The horses grew more restless as they approached the stand of trees where the first pageant had waited, until it was all the lead riders could do to control them. Fletcher had warned them of this: not any attack, or active opposition, but the unwillingness of unbounded nature to conform to laws laid down by men. Sidney tightened his grip on the reins, muttering soothing nonsense in the piebald’s ear, and knew the others did the same.
Then, quite abruptly, the louring tension vanished: James had reached the place where he had stood to watch the first pageant. Sidney drew a deep breath, and heard young Seton laugh aloud. The mirth was infectious. All along the line of riders, men began to laugh, and two or three of the more reckless urged their horses into sidling trots and school figures. Sidney smiled, though he knew the ceremony was not yet ended, and saw James laugh quietly to himself.
“It’s homeward bound we are, Sir Philip,” he said, “and all will be well.”
“God willing,” Sidney murmured, but not even the king’s confidence could cast a shadow on them now.
They made their way back to Holyrood in good time, the tired horses scenting their stables, and rode through the gate just as the setting sun touched the tips of the towers. Queen Anne and her ladies, fantastically gowned in blue and silver, with ropes of pearls in their high-dressed hair, were waiting on the steps of the great hall. Music sounded from inside the hall itself; the queen and her ladies curtsied low, and moved into the first figures of their dance. Anne was not a beautiful woman, the body too ripe and promising, the handsome face spoiled by a grandiose nose, but watching her now at the center of her women Sidney was moved almost to tears by the queenly grace. Some of it was the effect of Fletcher’s art, he knew, but more was the memory of her face when Fletcher had explained her part in the ceremony. No royal match could be a love match, but there was something more than mere understanding between husband and wife, so seemingly ill-assorted.
“Escosia fair, our homeland’s dame,” the choir sang, from within.
“Escosia bows before her king.
“Before you now she stoops, and maidens sing
“Great King of Scots, to praise your royal name.
“Dear lady, arm’d in virtue, and in light,
“Whose joy it is, our service to receive,
“Grant us now, on this great Michael’s eve,
“Thy smile, and hand, to shield us from the night.”
Oh, Christ, more doggerel, Marlowe thought, standing with the rest of the milling riders just inside the gatehouse, and papist doggerel, too, unless I miss my guess. I’d lay wager the lady of Hal’s second verse is no more Escosia than am I, not when he’s clad them all in blue and white. But if it works, I won’t quibble with the means.
The dance ended then, with a slow yet joyful strain that brought the queen to a final deep curtsy, rich skirts spreading over the filthy cobbles, almost at the king’s feet. There was a moment’s silence, and then James shouted for a groom. He sprang from his saddle, leaving the unlucky man to struggle with the white stallion. He bowed as deeply as Anne had curtsied to him, and held out his hands. Anne smiled up at him, and let herself be lifted to her feet. In the moment that their hands touched, Sidney felt the ceremony concluded, and allowed himself a long sigh of relief. Peace, Marlowe thought, feeling the last tensions vanish as though they’d never been, the charm’s well ended, and saw the same thought run like a breeze through the men around him.
“My dearest lady, and my queen,” James said, and turned to include his courtiers in his sudden smile. “And you, my lords and gentlemen. Our Ride is ended; now we may go play.”
There was a laughing cheer at that, and Sidney smiled rather wryly. Play they would—there was a banquet planned, with a short comedy from the English actors, and there would be dancing to follow. And all I want, he thought, is my bed. But that was churlish, he knew—and besides, Frances would be waiting.
Chapter Thirty
This supernatural soliciting
Cannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill,
Why hath it given me earnest of success,
Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Qiwdor.
If good, why do I yield to that suggestion
Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair
And make my seated heart knock at my ribs
Against the use of nature?
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
The banquet was very merry, buoyed up by spirits that had not been so free in many months. The feast was lavish, prodigal with food and wines, so that not a few Scots were under the tables even before the players made their appearance. There was a new prologue for their comedy, spoken by Burbage in his proper person, which flattered James and his queen outrageously. Wise man, Sidney thought, from his own place of honor at the king’s right hand. Or, more like, wise William: the comedy was at least partly his own; so probably was the prologue. Outrageous the flattery might be, but Shakespeare had assessed the climate of the Scottish court quite accurately, and written accordingly. Burbage must have wondered if his playwright had lost all discretion, Sidney thought. How does he do it: find the right words, then know precisely how they’ll sound in the right man’s mouth?
The play started then, with a flourish from the musicians. It was a slight thing, centered on the ancient division between love and friendship—a good choice, in this court, Sidney thought, and even a daring one. The two heroes were pleasant enough, amusing types, but the two heroines were far more interestingly drawn. With the entrance of the ducal court, the little stage grew crowded, and Sidney was suddenly aware of a familiar face among the play-nobles. I’d half forgotten Massey was with the Chamberlain’s Men, he thought, and could not resist a glance toward Marlowe, at the lower table. I wonder what he feels, finding his cruel Ganymede here, and Ganymede no longer, but a man grown? Marlowe’s face was impassive at first, but then, as Massey spoke his only line, there crossed his face a glimpse of hell, brief, intense, like sudden lightning. Sidney caught his breath, anticipating thunder. It was not remorse, though God knew Marlowe should be feeling that, for his maliciously brilliant libel—nor even quite regret or loss, but something of all those things, and something more. Not quite natural, Sidney thought, a look of Tantalus, as though something beyond his own will or Massey’s refusal held him back... The vision faded then, though he kept a wary eye on the poet throughout the course of the play. Marlowe’s face betrayed nothing further, and he laughed with the others at the clown’s speeches and the dog Crab, so that by the end of the performance Sidney almost doubted that he had seen anything.
