The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  Had I as many souls as there be stars, I’d give them all for Mephistophilis. The lines, unspoken, seemed to hover in the air between them. Mephistophilis did not move, his hands still outstretched, far more beautiful in his lined, imperfect, almost-humanity than the shape that had appeared in Greville’s house in Warwickshire. Marlowe seemed to feel the floorboards shift beneath his feet. Oh, God, he thought, to have so much… He wrenched his eyes away, felt tears torn from them at the deprivation. “No,” he said aloud, and fumbled at the pages of his book. “I will not.”

  Mephistophilis smiled sadly. “You will not refuse me always, Christopher.”

  Marlowe ignored him, his fingers unbearably clumsy on the frayed paper. Through the film of tears, he found the words he wanted, began to read in a shaking voice. “By the living God, by the holy and all-ruling God who created from nothingness the heaven, the earth, and the sea, and all the things therein, I exorcise thee. By the ineffable names of God, which I am unworthy to pronounce, I exorcise thee. By the virtue of the most holy sacrament of the Eucharist, and in the name of Jesus Christ, and by the power of this same Almighty Son of God, I exorcise thee. Sic fiat, amen.”

  Even before he had finished reading the third command, he knew that the presence had vanished. The candies, flaring a final time before the last of the wax was consumed, cast monstrous shadows. Marlowe studied them warily, and realized he was half hoping for Mephistophilis’s return. And if you want him back, fool, why did you not say yes when he was here? he berated himself, and stooped to rub away the ring of symbols. Fool, damned fool, inconstant as a woman, he was right, and you could have had all that for the taking—for the price of a thing already lost. He straightened slowly. Yet if it’s such a little thing, why do I hesitate to name the true price? It’s my soul he wants... Had I as many souls as there be stars, I’d give them all for Mephistophilis.

  “I am not Faustus,” he said aloud, angrily, and scraped his foot across the last symbols, blurring them out of recognition. But, oh, my God, how I do wish I were.

  PART FOUR

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Now does my project gather to a head:

  My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time

  Goes upright with his carriage

  William Shakespeare, The Tempest

  The remove to Whitehall did nothing for Elizabeth’s temper, already tried by the evil genius that seemed to hover over her England. Her sleeps were undisturbed, thanks to Doctor Dee’s herbal, couched now in a sack embroidered by his granddaughter with powerful and propitious signs. Her days, however, seemed longer than ever, longer even than an old woman’s days, which lasted well into the night, and began again before those of sweet-sleeping youth.

  Nor was her mood improved by Essex’s sweet cajolery. She knew, as did all London, that he had paid a sort of court to Frances Sidney, and chose to ignore it, believing—as London seemed incapable of doing—that Essex would always choose power over beauty—though there was a time, she added silently, when there would have been no choice there, either. The boy was a bit of a fool, she admitted, considering the matter, but he had always seemed a likely one, one she could instruct and shape, and presently cure of his folly. Frances Sidney, it seemed, had already dismissed him as incurable. Unwillingly, Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to the day she had ridden with Raleigh to Mortlake, the day that Frances had betrayed her love not for Essex, but for her husband. Not so much a fool as I thought you, girl, Elizabeth decided grimly. She had always suspected that the girl was too young, too untried—and certainly too much a Walsingham, of that cold humor—to be any suitable wife to Philip Sidney. But there was fire there, banked until now, but ready now to be fanned into a glorious blaze. Will Philip see it? she wondered, and irritably dismissed a distant pain that might have been envy. I could hold them all, she told herself, if I chose, but I prefer to hold them all at arm’s length. Caesar’s I am not—that was Wyatt’s poem, written for her long-dead mother—Caesar’s I am not, but Caesar. Non Caesaris, sed Caesar. That was a conceit worthy of her own tilts, and for a moment, she played with the idea. My champion is absent—what a wonder it would be, to enter the lists in my own person, with the crowned phoenix for my emblem, and that for the inscription. I have ridden in armor before now.

