit to appear as I have ordered, and to give me a true answer of all my demands, without the hurt of my body or soul or anything that is mine, through the humanity, mercy and grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ, which liveth and reigneth with the Father in the unity of the Holy Ghost, one God, world without end.”

  He had been so intent on the book between his hands that he had not noticed the candlelight fading further, the flame diminishing to an ember cupped in the hot wax. The fire had burned down, too, its flames strangely lightless. Even as he looked up, sparks flickered along the lines of the lemniscate, the fugitive blue light that scattered from a cat’s fur on a cold night. He held his breath, willing the conjuration to have been complete and accurate, and a shadow thickened to something inky and solid in the center of the second pentagram. Marlowe blinked, fear and triumph shooting through him, and said, “Spirit, by the holy names with which I summoned you: what is your name?”

  The shadow shifted its position, became momentarily less black, taking on the shape of a toad the size of a lapdog, squatting on its swollen haunches. The broad mouth opened, grinning, and the tip of its tongue lolled briefly over the pendulous lip. The room stank of the jakes.

  “Spirit, by the names which compel you, answer!”

  The tongue flicked upward once, insolently, and vanished. A moment later, a voice like a creaking hinge said softly, “I am Sonneillon the bellringerbell ringer, that waits at doors and hangs in corners, to fetch my masters when their names are called.”

  A true infernal courtier, Marlowe thought, but managed to keep the edge of hysteria from his voice. “I command you then, Sonneillon the bellringerbell ringer, tell me true. Who sent you here?”

  The toad-shape shifted uneasily, lowering its ugly head. “I beg you, do not force me, master.”

  “The names I have spoken bind you,” Marlowe said. “Answer me.”

  The heavy head drooped further, the tongue appearing at its lips. “Francis Hepburn,” it answered at last, “Earl of Bothwell.”

  That was hardly unexpected, Marlowe thought. “What other spirits does he command?”

  Sonneillon shifted again, twisting its head sideways to dart an almost coy glance along the glittering lines of the lemniscate. “My master commands many spirits; many powerful spirits and demons obey his will.”

  “Number them, by their ranks and powers,” Marlowe said. He held his breath. Of all the knowledge Sonneillon could give him, that might be the most useful.

  The demon lowered its head again, hunching its misshapen shoulders. “I may not answer.”

  “You are compelled to answer, by the names I’ve spoken,” Marlowe snapped. “Speak, Sonneillon—” He glanced hastily at his book, almost forgotten in his hand. “—in the name of the angel Innon who drove you once from heaven.”

  Sonneillon made an odd whimpering noise, as though the uttering of the name had caused it actual pain. “I will speak,” it said, “but under duress.”

  “You will do nothing of the kind.”

  The voice came from the shadows beside the fireplace, a cool, rather dry voice that was at once strange and oddly familiar. Marlowe froze, but kept himself from turning. He said, “Answer, Sonneillon, as you were bid.”

  “Oh, begone.” The voice sounded more amused than annoyed, but the toad-shape vanished instantly, collapsing in on itself until nothing remained but its stench. Marlowe turned slowly, dreading what he would find.

  The shape leaning by the fireplace was still mostly in shadow, but enough light leached from the embers to outline a tall, slender man in red, and to carve one half of his face from old ivory. It was a wonderful face, too, to match the shapely body: darkly handsome but marked with strong lines of knowledge and willful experience.

  Marlowe caught his breath, and then, almost too late, recognized both face and clothes. It was Humphry Jeffes’s face, just as the costume was the same red suit—blood scarlet, mortal sin—he had worn to play Mephistophilis, but both were subtly transformed, as though the demon had, for a jest, for a compliment, put on the mask of the actor who had portrayed him, and by doing so revealed both his own true nature and the actor’s inevitable failure.

  “I see you know me, Master Marlowe.” The red-clad shape pushed himself lazily away from the wall and came forward like a newly awakened cat. Light—not firelight, or candlelight—shone from the jewels at his belt and purse, and glittered on the pins in his hat and the rings on his fingers and in his ear.

