The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  Marlowe looked away then, cursing to himself. He knew this mood too well, the detached exhilaration that followed a danger survived, and knew he could not afford it yet. Van der Droeghe was looking at him with some concern.

  “So, Master Hendrik, you’ve caught some important malefactors?”

  Robert Sidney stood at the head of the stairway that led down from the state apartments on the second floor, his nightcap thrust to the back of his head, a fur-lined gown thrown hastily over shirt and hose. Somehow he looked even bigger in this disorder, his robust health unfettered by the modesty of doublet and hose. The chief watchman bowed, and, after a moment’s hesitation, his prisoners did the same.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but the matter seemed worthy.”

  “And quite right, too.” Robert came down the stairs with some caution—he was wearing backless slippers over his stockinged feet, Marlowe saw—and moved to stand by the fire. Without being told, one of the servants poured wine for him, and retreated to the shadows. Robert lifted the glass in half-mocking salute.

  “Sergeant, I never expected to see you in such equivocal company. And Master Marlowe. It’s been some time since I last saw you here.” Robert’s voice sharpened. “But I don’t think I know you, sir.”

  Poley hesitated for a fraction of a second, but answered, “My name is Robert Poley, my lord.”

  “Robin Poley?” Robert’s brows drew down in a rather fearsome scowl.

  Poley hurried on. “Some call me that, yes. I saw these people set upon, four against two, and came to their aid. Your watchman said I must bear witness to the fight.”

  “Robin Poley,” Robert said again, almost to himself. He glanced sharply at van der Droeghe. “Well, Jan-Maarten, let’s hear what happened.”

  “Certainly, Sir Robert.” The Dutchman drew himself up as though a straight back would give order to his thoughts. “Master Marlowe and I arrived this evening—I believe you were expecting us, sir—but so late that we thought better to spend the night at an inn I know of, and wait on you in the morning. “ He shrugged, not looking at either Marlowe or Poley. “As we came through the square behind Saint Anthony’s church, four men—soldiers, I think—who had been drinking in the tavern there set on us. We fought them off, two were killed, and then the watch came up.”

  Robert looked at the poet, his face unreadable. “Is there anything you’d add, Master Marlowe?”

  Marlowe hesitated. Probably van der Droeghe hadn’t heard, or hadn’t considered, the leader’s words—the fee’s worth more than what they’re carrying—but to the poet it could only mean a well-paid ambush. And with Poley appearing so conveniently close on their heels… In spite of himself, his eyes slid toward the sandy-haired man, who returned the look impassively. But if Poley had been behind the attack, why had he helped to beat them off again? And in any case, could he really afford to voice his suspicions? Marlowe’s mouth twisted into a grudging smile. Poley certainly won’t have any qualms about explaining just what I was doing in Scotland, might well have copies of my reports, if he’s as well, as forethought-fully prepared as usual. He said aloud, “Nothing, Sir Robert. That’s what happened.” He touched his back again, wincing visibly, hoping to distract the governor from this line of inquiry.

  Robert lifted an eyebrow. “See to Master Marlowe, Jabez, if you’d be so good.” One of the older servants came forward, bowing coldly, and Marlowe submitted to his examination. Robert turned back to the sandy-haired man. “It was fortunate you were handy, Poley.”

  Poley met his stare guilelessly. “I’m quite certain the gentlemen could have dealt with them without my assistance, sir.”

  Robert smiled slowly. “Still, having rendered my brother’s friends such brave assistance—you must allow me to show his gratitude and mine. You will do me the honor of staying here in my house.”

  Poley opened his mouth as though to protest, but then, thinking better of it, bowed instead. “You do me too great a favor, Sir Robert.”

  “Not at all, Master Poley,” Robert murmured, still with that slow smile. He glanced over his shoulder and beckoned to the hovering steward. “Deems, see them housed, please.”

  “At once, Sir Robert.”

  Marlowe swore as the servant pulled shirt and doublet away from the long cut. The man’s hands checked, but he said nothing for a brief moment. Then he released the cloth, saying, with chill reproof, “It’s no more than a scratch, sir, though it should be washed.”