  That was seven years before, in the miracle of the Armada year. She sighed, and put the thought aside, to be used in her next argument with Burleigh. Non Caesaris indeed—I can ill afford that foolery, for England’s sake, but if I could… But my sweet Robin is dead, and the Robin left to me is scarcely half the man. She glanced at the young man who hovered at her side, dressed as always in black and silver—black velvet this time, doublet and hose both slashed with figured cloth-of-silver, with a handful of pretty chains wound around his arm. In captivity to me, my lord? she wondered dryly. Or holding them in readiness against the unlikely day I honor you beyond your desert?

  Suddenly aware of her regard, Essex smiled, and stooped to kiss her hand. “My lady queen looks upon me, and bestows a light more radiant than the sun’s on my life.”

  “On a day such as this, my lord, that is no great hardship.” Elizabeth stared pointedly at the cloudy sky visible through the long windows of her privy chamber. “I did not smile.”

  “Perchance I can persuade you?”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath, her thin mouth turning down in annoyance. She knew what this was prologue to, and had refused it once already. No one, not even you, shall brave my refusal twice, she thought. “And what do you seek to persuade me to do, my lord? Grant you my smiles—or Philip Sidney’s place as my only champion?”

  Essex drew back slightly, and bowed his head. “Your Majesty knows which I value more highly—”

  “I do indeed,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Pray be silent.” She lifted the letter that lay unregarded in her lap, unfolded the stiff sheets.

  There was a brief silence, and then Essex ventured, “It is September already—the end of the month, indeed. The news from Scotland does not seem encouraging. The preparations for your Majesty’s tournament take some weeks. And never was there a prince in Christendom who more richly deserved to be championed.”

  Elizabeth’s head rose. “I am championed, and well championed, too, my lord.” She only just kept her anger in check, though she knew Essex heard the fire and ice in her tone, and a part of her rejoiced to see him quail. “Sir Philip’s absence from court on my business does not mean that I would welcome substitutes or successors. An Philip does not return in time for the Tilts, my lord, we shall regret his absence, and appoint no one to ride in his place. I suggest, Robin, that you do as I do, mourn his absence, made necessary by that very office of my champion.” She saw the surprise on Essex’s fair face, and went on, relishing the words, “And do not be so patently foolish as to think you can replace him.” That was stronger even than she had intended, but as she listened to her speech, repeated it in her mind, she was not displeased. Still, it would not be the same without Sidney in the lists, her Philisides, her good shepherd knight. Non Caesaris, she thought again. If Caesar’s knight could not be present, perhaps Caesar should ride.

  More moping, she thought, and stood abruptly, her stiffly jeweled skirts rattling. The sound startled her women, busy at their sewing in the distant corner; she smiled thinly at them, and they returned to their work. Outside the windows, rain had begun to fall. She sighed again. She would not have thought summer so truly gone, in September, but it felt so, in her bones. From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us: for a moment, she could not remember where she had heard those words, but then the image came to her. Croydon, the Archbishop’s house, and that strange masque —Summer’s Last Will and Testament, that was the name—that for all its jesting could never be free of the plague that drove them all from London. Summer gone, and winter to come, winter brightened usually by the Accession Day celebrations in November, and the coronation anniversary in February. Accession Day was less than two months away, and the most
recent letter from Sidney was not precisely encouraging. Which means, she thought, with a growing, petty displeasure, that it’s unlikely that my champion will be back in time for my tournament.

  She shook the thought away, and turned her attention to the papers in her hand, newly arrived that morning. Sidney’s tone was confident, certainly, as coolly confident as Sidney usually was, but the careful descriptions of events in Scotland chilled her blood. And not just for the politics either, my lords, she thought, though they were bad enough. This witchcraft… She frowned again over the brief paragraph in which Sidney described his encounter with—more precisely, his rescue of—a witch on the very edges of Holyrood park itself. You waste your time saving witches, Sir Philip, she thought, when your energies must bent on the king. Then she smiled. Little thanks you must have earned for that piece of gallantry, though I warrant it was prettily done. Nor would you boast of it, either; I read between the lines as well as the next. Her expression softened as she reread the letter, No, truly, did I expect aught else of you? More fool me, then. But tread warily, Philip, for save you I cannot, nor will not, if you fall.

