The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  “I will need rooms for my women, however.”

  “Of course,” Sidney said, at once delighted and a little appalled, already wondering what she wanted from him. But that was an unworthy thought, and he did his best to dismiss it, bowing instead with a lover’s grace. He held out his hand; she took it still smiling and they made their reverences to the king who smiled himself in naked relief. So the rumors were false, malicious, as he had known they must be, he thought, and signaled his permission for them to withdraw. And I’m foolishly glad they chose to prove it in my court.

  Marlowe drained the last of the jack of cheap sauced beer, then reached, frowning, for his pipe and the twist of tobacco. He misjudged the distance slightly, and bruised his knuckles against the tabletop, but managed to fill the pipe without spilling more than a few shreds of the coarse tobacco. It was as adulterated—and therefore as illegal—as the beer, but the potent Spanish herb might create what the black henbane seeds had failed to provide. He rose carefully to his feet—his body was more fuddled than his mind, which remained painfully clear—and crossed to the fireplace. The stool was not where he’d left it: Robert Sidney’s household was an efficient and tidy one. Rather than search for it, Marlowe dropped loose-jointed onto the tiles, and sat for a moment staring into the flames, before reaching for one of the spills from the metal box hanging from the bricks above him. It took a moment to light it, and several moments more to light the clay pipe. When at last the tobacco caught he drew cautiously on it, then held the pipe away, grimacing, as the acrid smoke clawed his lungs. Worse than the cheapest English stuff, he thought, and I hadn’t known there was such a thing—but the tobacconist had sworn the stuff capable of working miracles. He took another lungful, inhaling and then exhaling with deliberate care, and choked on the last bit of it. The foreign herb stank; his eyes watered from the smell. He persevered, however, and as the top layer of tobacco turned to ash, felt a sort of languor finally stealing over him.

  He leaned against the bricks of the fireplace, feeling the heat of the dying fire harsh on his left hand and arm, the night chill numbing his feet in their thin boots. Or perhaps that was the beer, at last; he was no longer certain, and had never really cared. He lifted the pipe to his lips again, and realized too late that he had picked it up by the bowl. The clay was painfully hot; he shook it away with an oath, and saw the pipe shatter on the tiles of the hearth, scattering glowing ash. He swore again, heart racing with the panic-fear of fire, but the embers had not reached the rushes. Even so, he leaned forward, and laboriously ground each red coal into nothing with the broken pipe-stem. It was a pity he’d broken it, he thought vaguely, but the mixed tobacco had certainly done its work.

  He rested his shoulder against the fireplace, staring at the smudges on the blue-painted tiles. He knew he should get up, undress, go to bed—or at least lie on the bed, not here on the hearth like any drunkard, but he could not seem to muster the will to move. And if I do get up now, I will be sick, he thought. The room was already moving under him, rising and falling like a ship at sea every time his eyes closed. He forced his eyelids open, the aftereffects of the smoke making them sting and water, and saw, lying on the cloak he had discarded on coming in, a glitter of gold.

  It was the pin Mephistophilis had given him: he recognized it instantly, though he had done his best to forget about that dubious gift since the night four days past when the demon had given it to him. He stared at it intently, the gold seeming to glow with a light of its own, as Mephistophilis’s jewels had glimmered. I meant to be rid of you, he thought. I will be rid of you, now, while I have the sense to do it. He pushed himself painfully to his feet, walking his hands up the bricks behind him until he was upright. He crossed to the cloak easily enough, but stood for a moment, gathering strength, before stooping to pick up the brooch. The movement almost undid him; he swallowed hard, and waited until his stomach settled. Then he moved to the window, and flung open the shutters. The night air rushed in, smelling of rain and winter, the midden smell of the courtyard deadened by the cold, and his head cleared a little. He had intended simply to fling the brooch away, out into the yard—but that would hardly do, would only mean that some servant of Robert’s would take it and its curse. Not that that matters, he added hastily, one servant is hardly worth remorse, but the thing would surely be discovered, and its origins, and traced to me. That I cannot afford. No, I’ll have to do what I’d planned from the beginning, find a wise man to take away the taint of it.

