The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  “Philip. Aren’t you at all curious as to who—or what Marlowe’s brought back with him?” Greville interrupted.

  “Extremely,” Sidney answered, and gave a wry smile. “But I’ll be damned before I’ll run at the Master of Ruthven’s bidding. Have we set down anything regarding the use of locking gauntlets?”

  There was an implacable note in the other man’s voice that told Greville there was no point in urging him further. He sighed, and accepted the change of subject without demur. “Do you think we need?” He glanced at Seton as he spoke, and the Scot shrugged again.

  “They’re hardly common, sir, though a few men use them.”

  “Then I hardly think we need worry,” Greville said firmly. The noise of weapons drifted through the windows from the practice yard beyond, and Seton’s head lifted eagerly.

  “Would you care to view the preparations for the lists, Sir Philip? Or to take a turn in the yard?”

  Sidney nodded slowly. “Yes, yes to both, my lord. I feel in need of the—exercise.”

  It was mid-afternoon before he returned to his rooms, pleasantly tired from the physical labor of the arms-court. Frances was waiting for him, somewhat to his surprise, sitting comfortably in the window seat, her embroidery spread across her skirts. She sat stitching until Sidney had changed his clothes, then, with a smile and a nod, dismissed the servants and poured wine for her husband with her own hands. Sidney accepted the glass with surprised gratitude, and was even more surprised when Frances settled herself onto the stool beside his chair.

  “You look tired, Philip,” she said.

  “It’s been a pelting day,” he admitted. “And I’ve still not come to a decision about Essex—about how to warn Doctor Dee.”

  “There are messengers you can trust,” Frances said, and sighed. “What is it he wants? Surely he has as much as any reasonable man can desire, with the queen’s favor.”

  Sidney grimaced. “God may know, I don’t.” He sighed. “No, that’s not fair. I think—well, what else can it be, but that he wants to influence the queen to something she does not wish to do? What that something is, however, is beyond my guessing. I’m grateful Marlowe’s back from Holland; he may be able to tell me more.”

  “I met your Pléiade wizard today,” Frances said, and turned to him a smile that more than hinted of mischief. “Your great care for the king still hasn’t allowed you to do that has it?” There was more of a bite in her voice than she had intended; she grimaced, and went on hastily. “No. I know how his majesty keeps you occupied. I must confess, I’m not easy about this joust.”

  “Nor am I,” Sidney said, his eyes following the intricate brocade of Frances’s underskirt. “And yet… it’s necessary, more than entertainment. Call me proud but I feel a need to let these Scots know who I am, what they have to deal with.” He smiled, rather wryly. “I am tired of being called the ‘foreign wizard,’ when it’s my power that’s kept their king breathing and sane these past weeks.”

  “Do you mean to tell me they fear you more than they fear Master Marlowe?” Frances asked, lightly.

  Sidney smiled. “James does not, which speaks well for his instincts. And he’s fascinated by him—went so far as to procure copies of his work, especially the Ganymede. It’s all made for an interesting game.”

  “I daresay Marlowe was—in part—relieved when you sent him off to Holland.”

  “Not precisely relieved,” Sidney answered. “From what I hear, though, I gather he stayed in Holland.”

  “In Flushing, under your brother’s eye,” Frances agreed, and still found you your wizard.” She looked up then, her face betraying an amused sympathy. “You didn’t know, then, that Master Fletcher is a Catholic—an English Catholic, at that?”

  Sidney sighed. It was just like Marlowe, he thought, and of a piece with everything else the man has ever done, that he finds—chooses—the most complicated possibility. But I required a member of the Pléiade, and a member of the Pléiade he’s brought me. “It should not be a surprise,” he said heavily.

  “You mustn’t blame Marlowe,” Frances said. “It must have seemed like Providence to him—or whatever he calls Providence—to be able to locate the man you needed without venturing into France. Not a pleasant prospect, even for one of Marlowe’s vaunted bravery.”

