The Armor of Light

by Melissa Scott

  “Nonsense, Sir Philip, and you know it. Come, sir, sit and talk with me.”

  The nobles had slipped from the room, not without a few backward glances, envious and resentful in equal measure. Sidney sighed, but gave his attention to the king. James seemed oblivious to their feelings—or, more likely, Sidney thought, he had lived so long with it that he could judge it to a nicety.

  “I’m glad of the chance to speak with you,” James went on, settling himself more comfortably in his chair. He kept his legs tucked under the bulbous rung, but the silk stockings, his favorite shade of pale blue, only emphasized the bowed limbs. “Tell me, who is this person you sent Master Marlowe to fetch? Some friend, a colleague of yours?”

  Sidney shook his head. He had been wondering precisely how he would explain Fletcher to the king of Scots, and had been unable to come up with anything but the unvarnished truth. “A colleague of sorts, your Majesty. He was a member of the French Academy, the Pléiade, before it was disbanded, but he’s an Englishman, a Catholic, living abroad.”

  “The Pléiade,” James murmured. “The poet wizards.” He saw Sidney’s brief expression of surprise, and smiled rather grimly. “I have heard of them.”

  “Indeed, your Majesty.”

  “And have you less faith in your abilities than your queen—or than I do myself, seeing what I’ve seen—that you should send for him?”

  And him a Catholic. Sidney could almost hear the words echoing in the air between them. Sidney said carefully, “It’s not that I lack faith in myself, your Majesty, of that I can assure you. It is, rather, that I know what the Pléiade can do. They excel at the large rituals, and I have never had to work on this scale before.”

  James smiled, sensing in the older man some other constraint, and with the clarity that sometimes surprised himself, said, “I don’t mind that he’s a papist, Sir Philip. God’s nails, were I to object on those grounds, I’d lose Maxwell, and the Gordons, too—which I will not do for any man.”

  Sidney bowed his head. “I apologize, your Majesty. But that matter’s of some selfish concern to me. It doesn’t do me any good, here or in England, to have called on a Roman wizard for help.”

  “I can see that,” James said, with feeling. “And I don’t blame you—I cannot. Mind, I shouldn’t be sorry to see the presbyters go down…

  “But there must be a middle course between that precisian and popery,” Sidney said, without much hope.

  “Oh, ay, that there must be,” James answered, “but I’m tired of straddling Dame Justice’s sword. I’ve too much to lose.”

  I do daresay, Sidney thought, working out the implications of the metaphor. “I only hope I can blunt the edges for you, your Majesty.”

  “It’s the point that worries me,” James said frankly. “And I don’t envy you the chore.” He paused then, his expression sobering. “Yesterday—the jousts aside—it cannot have been pleasant for you, facing that assault… Alex—” He stopped abruptly. Sidney said nothing, letting the younger man find his own way, and James sighed. “It needs to be talked of. What ought I to do about him? I can’t find it in my heart to call him vile, to think him anything more than a pawn—as any one of us might be, should we fall under Bothwell’s spell.”

  Others have been tempted, Sidney thought, and have withstood the lure, but suppressed the spurt of temper. Forbes had fallen, and there was no reason to think him anything but something less than clever—no crime, that. “The Master of Ruthven was certainly made use of,” he said aloud, “but not without his consent.”

  “He’s young,” James said, “he erred once—” He broke off sighing, and said, more briskly, “More than that, he is a Ruthven, and I have some need to draw them to my side. Can he be trusted at all, now that he’s repented?”

  “So far, no further, or so Marlowe says,” Sidney answered, his tone deliberately light. “To be fair, your Majesty? Until Bothwell compels him to service again.”

  “What singularly useful counsel Master Marlowe gives,” James said, rather bitterly. “Does he speak from knowledge or envy, I wonder?” He broke off then, and had the grace to look almost ashamed of himself. “I beg your pardon, Sir Philip. I’ve been listening to my—gossips again. If you are his patron, and stand for him, no one can doubt his—virtue.”