  That decision made, he turned away from the window, not bothering to close the shutters, and fell sprawling across the bed, the pin still clutched in his hand. He could not find the strength to release it, or even to loosen his clothes, but sank into seasick sleep.

  He woke the next morning with a hangover, and a bloody tear in the heel of his hand where the brooch-clasp had stabbed him as he slept. The news, brought by Robert’s sternly disapproving steward, that Sir Robert had bought them passage on an Edinburgh-bound ship, did nothing to improve his temper. It was to sail the next day;

  Sir Robert trusted this would not be inconvenient. The only thing that did please him, a balm to aching head and rebellious bowels, was the news—imparted by Sir Robert himself, with one of his beaming smiles—that Robert Poley was to remain a guest in the governor’s household for some unspecified length of time. Fletcher received word of their imminent departure as calmly as he had accepted the entire venture, and promised to present himself at the docks well before noon, their intended sailing time, blandly ignoring Marlowe’s half-hearted attempt to pick a quarrel. The poet returned to the governor’s palace in no better temper than he’d left, and retired to his bed in a vain attempt to sleep away the misery.

  The return journey was not much better than the first crossing. The ship smelled, not offish, but of some cloying spice that had been its cargo, gone rancid now, and mingling with the less-definable stench of the bilges. The seas, once they’d left the West Schelde, grew very rough, and the sailors, less enamored of the Sidney family than the men of the first ship had been, muttered darkly about the wisdom of carrying wizards. One went so far as to suggest the wizards be dropped over the side, and Marlowe had been glad of the pistols he kept handy, powder sealed tight against the sea-damp; but cooler heads, and the promise of the remainder of the generous passage-money, prevailed. After that, however, Marlowe took care to stay belowdecksbelow decks, and advised Fletcher and van der Droeghe to do the same. The Dutchman answered calmly that he was in no danger—no one suspected him of any dubious powers—but Fletcher quietly did as he was told, and spent most of his time in the cabin he shared with Marlowe. It was not a comfortable companionship. Fletcher spent most of his clays with one devotional book or another, while Marlowe, unable to work on his Penthesilea because of the pitching of the ship, stared at the bulkheads and smoked cheap tobacco until the cabin’s air was an acrid fog.

  “What would they do if I were to tell them it’s you who are the wizard?” Marlowe asked. “And a papist to boot?”

  Fletcher gave him an odd glance, but shrugged. “Your reputation precedes you. I rather fear they wouldn’t believe you—you act the part so much better than I do.”

  “God save me from humble scholars. Abelard was such a one as you.”

  Fletcher looked up again, this time with a smile at once surprised and pleased. “Why, thank you.”

  “Remember Abelard’s—losses,” Marlowe muttered, and turned his face to the bulkhead. There would be hell to pay in Scotland, one way or another. Sidney would not be pleased to have a Catholic wizard, with or without impeccable Pléiade credentials, and Fletcher… well, how could one predict his reaction when he learned Marlowe had been Walsingham’s spy at Rheims? I should have gone into France, followed Sidney’s plan, Marlowe thought, not for the first time. But, sweet Christ, am I supposed to hazard my neck, and possibly for nothing, when the man I was sent for is waiting in Flushing? Sir Robert understood that.

  As will Sir Philip, a more reas
onable part of his mind argued. You’re seeking out this quarrel, and well you know it. He can only be grateful; the strongest emotion you’re like to get is chagrin—for putting you into an awkward position.

  Marlowe winced. Why, now, did the voice of reason have to be Ganymede’s? True, the boy had always spoken with moderation, with deliberation, even at the worst of times, but it had never been for that coolness that he had loved him. More fool you, then, he thought, and twice a fool to lose him. No man could be called a fool for loving Stephen—and it had been so long since he’d used that name it sounded foreign to him—nor any woman neither, but only a fool would drive him away.