  “No, I don’t blame him,” Sidney said. An unwilling smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Nor do I really think he did it deliberately, to discredit me. After all, Cecil’s displeasure’s more like to fall on him than me.” And if it does, he wondered, can I protect him once again? He pushed the thought away. English politics were only of remote concern just now; the Scots factions were far more immediate—and far less subtle. His smile widened. And that, I think, must be what prompts Robert Cecil to interfere: the expert player finds it hard to tolerate the excesses of the novice. And I’m not immune to that myself. This joust... Ruthven will ride, and that will be a pleasant meeting.

  Frances saw the change come over his face, and smiled. It was not difficult to follow her husband’s thoughts this afternoon, and in any case she had seen that look before. Say what you will, Philip, she thought, you love these jousts, and God forgive me, it’s a source of insufferable pride in me that my husband is her majesty’s champion and can still unhorse men half his age. “This is not Whitehall,” she said aloud. “These Scots play in earnest.”

  Sidney shook his head. “Oh, no. I’ve been assured repeatedly—there will be no melee, and I’ve handled the preparations myself to be certain of it. James is fond of spectacles, not battles; he very much wants an English joust. Pretty speeches, fine clothes, feats of arms, and no malice.”

  “And will Bothwell oblige?” Frances asked.

  Sidney’s face grew cold. “Let come what may,” he said, with quiet satisfaction. “If there is any deviltry afoot, I’ll know where to meet it.”

  On his return to Holyrood, Marlowe handed Fletcher over to one of James’s stewards, and bullied the servants into heating bathwater for himself in his room. Once he had washed away the worst of the voyage’s dirt, he pulled on clean shirt and stockings, listening to the gently accented gossip of the barber who trimmed his new-grown beard and hair. When the man had finished, Marlowe dismissed him with a tip from his dwindling store, and finished dressing, mulling over the news he had received. The Master of Ruthven had conveyed the message that Sidney would see him—and Fletcher—after the evening meal; the barber had brought word of new arrivals, and provided details of the planned tournament. That still struck him as a piece of arrant stupidity, but Sidney had had no choice. As for the new arrivals… Marlowe shook his head, his fingers slowing on the buttons of his peach-colored doublet. It was probably good fortune, at least for him, that the Chamberlain’s Men were here, but what business could either Raleigh or Frances Sidney have in Scotland?

  He fastened the last button, and reached for the good purse, now regrettably salt-stained, he had taken to Holland, sliding it onto his dagger-belt. Through the thin leather he could feel the twist of paper that held the Spanish-herb tobacco he had bought in Flushing. That gift would certainly assure his welcome among the players; it might even, if he handled things properly, buy further information, especially if the barber’s tale were true and the Chamberlain’s Men had travelled with the noble party. That decision made, he hastily knotted his collar-strings, adjusted his hat to a properly gallant angle, and started in search of the players.

  The king’s stewards had housed the actors in the lesser parts of the palace, where the middling servants slept. Still, the rooms were comfortable enough, with beds for all, so that only the apprentices were relegated to pallets on the floor. The senior sharers, Burbage and Heminges, had even been allotted a room with an antechamber and two good fireplaces, and the rest of the company had quickly made that their meeting place. Marlowe found them there, gathered around the serviceable long table as though in the alehouse, a covered bucket filled with beer set in the room’s coolest corner. The share
rs had their heads together, studying a stack of battered prompt-scripts by the light of a branch of tallow candles, while apprentices and hired men threw dice at the far end of the table. Marlowe tapped on the doorframe, and grinned as the sharers’ heads came up warily.

  Burbage pushed himself to his feet, almost overturning his stool, and came forward to clasp the poet’s hand. “Kit. We’d heard you were in Holland.”

  “I’m just returned today,” Marlowe answered, his eyes sweeping the company. He knew them all, or all but the apprentices, but not all were regularly of the Chamberlain’s Men: an enforced tour then, not chosen for some obscure promised advantage. And then he saw a more than familiar figure, tall, lightly muscled, the fine face bearded now, but still filled with the old elusive, mutable beauty. Oh, yes, he thought, the dulled emotion not entirely pleasure, nor precisely unpleasant, too old now for Penthesilea, and Alleyn must play Achilles, but Patroclus’s Shade, the voice of unheeded reason, the lost, mature beauty... He became aware that the rest of the players were watching eagerly, waiting to see what he would do or say, and he found himself rising helplessly to the challenge. “What in the devil’s name are you doing here, Ganymede?”