  “Did I say it was more?” the poet muttered. He could feel blood flowing again, hot and stinging where the shirt had ripped away the scab, and cursed again.

  “This way, if you please,” the servant said.

  The steward’s men had run before. Candles were lit in the little bedroom, and a cake of chamber perfume was smoking on the new-laid fire, masking the damp smell of seldom-used hangings. A can of heated water stood on the hearth-edge, and even as Marlowe glanced longingly toward the curtained bed, another page appeared, carrying clean linen.

  “Your doublet, sir,” the older servant said.

  Marlowe undid points and buttons, then allowed the older man to ease off the torn shirt. The page brought the hot water and a roll of lint; Marlowe stood wincing while the older servant washed away the worst of the blood, then placed a thin pad over the cut and wrapped a rough bandage around the poet’s body to hold it in place.

  “This shirt’s beyond saving, sir,” the page said shyly, and held up the torn and stained cloth to prove it. “Shall I bring you a fresh one?”

  Marlowe sighed—it wasn’t a new shirt, by any means, but the lawn had been expensive—and nodded. “Can the doublet be mended?”

  It was the older servant who picked up the worn garment, turning it disdainfully to study the torn back. “I believe so, sir. If you wish it.”

  “I do,” Marlowe said, and achieved a brisk condescension. “See to it, if you would.”

  The older servant bowed, and turned away, chivvying the page ahead of him. Marlowe watched them go, a crooked smile on his lips—clearly, his reputation had preceded him—then began painfully to divest himself of hose and stockings. The room was chill, in spite of the fire. Marlowe shivered, but made himself wash face and hands in the rapidly cooling water before shrugging himself into the nightshirt the page had brought. There was a nightgown as well, the cloth a little faded, but not yet patched. He wrapped it gratefully around his shoulders, sinking his fingers into the thick fur of the lining, and moved closer to the hearth. The cut across his back stung still, but it was a clean pain, easily dismissed.

  He sighed then, and lowered himself onto the carved stool that stood beside the hearth, extending one bare foot cautiously toward the flames. The air was too cold, and the fire too distant; he grimaced, and tucked it back under the folds of the gown. The elation he had felt earlier, the unholy satisfaction of death evaded and turned back onto the attacker, was fading now to an unfamiliar longing, a hunger for something more than sex. He stared into the glowing heart of the fire, letting the light burn clouds into his vision. Out of the corner of his eye he saw flames run up a twig, consume it, saw the shell of ash hang trembling, a palpable shadow. Mesmerized, he picked up a straw from the floor and reached for it, blinking away the greenish lights that hung before his eyes. In the same instant the lowest log shifted, cracking into two chunks of glowing coals. The fragile ashes crumbled, vanishing into the fire. The poet sighed again, and tossed the bit of straw onto the glowing logs. Ganymede had seen a salamander once, or so he said, a little thing no longer than his smallest finger, with eyes as bright as the coals it sprawled on. It had lain there, he said, lazy and content as a cat, right in the heart of the fire—right in the center of a London fire, right there on my mother’s hearth—with the flames rising around it, until he himself could bear the heat no longer, and looked away. When he looked back, the animal was gone. Dissolved into its own element, Marlowe thought. I’ve never seen such a wonder.

  In spite of himself, he began to
fit words to the memory, turning the image into a lover’s pleading. O armored heart, give o’er, cease to deny, And with that lizard, triumph now, and die. He winced then as he recognized the metaphor, and glanced over his shoulder, but the ghostly shape that had haunted him in Scotland did not manifest itself. Perhaps it doesn’t like bad poetry, Marlowe thought, and managed a crooked smile, but even as he formed the words he knew he was mistaken. Despite the conventional demand, he had not been seeking passion, but a rarer fellowship.