  He grimaced then, angry with his own sentiments. Who’s taken up what I threw down? he wondered, but that held less truth than the next question rising in his mind. Can I lure him back, with this play? It’s the only currency that might make his price, he’s not to be bought with trinkets, not even with pearls of great price, or diamond-like stars. He’s only to be bought—to be won with coin wrenched from one’s very soul…

  It was an ill-omened thought. The poet winced, fearing the shadow of his demon—a shadow against which even Ganymede must look wan—but the cabin remained as it was. Fletcher read on in the flickering lantern light, oblivious to the other’s sudden fear. Saved by his devotions, Marlowe thought bitterly, and flung an arm across his eyes. This was madness, this longing for a man—a boy—who had already rejected him, and whose rejection he had consummated with regrettably brilliant invective; worse madness was the suspicion that it was not desire but some more delicate emotion that spurred that longing. Not desire—no longer desire, Mephistophilis’s kiss had seared that in him; no man now would be enough, compared to that dark magnificence, to waken even the echo of lust. Marlowe’s lip curled. Mephistophilis is truly kind: he’s left no man the power to tempt me, and so spares me from shame.

  No, he thought suddenly, I won’t have it so. if this demon tempts me, by God, I’ve tempted him. I’ve made a player-demon, a stage-Mephistophilis so like the real, true thing that I, I, Christopher Marlowe, scholar and gentleman, have fascinated him. I have charmed and intrigued him, and he’s bound me so because he wants me. Should I give in to him, what price might I demand? I could laugh cities to scorn, and make these petty men, these Cecils, writhe—

  He paused in mid-flight. Strange, he thought, with a new detachment. Let Cecil rot, let Tom Walsingham hang—or burn, more like, with his tastes and graces—let all the ministers and minions who’d employed and used and finally decided to see him quietly murdered at Deptford fall into hell’s lowest depths... There was no hate there, for England or her queen, nor could he curse her, even now. It was an almost frightening thought, to understand her power over her state, and even over him, who had always thought himself beyond such things. I may have laughed before, as. at any overblown conceit, he thought, but perhaps it’s true: perhaps we do live in some time of particular glory, and if so, it springs entirely from her.

  The thought was too disturbing, made him too like Spenser and all the other poets—Sidney included, by God!—who produced reams of verse glorifying the Protestant Virgin. He slanted a look at Fletcher instead, wondering how the Catholic scholar responded to the more eloquent proponents of the Marian metaphor. Calmly enough, probably, or with a pointed jest: the man was capable of that cool steel, or had been, at Rheims. Marlowe smiled slowly. Well, my lad, you’ll need all of it, once we reach Scotland. You’re in for a nasty surprise—and I hope your magic is more efficacious than your prayers.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  If this be magic, let it be an art

  Lawful as eating.

  William Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale

  The Scottish workshops were not as extensive as those at Greenwich—armor in Scotland tended to be a practical matter, intensely personal to each lord—but the armory was well enough supplied for the Englishmen to suit themselves out of its stock. The long-limbed Greville had more difficulty than Sidney in finding an easy fit, but with Seton to translate the head armorer’s broad Scots, he, too, found pieces that met with his approval. The armorer, who obviously had strict ideas of what would appeal to an Englishman, brought forth the brightest, most heavily decorated pieces the armory possessed, and did not know quite how to take it when they were politely refused. Seton, recognizing the quality of the pieces chosen, hid his grin, and continued with his dutiful translations.

  The chosen suits were laid out on the worktable for inspection, and Greville stepped back a little, eyeing Sidney’s choices. “I don’t know about that breastplate,” he said, after a critical survey. “It looks heavy to me.”

  Sidney shook his head. “Not enough to matter. I can strap it tight.”

  “The straps can be adjusted, too,” Seton offered, and Sidney nodded. The Scotsman turned his attention to the armorer, explaining what was required.

  Greville stared thoughtfully at the suit his friend had chosen. It was plain, not at all like the elaborate harness usually worn in English tilts, or even as pretty as the manifer they had examined a few days before. This was plain dark steel, embellished modestly with a few chaste bits of incised scrollwork at neck and waist and shoulders. Not at all Philip’s style, he thought, and said aloud, “What are you up to, Philip?”

  Sidney grinned. “Merely some simple theatrics. Something I learned from Robin.”