  Massey managed a disdainful smile for the greeting, as aware as the poet of the curious audience. “I’m with the Chamberlain’s Men.”

  “You’ve left Alleyn?” Marlowe was unable to repress the question, though he succeeded in keeping his tone almost disinterested. Inwardly, though, he could feel panic rising: Alleyn’s company would play the Penthesilea, it was a compact between him and Alleyn, and, besides, the Chamberlain’s Men had playwrights enough of their own. But Massey had to play in it, there was no other voice could do that part justice, and now the play had to be good enough, temptation and gift enough, to win him back from Burbage.

  “For the moment,” Massey answered, warily.

  “It seems to have been a bad choice, if you’ve been driven up here,” Marlowe observed, and made himself look away, ignoring the players’ thinly veiled disappointment. “What happened, William, did your historical allegory earn her majesty’s displeasure?”

  Shakespeare smiled, and waved his fellow-poet to a stool. “It wasn’t my doing, and it isn’t just us. We’re all on the road this summer, hadn’t you heard? Last word we had, Ned was headed into Warwickshire, trying to stay close to the city in case of a miracle.”

  “Not a common occurrence, where London’s concerned,” Heminges muttered.

  Burbage nodded. “Still, we were luckier than most to encounter Lady Sidney. It looks as though we will find employment here, as promised: their majesties seem most fond of theatre.” He grinned. “Ned will be livid.”

  “Like enough,” Marlowe agreed. “Lady Sidney and Sir Walter both made their appearance, I hear? Christ, the road north must have been more than usually crowded.”

  Shakespeare nodded, but did not take the proffered bait. “We’re here because Ben Jonson performed as promised—you remember I warned you, Kit?—and offended the greatest number with the least possible effort, or wit. What were you doing in Holland?”

  “I was sent,” Marlowe said, rather shortly, and reached into his purse to produce the twist of tobacco. “I’ve brought a present, too.”

  Burbage accepted the packet, loosening the paper expertly. “Sauced tobacco,” he said, and sniffed again. “I don’t recognize the herb.”

  Marlowe shrugged. “It’s a Spanish weed, I’m told, from the New World. At any rate, it produces the most miraculous effects.”

  Lowin grunted. “I’ve tasted that,” he said. It was not clear from his tone whether he wished to do so again. “I’ll vouch for its effectiveness.”

  “Help yourselves,” Marlowe said, and remembered too late the pipe he had broken in Flushing.

  “Won’t you be joining us?” Burbage asked warily. Seemingly of their own accord, his hands stopped in mid-movement, the pipe half-filled.

  Marlowe shrugged, trying to make the best of it. “Only if someone can loan me a pipe. I’ve been using the sea captain’s second-best one, ’til I left the ship.”

  “No gift from a patron?” Massey murmured, just loudly enough to be heard, his voice all mock-solicitude.

  Marlowe leaned back in his place, and lifted his eyes to the younger man’s. “Admit it, Stephen—the poem was brilliant.”

  Massey’s mouth twisted into a smile that was half a grimace. “I can hardly deny it. You gave me a fame I pray acting never brings me. But I can hardly claim the dubious honor of inventing the role. More an imagined villain for an imagined slight.”

  “You did leave me,” Marlowe said drily. “Or was that also imaginary?”

  “Oh, pernicious villain,” Massey retorted. “And how many have you loved and left?”

  Marlowe shrugged. “If they’d had wit enough to write such a thing—”

  “Perhaps they were too much the gentleman,” Massey said, and smiled. “You’ve boasted of your well-born lovers before now.”

  “Oh, hold your tongues, the pair of you,” Burbage said, belatedly recalling himself to his duty. “Kit, I won’t have you make a mock of any of my company.” He reached for the nearest candle, saying at the same time, “John, I know you have a pipe to spare.”

  Lowin nodded, and produced a short-stemmed clay pipe from his capacious purse. Marlowe accepted it, and filled it with the Dutch tobacco, then slid the paper down the length of the table. “Tell me about what’s to do about this tournament,” he said.