  Sidney laughed softly, well aware of the source of James’s information. Mar, it seemed, had listened well to his English friends. “Marlowe has his faults, but they are, I think, the faults of the scholar, your Majesty. He has done you good service here. And me. I might not have survived Ruthven’s attack—”

  “Bothwell’s,” James interjected, softly, but in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “Forgive me. Bothwell’s attack, then, without Marlowe’s aid—”

  James stared into space for a long moment. When he spoke, it was in a slow, gentle voice that Sidney had not heard him use before—almost, Sidney thought, the voice of a sleepwalker, if such a thing were possible. “I would have thought them two of the same soul—and yet your trust remains unshaken.” James seemed to recall to whom he was speaking, and managed a wry grin. “I can count the men I trust on the fingers of my two hands, Sir Philip, or thought I could. God numbers sparrows, I number the honest men in Holyrood—and believe me, I am less edified than God.”

  Sidney smiled in return, but said, “You’re doing better than God did at Sodom, your Majesty. He found none.”

  “God is not subject to despair,” James murmured, then brightened. “Though one might stretch a point, and call Sodom and Gomorrah a fit of temper, eh? But it’s not a day to talk of theology. Have you and your colleague devised a plan to safeguard our palace?”

  Sidney accepted the change of subject without demur. James’s blasphemies were no more original than Marlowe’s, and usually less amusing. “It was that I wished to speak to you about. Master Fletcher and I have spoken, and he craves your Majesty’s indulgence and the honor of your participation in a pageant he is creating for Michaelmas. As Michael is God’s regent of the sun, and you, as king, are God’s regent on Earth, he felt it would be fitting.”

  “And most flattering, too,” James said, but he looked less uneasy than Sidney had feared. “I take it that this is no mere show, Sir Philip.”

  “No, your Majesty.” Sidney bowed his head and waited.

  “I would like to know something more of this, before I give my consent.”

  “As your Majesty wishes.” Sidney paused, ordering his thoughts, then quickly outlined the ceremony Fletcher had composed the night before. When he had finished, James smiled.

  “I like the sound of it, like it very well—and I don’t doubt my lady wife will share my enthusiasm. God’s death, I could declare you a danger to my happily wedded state after your performance yesterday. Unlike her, I never thought to see chivalry live again, and so never feared to be supplanted. I never dreamed such things were more than romances: pleasant enough, but believed only by children and fools. And you are neither.”

  And this, Sidney thought, bowing his head in modest acknowledgement of the royal compliment, was typical of James. The man seemed incapable of loving in moderation—of feeling anything in moderation. His flattery was gratifying, but it sprang from little more than an overabundance of some passing humor, and so could only make the recipient uneasy. Still, if this humor meant that James would accept—and more than accept, participate in Fletcher’s ceremony, Sidney would accept it, and be grateful.

  The courtiers chosen for the Ride were up before dawn, decking themselves in the golden livery that Fletcher had designed for the occasion. Marlowe, fastening the last gilt button, stooped to view his reflection in the little glass, and was dourly pleased. The color did not flatter his rather sallow complexion, but the pale gold doublet, painted and stitched with solar designs in brighter gold, was a magnificent piece of finery. More than that, he hadn’t paid for it. He ran his hand down the full sleeve, over the painted suns and crowing cocks and across the stylized heliotrope and vine th
at enclosed the other symbols, wondering if this mummery—he could think of no other word—would have any effect at all. Fletcher swore the Pléiade had practiced this magic for nigh on a decade—but Henri III was murdered nonetheless, Marlowe thought, with a sardonic smile, and you’re in exile, Hal. What then?

  He shook his doubts away with an effort. If nothing else, the ceremony could do no harm, and would provide further encouragement to a court already buoyed up by Sidney’s dramatic showing in the jousts. Besides, he added, with another inward smile, it would please James to see his court so spectacularly arrayed. He glanced down at his own body with some complacence—the knee-length velvet breeches, golden like the rest of the livery, were very fine indeed, and the lace that trimmed both neck and wrist ruffs was of true gold—and picked up the tall hat that lay on the table among his papers. It, too, was gold velvet, trimmed with a cunningly-made wreath of laurel leaves, and a gold pin winked among the dark green leaves. Marlowe frowned—he did not remember adding anything to the carefully designed costume—and then recognized the jewel. Mephistophilis’s gift had no place there, among Fletcher’s hallowed symbols. Marlowe stared at it for what seemed an eternity. Then, very slowly, he made himself undo the clasp and set the jewel carefully aside. It glittered where it lay, and the poet thought for a moment that he heard mocking laughter.