  There was a discreet shuffling behind her, and Elizabeth turned. The chamberlain bowed profoundly. “Your Majesty, Lord Burleigh and Sir Robert Cecil crave private speech with your Majesty.”

  So, Elizabeth thought, with a thin smile that did not touch her eyes. Cecil too has had word, and from whom, I wonder? His poet, or his Scots—observer? And what do the Scots make of what goes on? “My ladies will pardon us,” she said.

  The knot of women, their gowns welcome spots of color in the rainy light, gathered themselves and sank into low curtsies before disappearing into the room beyond. Essex seemed inclined to linger, dallying beside the queen’s chair as though he had some right to be there, and Elizabeth turned on him. “And you, my lord. If you will.”

  Essex looked startled, contrived to look hurt, but then bowed low, a graceful, sweeping movement that showed an exquisitely shaped leg.

  “Very pretty, Robin,” the queen said. “Now go.”

  Burleigh and his son entered behind the chamberlain and bowed very low. Elizabeth gave her hand to Burleigh as the chamberlain bowed himself out, and said, “You come most carefully upon your hour, my Spirit. Sir Robert.”

  “Your Majesty,” Burleigh answered. “I trust I will be at hand whenever my prince has need of me.”

  “Oh, not need, my lord,” Elizabeth answered, with a sly smile and a quick glance at Cecil. “Rather you were expected. I have this day received messages from Scotland and Sir Philip; I rather expected you might have, too, if not by the same messenger or from the same source.”

  Cecil had served the queen too long to let his slight discomfiture show. Burleigh smiled behind his beard. “Your Majesty’s prescience watches over England.”

  “Oh, I hardly think that’s necessary,” Elizabeth said, more tartly. “Come, my lord, share your news with me.” She made no promise of what she would or would not share with him, and Burleigh expected none. He nodded to his son.

  “Little that is actually of import, your Majesty,” Cecil said. “Matters do not seem to have progressed—or regressed, either, for which we must be grateful. Sir Philip seems to have maintained the balance. A very keen talent that can do so, I must say. And as balances are so tenuous, I can only hope he does nothing to upset it.”

  “You may hope what you wish, Sir Robert,” Elizabeth said. “I want that balance upset, if maintaining it means that the situation remains as it is. I sent Philip as my ambassador and my champion, to free James of this plague of witches. I trust he will see fit to do as I have instructed him, not as you deem politic.”

  Cecil bowed again, his face grave. “Forgive me, your Majesty. I do understand the threat under which his majesty of Scotland lives and labors. It was, therefore, distressing to me to learn that, rather than purging the kingdom of witches, Sir Philip has, in fact, come to the rescue of one such, commonly known to be a witch, and given her out of the reach of God’s justice.”

  “I have heard it said that the voice of the people is the voice of God, and have had cause to believe it,” Elizabeth said, “but I have yet to hear that their justice is God’s.”

  Burleigh stirred then, but received a hard look from his mistress, and fell silent. Don’t fence with her in this mood, boy, she’s too dangerous, the old man thought. Cecil saw the thin line between the queen’s painted brows, and swallowed hard.

  “I spoke without consideration, your Majesty. Yet, how must King James view this act? He expects Sir Philip to protect him from such as these, and has welcomed him as his protector. And in return for this welcome, Sir Philip aids one who can only be thought to be an enemy of the king.”

  “Because a woman practices the arts, she must needs be a black witch?” Elizabeth retorted her voice rising. “By the Mass, Sir Robert, it was this—witch—who gave warning that James was in grave danger that very night, and that warning saved his life. Perhaps you’re of the same mind as my lord of Essex, and think ill even of so noted a scholar as Doctor Dee!” She took a deep breath. “By Christ’s holy wounds, you tread bravely close to treason. Doctor Dee has ever served me well, as has Sir Philip, and yet now you see them both as servants of an Enemy far greater than a mere witch.”