  “I would as soon hear your name,” Marlowe answered, and was amazed that he could speak at all.

  The full mouth curved upward into a peculiarly knowing smile. “Why, I am Mephistophilis—though I could not think you’d like me best in the habit of a friar.”

  Marlowe tightened his jaw to keep his teeth from rattling. It was bad enough to have an arch-demon here, in his room, kept from him only by the frail wards of his chalked circle, but it was infinitely worse to have that same arch-demon quoting one’s own play. Ned didn’t know how bad it could have been—what was one pitiful extra demon, to this visitation?

  “Why are you here?” he said aloud.

  The demon smiled again. “Curiosity,” it said. “My besetting sin—and one we share, I think.”

  “Surely not a sin,” Marlowe murmured.

  “Surely so—and I speak with some authority, do I not?” Mephistophilis countered. “I have a few more years’ experience of damnation even than you, Marlowe.”

  Marlowe nodded slowly. “Yes: Think’st thou that I, that saw the face of God And tasted the eternal joys of Heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand hells iIn being depriv’d of everlasting bliss?”

  “And they say the devil may quote scripture,” Mephistophilis jeered. His slanted eyes narrowed slightly, as though it took an effort to remember. “What, is kind Kit so passionate for being deprived of the Joys of heaven? Learn thou of demons manly fortitude, And scorn those joys thou never shalt possess.”

  The poet shivered. Faustus’s words to Mephistophilis were entirely too easy to turn against their author. The demon’s eyes narrowed further, this time with laughter.

  “Joys you certainly won’t possess, as well you know, my Christopher, late student of divinity.”

  “Not your Christopher,” Marlowe said, and the old bitter pride prompted him to add, “nor any man’s.’

  “Not Sir Philip’s?, Or Sir Robert’s? Or even Ned Alleyn’s or his fat father-in-law’s? Or Thomas Walsingham’s, for that matter, or Southampton’s?” Mephistophilis’s smile was cruel. “I suppose one might say you’d sold yourself often enough that you’re no one man’s—servant.”

  That stung, but Marlowe kept his face impassive. Watson’s book still dangled in his nerveless fingers. He lifted it, made himself turn the pages, though he was not certain that even Watson had known any conjurations powerful enough to deal with the be
ing standing here before him.

  “Stay your hand a moment, Christopher.” Mephistophilis’s voice changed, became cajoling. And that, Marlowe thought, tells me something I didn’t know before. There is something here that can banish him, if only I can find it. I’m not defenseless—and even he cannot cross the circle.

  “Why do you persist in this foolishness? You, you of all men know that these—good deeds—” Mephistophilis gave the words an ironic twist, and the poet winced. “—will avail you nothing. You are damned, my Christopher—and mine you are—doomed and damned, and repentance— were you capable of it, did you truly repent—would avail you nothing. Why grovel before the good? Damned you are, and you would be welcome—honored—among the damned.” Mephistophilis smiled slowly, and this time the expression was almost human, oddly wistful. “You have a certain understanding, which is part of what has damned you; even when you try your hardest to convince yourself otherwise, as in your Doctor Faustus, that knowledge—Eve’s sin, not Adam’s—still peeps through.” He held out his hand, very white and shapely in the ruddy light.

  “Come, my dear, you know me better than any mortal in many a long year, better than anyone not already sealed to me by bloody contract. I could teach you so much more—you were wrong, you know, to make what I showed Faustus naught but tricks.” His eyes slitted, cat-like, and his voice took on a dreaming note. “To show you the secret in the heart of every man, the flaw in the diamond, the canker at the core of the rose—to give you that deepest knowledge of others would be the first of my gifts. Riches, gold for your purse, silks and satins and velvets to delight your body—” He waved a dismissing hand. “I will give you those, of course, it’s no more than your due, but that is nothing to the rest of what I offer. I’ll let you know myself, you’re halfway there already. I’ll teach you all the secrets known in hell.” He extended both hands now, in appeal and offering. “I will give you power, Christopher, the knowledge of secrets that is true power. And no man will resist your will.”