  “I will not aid you,” he said aloud, and set the hat firmly on his head. There was no answer, not even the faint laughter; Marlowe released the breath he had been holding, and stepped quickly from his room.

  The riders were already milling in the courtyard, peacocking their new clothes and calling conflicting orders to the long-suffering grooms. They, Sidney saw with some relief, seemed tolerant enough of their betters’ antics— either they did not suspect the Ride’s deeper purpose, or they were willing to put up with it for the king’s sake. He nodded to the sandy-bearded man who brought his own horse—the same piebald he favored for the joust—but said, “Hold him here for me a little. There’s still a good deal to be done.”

  “Very good, Sir Philip,” the groom answered, and backed the horse away.

  Sidney glanced again along the rough line of riders, making sure that everyone who should be present was ready, and that none had been offended by the choices. It had been a stroke of genius on Fletcher’s part to make the favored riders—representing the twelve houses of the zodiac—the same young men who’d ridden in the joust.

  No one, not even the most determined troublemaker, could quarrel with that, or say that unworthy choices had been made. Anyone else might, at his own expense, provide himself with the prescribed livery and accompany the Ride, but the significant positions belonged to the king’s brave knights. There was one exception, of course—the Master of Ruthven remained behind—but James had picked the club-footed Lord Campbell of Crinan to replace him. It had been done with a blasphemous jest—Campbell’s given name was Matthias—but it had given that powerful family a place it would otherwise have lacked in the ceremony.

  Sidney fingered the medal—Leo’s—that hung at his own breast, smiling slightly. Fletcher’s conceit had also given him, the undisputed victor, the right to oversee this ceremony. A very clever man, Sidney thought, not for the first time, and very well versed in the ways of courts.

  “Sir Philip.” That was Fletcher himself, very neat in a scholar’s gown of golden velvet. “Everything’s in readiness.”

  “Excellent,” Sidney answered, and beckoned to the groom.

  “The king must leave the courtyard as the sun is rising,” Fletcher said, not for the first time, and Sidney smiled.

  “I will see to that, Master Fletcher. And everything else?”

  “Singers and actors and even her majesty,” Fletcher answered. His eyes flicked toward the courtyard door, and he gave a sigh of relief. “And here is his majesty at last.”

  “It lacks some minutes yet to sunrise,” Sidney answered soothingly, and bowed very low as James made his way down the line of riders. The king of Scots was looking very fine, though his costume was no different from the liveries worn by his companions. The golden colors brought out the ruddy lights lurking in his hair and beard, and the tall boots helped disguise the bowed legs, lending new dignity despite the lurching walk. But it’s more than that, Sidney thought suddenly, there’s something—a freedom, almost, a sense of unexpected security about him that makes him seem, for today, at least, a very king. It bodes well for our venture.

  “God go with you, Sir Philip, and St. Michael, too,” Fletcher said, and slipped away.

  Sidney suppressed a most unchristian curse. How like a papist, he thought, to bring saints into this, but smiled then in spite of himself. Michael, whose day this was, and who was venerated even in the English church as lord general of the heavenly hosts and vanquisher of Satan’s black army, was certainly the most appropriate patron for the day’s ritual. He allowed the groom to throw him up into the high saddle, gathered the reins with absent ease, and edged the nervous horse forward to join the king.

  As always, James was at his best on horseback, freed of the limitations of his own ungainly limbs. He handled his horse—a massive yellow-white brute that even Sidney would have thought twice about mounting—with an offhand skill as impressive as it was mildly frightening. It’s to James’s great credit, Sidney thought, that we are all willing to ride so close at hand to that ill-tempered monster.

  “Sir Philip, good morning,” James cried. “It’s a fair day for our Ride.”

  Sidney bowed low in the saddle. “It is indeed, your Majesty. A good sign.”