  He shook his head, and leaned forward to stir the dying fire. There had been a time in London once, one hot and edgy summer, when he and Ganymede had been caught up in a riot of drunken apprentices spilling out of the Hope Theater. They’d fought their way free—an easy enough matter; the prentices had been intent on some quarrel between rival companies, and on stealing, not on men with neither money nor jewels—then leaned panting inside St. Saviour’s wall while the blue-coated tide surged past them, and the shopkeepers along the bridge fought to close their shutters against the mob. They had made their way back to Norton Folgate in the crowd’s wake, dodging it and the constables of the watch, who, if they could not control apprentices en masse, could always find time to arrest an actor. Once safely back in Marlowe’s room, they had sat shoulder to shoulder to share a cold pie and a pitcher of ale, talking—boasting—to convince themselves that they had fought bravely, and done well.

  The poet shivered, drawing the nightgown closer around his shoulders. That was what he wanted tonight, assurance and close company; more than that, he wanted it from his Ganymede. No one else, not Watson, not Kyd, not even Thomas Walsingham or Southampton, had given him that, or let him give much in return. His mouth twisted into a bitter grin. He himself had made any reconciliation impossible, not unless he got down on his knees and asked for pardon—and probably not even then, even if he could bring himself to act the penitent. Oh, yes, he thought bitterly, those were the last two lines of a sonnet, all right—but meant for me, not Ganymede. He pushed the thought away, angry at his own weakness, and turned away from the fire.

  “I’d almost prefer your company, demon, my Mephistophilis, to being such a fool.” He had spoken without true intent, but the words seemed to echo in the little room.

  He froze, but pride—and a species of bitter desire, barely acknowledged—kept him from uttering the denial that might drive the thing away. He shivered slightly, every muscle braced and waiting, and heard the rustle of silk taffeta in the shadows by the bed.

  “Did I not tell you you would call me?” The voice was rich with laughter. “You have my company now, my Christopher, and never shall be rid of me.”

  I didn’t mean it... Marlowe killed the craven words unspoken, and lifted his head, sure that the quick pounding of his heart was audible even across the room. Mephistophilis leaned against the bedpost like a man certain of his welcome, one long leg crossed over the other to display hose and jeweled garter to their best advantage. The firelight gleamed from the silken doublet, vanished in the folds of his short cloak. Night and fire, Marlowe thought, the cloak the changeable color of the night sky wracked with cloud, diamonds like stars—or perhaps they were stars in truth; Mephistophilis, if not omnipotent, was strong enough for that—winking in the velvet while the flame-tawny doublet beneath glowed warm as an invitation. Night and fire, flame and shadow-smoke, the perfect setting for so magnificent a creature... The demon smiled gently, and beckoned.

  Marlowe took a step forward in spite of himself, and then, defiantly, stepped forward again, until he was so close that he could have reached out and touched the demon’s sleeve. Mephistophilis’s smile broadened.

  “My dear Christopher. “ The whispered words were a caress, and the poet shivered again. “Have you reconsidered?”

  “I have not.”

  “Yet you did call me.”

  That was unanswerable, and Marlowe looked away, his mouth tightening. There was a little silence, and then Mephistophilis said, cajolingly, “And behold, I am here. How may I serve you?”

  You can go, and never trouble me more. The words trembled on the poet’s lips, but he did not speak, for fear he would be obeyed. “You could serve me rather than Bothwell,” he said instead, “and cease to persecute the king of Scots.”

  Mephistophilis laughed again. “For the first, my sweet, there is a price—as you well know. As for the second... What do you care for Scotland, or its king? Ask something for yourself.”

  Marlowe did not answer at once, and the demon gestured gracefully. An embroidered purse appeared in his hand, its sides swollen with gold. “Coin of your English realm,” Mephistophilis murmured, tilting his head to one side. “Or of any other you desire.”

  The poet shook his head. “I thank you, no.”

  The purse vanished instantly. Mephistophilis gestured again, and this time a book, a sestimo volume bound in dark-red leather, appeared between his fingers. “This might be more to your taste, I admit. Knowledge, Kit—a complement to that which Thomas Watson left you. Neither white magic nor black, I promise you, merely useful rituals.”

  Marlowe shook his head mutely, and could not refrain from sighing when the book, too, disappeared.

  “What else?” Mephistophilis mused, and stopped abruptly, his snake’s eyes flicking sideways. “Alas, I’m summoned—to business, Kit, not to pleasure, more’s the pity. But take this of me.” He plucked the air again, and brought forth an oval the size of a Dutch florin or a pin for a man’s hat. Marlowe received a brief impression of a brown and white stone in a gold setting, and then the demon tossed it gently onto the bedclothes. “And one thing more.”