  “I dare to protest, your Majesty.” Cecil took a deep breath, waiting for the explosion. When it did not come, he rushed on, “That Doctor Dee is a good and devout man, I have never had any doubt. Nor have I ever doubted Sir Philip’s loyalty to your Majesty. Yet he has never been overly wise in matters of politics—”

  “Sir Robert.” Elizabeth did not raise her voice further, but there was that in her tone which struck the younger man silent. “I appreciate that it might well be difficult for one who holds high office at my hands to betake himself to some distant place until you have come to see that wisdom of my views. However, difficult as it may be, would you be so kind as to go efface yourself for some short time?”

  For an instant, time slid away, and Burleigh saw her again the canny red-haired girl-queen, Henry VIII’s true daughter, but subtler, wiser, than he had ever been. Even through his pain for his son, Burleigh was hard put to restrain a smile of pure pleasure. This was the queen he loved and served, true prince, true English, even in her rages. Besides, he knew he need have no fear for Cecil. Elizabeth knew his value perfectly well, and would not waste him. She would not hold his single-mindedness against him, just as she had always forgiven Sidney’s free-speaking ways. Appallingly similar, the two men, Burleigh thought. Sidney the idealist, speaking for what his heart dictated was right, and what, in a perfect society, must certainly be. Cecil the pragmatist, weighing politics in finely calibrated scales, so determining the right course, the safest course, for the England of his vision. He spoke for that with the same candor as Sidney, and received much the same treatment for his pains.

  Paler even than was his wont, Cecil bowed painfully low, murmuring his apology. Elizabeth’s tone softened. He spoke for England, she knew, and from heart and mind together.

  “You have leave, Sir Robert,” she said. “But be at hand, should I need your counsel.”

  It was a reprieve of sorts, and Cecil bowed even more profoundly. “Thank you, your Majesty,” he said, and backed from the room.

  Elizabeth looked up at Burleigh with an almost impish expression on her thickly painted face. “Sit down, Spirit. You know everything, of course.”

  Burleigh did as he was told, settling himself awkwardly onto a low stool. “Everything that came from Robert’s sources. I would be interested in what Philip has to say for himself.”

  “Oh, Philip does not stoop to defend himself. He states, as calmly as you please, that, having witnessed an attempt to hang an accused witch without benefit of law, he decided that the lack of law might as well excuse her as condemn. It’s very prettily phrased—almost lawyerly. I think he’s laughing.”

  “Your Majesty!”

  “Oh, not at me, Spirit, Philip�
�s too devoted for that. It’s devotion that prompts his openness, we’ve both known that from his youth.” Elizabeth smiled, leaning back in her chair. “I think I did right in not permitting him to marry your Anne, fond as I know you are of the boy… listen to me, of the boy he was then. It’s taken some years, but I think Frances Walsingham is proving to be the match for him—and more than a match, too, if I am not mistaken.”

  “And yet, it was a match your Majesty liked very little, if at all.”

  “That is ungenerous to an old woman, Spirit, and ungallant in a gentleman. If I choose to misremember, or to adjust matters to be as they should have been, you should not correct me.”

  Burleigh smiled. “Your Majesty is far from old, and I stand well corrected. But Scotland?”

  Elizabeth’s face twisted. “Always a hard taskmaster, my lord. For Scotland, Philip seems to be proceeding with a becoming caution. I don’t say I wouldn’t wish the matter well settled already, but it would be a dream to think so. Dee, Sidney, even Sir Walter spoke of a very great power; we’d be fools to think it could be defeated so quickly. “ She sighed. “I sent my champion in the tilts to James, but I think I was wise in sending Holland’s favorite soldier, too. How fortunate for me that they are one and the same man.”

  “And for James,” Burleigh said.

  The queen smiled thinly. “My dear Spirit, if it’s fortunate for James, it must be fortunate for me. I will not see my England torn on the rack of dissension and treason—and don’t dare say to me that I’ll be dead, and will know nothing of it. I have seen already. James must stand free of faction, free of both extremes, or we have lost already.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.