  Burbage shrugged, lighting his pipe. “I don’t know much more than you do. It’s to entertain the king of Scots.” He glanced over his shoulder before adding, in a lower voice, “And, faith, he’s a man who needs more entertaining than any I’ve ever seen.”

  Phillips laughed softly. “He certainly doesn’t lack for it.”

  One of the apprentices, who had been edging closer to the sharers, cleared his throat. Burbage glanced at him, and said, “Well, Nick?”

  “I’ve been at the tiltyard, master, watching the practices,” the boy answered, with a touch of self-importance. “It’s not at all like an English tourney.”

  “And what do you know of them?” Burbage asked. “Sit down, Nicholas, and mind your manners.”

  “Let the boy talk,” Shakespeare said, and grinned. “But he would do well to watch his manners.”

  “Yes, master,” Nick answered, somewhat chastened. “But I have seen the tilts for Accession Day, and all the others, too, when I can, and these are nothing like. There’s no theme, or, or any fiction at all, or even pageants. They’re just going to fight.”

  “No impressas?” Burbage choked on the harsh mix of tobacco and herbs, recovered himself enough to continue, “No stinging little one-word condemnations? No costumes and commentary? What’s the sense of tournament, then?”

  “Well, it’s not an English tournament, now, is it?” Phillips snapped.

  “No. Of course not.” Burbage sighed, thinking of previous commissions. He had earned princely wages before now, painting the pasteboard presentation shields for courtiers who needed a theatrical hand with their impresas. “But it could have meant good money.”

  Marlowe shook his head. He still could not understand why Sidney had chosen to accept this challenge—except that Sidney never refused anything, and, in any case, Ruthven had left him little choice. “I just hope he knows what he’s doing,” he muttered.

  Massey caught the soft comment, and gave the poet a startled look. That was something new, to hear Marlowe express concern for his patron. Burbage heard too, and lifted a hand in protest. “Man, you are speaking of Sir Philip Sidney. The bravest, truest knight in Christendom, a man to strike the poets of old dumb with contemplation of his excellence. Of course he knows what he’s doing.”

  “Soldier, scholar, courtier,” Shakespeare murmured, staring at the smoke curling from his pipe. “The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—” He stopped short, as though his own words had startled him, then smiled, a pleased, remo
te little smile.

  “Oh, I know, I’ve heard it all before, more times than I like to think,” Marlowe said. “He’s only my patron, you should save your praises for his ears.” Despite his words, he could not keep the note of worry from his voice. It was all well and good, this devotion—Sidneydolatry?—but what good did it do to believe the man invulnerable? They all sat back, rested on the man’s laurels and trusted in his virtues... Marlowe shook his head, a strange vision rising in his mind. There was a tourney field, like to the one at Whitehall, and Sidney fought a man afoot, but that man . . . He was an anonymity, a knight whose armor, whose very being, seemed to flicker with the wind, a knight of air, of shadows. Yet this knight of air, impervious to Sidney’s master-strokes, drove Sidney back and back, and down at last, hacking at a fallen figure that struggled, then shuddered and lay still. And in the stands, the spectators—Burbage, Shakespeare, James himself, and all the rest—watched, applauding politely, so confident of their perfect knight’s victory that they were blind to the horror before them. Sidney always won: there was no suspense, no fear. No one could defeat him, it was folly even to try. Yet Sidney would die. Maybe not tomorrow, or even in the lists; but the loving complacency of those who admired him would kill him.

  Marlowe shook his head again, driving away the dreadful vision, made himself look slowly around the little room. The fumes of the Dutch tobacco hung heavy in the air, adding to the sense of fellowship; sharers and hired men alike murmured drowsily together, relaxing at last from the tensions of the road. And then, quite suddenly, he was aware of Massey’s curious stare, the slight frown, half puzzled, half troubled, marring the perfect face. Before the poet could frame some bitter jest, Massey said, low-voiced, “Are you all right, Kit?”

  Intentionally or not, he’d caught the tone of the old days. Marlowe answered honestly, as he would have then, “Visions and dreams, my dear. But not, I think, true.”

  Massey’s eyebrows rose at the inadvertent endearment, but there was something in Marlowe’s voice, an uncommon sincerity, that silenced his intended rebuke. He said instead, “An ill omen.”