  Marlowe looked up, startled and newly wary. Mephistophilis smiled again, and reached out lazily to take the poet’s chin in his hand. His fingers were thin, and very cold, stinging like ice. Marlowe let himself be drawn forward, until their lips met. Mephistophilis’s kiss was as cold as his touch, the brief contact deceptively chaste. Marlowe closed his eyes, all other sensation drowned by the gentle pressure against his lips. It was like a lighted match laid to a powder train; he shivered, reaching out for the other in helpless response. The tantalizing contact was withdrawn instead. He opened his eyes to find himself alone again, and did not know whether he would weep with frustration or be grateful for his narrow escape.

  He shivered again, desire souring as swiftly as it had quickened, and hugged the nightgown tighter around himself. His lower lip stung, the pain increasing with each heartbeat. He put his hand to it reflexively, and brought his finger away daubed with blood. He stood for a moment staring at the dark stain, then shook himself hard, and made himself look away.

  The single candle was still burning on the table beside the fireplace. He went to fetch it, shielding the flame carefully with his hand, glad of its enveloping light. As he turned back toward the bed, he caught sight of the thing Mephistophilis had thrown there, and checked abruptly. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it up, muttering a charm to cleanse it of its origins. The gold glittered a little, but did not vanish in his hand. It was a pin for a hat, as he had guessed, a carved stone like a seal set in gold. He turned it curiously in the candlelight until the shadows filled the incised design. Pan, double pipe raised, danced in the dark stone. He should throw it away, he knew, or, better still, turn it over to a priest or a wizard who could destroy its demonic taint before it harmed anyone else, but the thought of damaging the perfect gem made him wince a little. There was nothing to be done until the morning, he told himself, and set pin and candle down together on the stand beside the bed. In the morning, I’ll decide.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Surely, if a man will but take a view of all Popery, he shall easily see that a great part of it is mere magic.

  William Perkins, A Golden Chaine

  The silvery clouds of the previous day had closed in to bring a heavy, soaking downpour. Marlowe stared past Robert Sidney’s shoulder at the rain-washed tiles of Flushing’s roofs, very red against the louring sky, and wai
ted for the governor to notice him. Robert took his time—less, Marlowe admitted grudgingly, from a desire to intimidate his somewhat unwelcome visitor than because his table was heaped high with business—but finally put aside one sheaf of papers to take up a single closely covered sheet. Marlowe recognized the letter van der Droeghe had carried from Edinburgh, and brought himself to inward attention.

  “Well, Master Marlowe.” Robert’s voice was pleasant, verging on the jovial, but the poet was not deceived. “So Philip wants me to arrange a safe conduct for you into France. Why?”

  What did he tell you? The words trembled on Marlowe’s lips, but he was not so unsophisticated as to voice the question. Instead, he said, “He wants the advice of one of the Pléiade wizards—he can’t go on protecting the king piecemeal. The Pléiade invented the techniques he wants to use.”

  To his surprise, Robert nodded. “Still, they didn’t help the late King Henri very much, did they?” He glanced again at the letter. “Were you directed to anyone in particular?”

  Marlowe shrugged. “I have letters of introduction to the leaders of the academy, that’s all.”

  Robert leaned back in his carved chair, frowning slightly. “There is a man, newly settled here under our protection, who used to be a part of the Pléiade, before the present king dismissed it. It’s said he’s a wizard, and I know he’s a scholar—and he’s English. if he’d serve your turn, you’d be back to Scotland that much faster, and you wouldn’t have to risk a French journey.”

  “That wouldn’t cause me much sorrow,” Marlowe said. “But what was an Englishman doing as part of the Pléiade?”

  Robert’s quick, humorless smile answered the question even before he spoke. “He’s a recusant, a Catholic, which caused me trouble enough when he applied to live here. Still, he’s not a priest despite Rheims and Douai, and he was a member of the Pléiade, so he can’t be entirely orthodox—and he can’t hate Protestants too much.”