  Greville snorted. “You’ve nothing to learn from him.”

  “The man knows how to use theater,” Sidney said, and grimaced as he realized the double meaning of his words. Certainly Essex knew the value of a grand gesture: the white armor he had affected in 1587, to celebrate his then best friend’s recovery, had made a striking show, and the all-black harness he had affected ever since had set him apart from all the others. It was the only thing that did, Sidney thought. The man did not disgrace himself, certainly, but neither could he distinguish himself against the core of riders trained by Henry Lee, for all his mock-simplicity of harness and his carefully-chosen pageants. Essex also knew how to use the professional theater, if the Chamberlain’s Men were to be believed. But why, Sidney wondered, why is it important to him to disgrace Doctor Dee now? The obvious answer was that he wished to deprive the queen of her best arcane defense, to lay her open to some sorcerous influence of his own, Sidney thought, and if that’s the case, I must warn Dee at once. Send Walter home? That’s a possibility—

  A shadow fell across the table then, and Sidney looked up quickly, train of thought broken off in mid-career. The Master of Ruthven was standing in the doorway. He saw the four men looking at him, and bowed, with flourishes.

  “Your prodigal is returned, Sir Philip.”

  Sidney’s lips tightened, as he wondered why Ruthven, of all men, should consent to act as messenger. He smiled, however, and said, “Thank you, my lord.”

  There was dismissal in his voice, and Seton caught his breath, almost inaudibly. Greville bit back a smile. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to antagonize the king’s favorite, but the impulse was completely comprehensible.

  Ruthven stiffened, but forced himself to relax. Sidney had the unhappy knack of making him feel like an importunate child—but there would be a time, not too long distant, when the Englishman would not be so proud. He bowed again, with even more elaborate grace. “His majesty thought you might wish to know.”

  Sidney glanced up from the armor. “Does his majesty require my presence?”

  “Why, no, Sir Philip,” Ruthven answered. “A courtesy, that’s all.”

  “Then, if you would be so kind, my lord, would you tell Master Marlowe that I would welcome the chance to speak with him this evening; once he’s recovered from his journey?” Sidney smiled blandly, no hint of triumph in his expression. At his side, Greville smothered a chuckle. Oh, neatly done, Philip, he thought, there’s no way now the boy can refuse you—and it’s been some years since anyone’s treated him like a page.

  Ruthven bowed a final time, hiding his fury. “I’ll take your mess
age to him Sir Philip.” He turned away not waiting for an answer.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Sidney said to his retreating back, and glanced at Seton. “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you with my unruly tongue, my lord. But I fear the Master of Ruthven is the sort to hold a grudge.”

  Seton shrugged. “He won’t love me any better, but he couldn’t love me worse. I don’t suffer for this, Sir Philip.”

  “That’s a comfort,” Sidney murmured. He sighed, staring at the armor without really seeing its cold lines. “If I were James, I would indeed wish to have the son of my enemies close at hand—but perhaps not quite so close.”

  “Nor would I,” Greville agreed. He leaned against the battered table, stretching cat-like in the sun. “The whole Ruthven family—it seems, well, unnatural, that kind of enmity. To persecute the king from when he was still in his mother’s womb…”

  Sidney shrugged, deliberately choosing a lighter tone. “Ambition puts on odd faces. Do you know, Fulke, I wish we had Henry Lee here.”

  “You would,” Greville said shortly. Seton caught at Sidney’s words, as eager as the Englishman to draw back from the dangerous topic of the king’s favorite.

  “Lee? He was champion before you, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. And I was only named champion because he chose to retire, not because I bested him. “ Sidney smiled, this time with genuine warmth, and could not resist a glance in Greville’s direction. “One of the best men I know. And what he could do to one such as Ruthven… I sometimes wonder if Henry doesn’t mourn the passing of melee.”

  Seton grinned. “He’d feel at ease among us, then, sir.”

  Sidney shook himself hard. “This isn’t going to be a melee,” he said firmly. “That’s precisely why I asked his majesty if Fulke and I might take charge of the arrangements.”