  The sun was rising even as he spoke. He lifted his hand, signaling the riders to take their places, then pointed to the liveried pages waiting by the gate. They threw their weight against the heavy doors, which creaked slowly open. At Sidney’s nod, the king rode out into the risen day, and boys’ voices broke from the towers to either side of the gate.

  “Great King of Heaven, Regent of the Sun, into our hearts

  “Pour out Thy mercy, protect us from the slings and darts

  “Of Thy dread Adversary. This king, Thy earthly emblem, save

  “And grant long life, and health, and grace, his road to pave.”

  Marlowe, riding at the tail of the procession, winced a little at the doggerel verse. Still, he thought, I suppose if it serves its purpose, I can’t complain. And there was no question that it did serve its purpose: as he rode through the wide-opened gate he could feel the powers called by Fletcher’s words and the strange, oddly accented music, tingling on his skin. The others around him seemed unaware of it, or at most accepted it as a part of the excitement of the day.

  There was a May-day fecklessness among the riders, a lightheartedness that touched even Sidney, and made him set his piebald dancing, mincing through its school-steps at the king’s side. James laughed aloud at the sight, freer from fear than Sidney had ever seen him, and did not try to imitate the performance.

  The procession made its way along the bounds of the park. As they reached the stand of trees that marked the easternmost point of the palace ground, Sidney reined his horse to a stop, bowing to the king. “If your Majesty will call,” he said, “perhaps someone will answer.” This was the sort of thing his uncle of Leicester had done for the English queen, though not to any grander purpose than her entertainment; in a strange way, Sidney thought, it’s in my blood.

  James grinned. “Hello,” he called, “who’s there?”

  There was a moment of silence, and then music, the same odd measured music that had sounded as the palace gates were opened, sounded from the heart of the wood. Children in white and gold, boys and girls recruited from among the noble families still at court, came forward, bowing deeply. They joined hands, and began to dance a solemn figure, moving in a circle before the king. James gentled his horse, which seemed inclined to dislike the music, and watched with open wonder. A boy’s voice joined the music then, calling on the angel of the east to protect the king. More doggerel, Marlowe t
hought, it would be better done in England; but he could feel the power gathering, presences answering the summons. He shivered lightly, and saw several of the other young men glancing oddly at each other, as though they, too, felt something beyond their understanding.

  The dance ended then, and the weird sense of watching powers faded. The children made their bows, and the eldest piped a speech of thanks; James made them their expected gift, and the procession continued on its way.

  At the northernmost point of the palace grounds, a ragged course of stones that had been the foundation of some vanished house, more dancers answered the king’s call. These were young men in earth-brown suits, who moved with grace through the fantastic figures. Professionals, unquestionably, Marlowe thought, and tried to shake off the awareness of greater powers at work. Why can’t I enjoy this for a masque, mere display, like all the others? he demanded silently. It isn’t fair.

  The tension eased as the music and dancing ended, but a shadow of it remained in the air around them. The horses, more sensitive than their riders, shied and fidgeted. James controlled his unhappy mount with an iron hand, and looked to Sidney.

  “I trust all is as it should be, Sir Philip?”

  Sidney smiled in answer, hiding his own unease. This hovering power, this sense of expectation, should be nothing more than the proper atmosphere of a half-completed ritual; even knowing that, he caught himself glancing more than once over his shoulder, looking for he knew not what. He could barely bring himself to eat from the banquet laid for the riders in a pleasant glade, though he was glad to see that the rest of the Ride more than made up for his own weakness. It would not do to have the cooks whispering of an uncanny loss of appetite among the lords.

  From the banquet, the Ride turned west, riding still along the borders of Holyrood’s ground. Twice more they paused to listen to Fletcher’s measured music, and to watch the intricate dances he had choreographed. With each performance, the sense of anticipation grew greater still, until even the most unwary among the riders felt it, a pressure like a rising storm, and the seventeen principals, who, as necessary adjuncts to the ceremony itself, had been warned of its full meaning, were hard pressed to control their horses. Sidney glanced warily at the king, half afraid that James would demand an end to the ceremony, but the king’s attention was concentrated on his unruly horse, laughing and swearing under his breath at its antics. James was enjoying himself, Sidney realized suddenly; given the chance, he thought again, the man could prove a king.