When the play was done, and the flattering epilogue spoken by the younger of the apprentices, there was dancing, but Sidney seized the opportunity to slip away. Frances, yawning hugely, submitted helplessly to her women and was led away to be readied for bed. By the time Sidney had changed into nightcap and nightgown, she was already in bed and sound asleep. He stood for a moment, staring at her through the half-opened curtains; then, decisively, closed them again to shut out the candlelight. He loosened the ties of his nightgown, shivering a little in the chill air.
Well done.
Sidney’s head lifted warily. The voice, all too familiar now after the months in Scotland, seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, a dry, mocking voice sifting up out of the rushes on the floor.
No, truly, I congratulate you, your work today was not in vain. It is a truly wise man who can shut me out from where I wish to enter.
Sidney let his hand fall to his side, turned slowly. The thing spoke truly: there was no presence in the room. Beyond the walls he could sense the watchfulness summoned by the completed ceremony, and, beyond that, held back by it, he could feel this other, alien spirit. He shook his head, and turned his gaze toward the dying fire.
I have never been so truly confounded, the voice continued. I misjudged you.
“Save your praises for one who desires them,” Sidney said, but softly, so as not to wake Frances, sleeping soundly now behind the embroid
ered curtains.
Many desire them. Few deserve them. Have you never faced an enemy whom you respected, but swore still to defeat?
“And I have earned your respect?” Sidney put polite skepticism into his voice.
Commanded it, rather, the voice murmured, as though in Sidney’s ear, and it held a rueful note that was purely human. It was no great desire of mine to find myself so well opposed. I can only wonder if her majesty of England fully appreciates what she possesses in you.
“I daresay she must,” Sidney answered. “She sent me here.”
Fear me not, Sir Philip, at least not tonight. I value a worthy opponent as much as any man—perhaps more so, I have so few. I deplore waste, as surely as you do. I can offer you nothing that you cannot win by your own merit... The voice changed then, took on a new, dreaming note. Coligny, Dee, Languet, Nassau—even Burleigh, all admit your excellence. Some few of them even foresaw the greatness for which you were obviously destined, did you not insist upon hiding your light beneath a bushel. Though it is not too late to seize that greatness.
“And should I not fear temptation?” Sidney murmured.
Hardly that. I say no more than you yourself have thought. You see the king of Scots, you see the potential in him—If only he had those who could guide him wisely, honestly, without self-interest. If only he would favor those who were worthy of his favor, choosing, with his head and not his fallible heart. Elizabeth of England is old. How many years can she endure? Ten? She has not that many left her, I can tell you that as a favor, no price attached to it. And you know what is promised on her death. Why should England be condemned to such a future, when her own champion has the power to prevent it?
“You offer me, to read your words aright, a choice of damnations,” Sidney said. “My own, or England’s.”
Damnation? The voice held a note of almost human surprise. All know you seek no rewards for yourself. Call it sacrifice, if you must, for truer words were never spoken than it is fitting that one should give his all so that the whole might not perish.
“I hold the world but as the world,” Sidney answered, with more conviction than he felt. “It is not given to one man to save or damn it, save one alone.”
I speak not of the world, that abstraction, but of your world, her majesty’s world, the voice urged, and of a fate she would brave hell itself to avoid. She saw the same greatness in you the others saw, she sought to bridle it and break it to her use, and failed. James needs you; he has seen that himself. The one man capable enough to shut me out— The voice caught on quiet laughter. No matter the rites were devised by another, that quibbling’s unworthy of you. You know it is your touch that holds it strong against me. You and you alone stand between your Scots king and me. You’ve seen the excesses of which he is capable, you know the caprice of princes and the danger that lies therein. Sir Philip Sidney is greater than any other that serves the English throne. Why should he be kept down? Elizabeth will not live forever—there’s less than a decade left to be told of her life, I told you true before—and then what will become of all she’s made? Her advisors, all those she preferred above the great men of her court, all those are dead. James will have the throne of England: a harrowing thought, were it not for the one man who can be to him what he should by rights have been to the queen of England. You’re no boy, no fool—those who’ve called you so are those who fear you most, and you’ve triumphed over most of them. You must be at his side, or England goes down.
Sidney shook his head. “And your offer? No, I see that too clearly. What’s your price for this advancement? Is it one any man can pay and still remain true?”
True to what? What truth is this? True to himself?
“Hardly the greatest loyalty a man owes,” Sidney answered. “To his faith—his soul, if you will, and to his prince and his God. A man loses himself in those services, and finds himself again, as have I.”
Not yet, Sir Philip. You have not found yourself yet, that’s still to come.
“You drive a clumsy bargain. What price can you expect me to think myself able to pay?”
I know better than to seek what I cannot come near, the voice answered, tinged now with bubbling laughter.
“Then what—” Sidney began, and realized that it was gone, as softly as it had come. His hand was trembling, and he could feel sweat chilling on his back despite the night cold. He took a deep breath, calming himself. Neither Bothwell nor his minion demons could any longer penetrate the palace. Very well, that was to the good, but the battle seemed to have shifted ground without his realizing it. A cunning demon, to touch a man’s heart without searing it, echoing too well the words one often tried in one’s own mind, and banished before the desire to speak them, to admit to them, became too great to control.
Sidney closed his eyes. May God help me, when I find myself echoing the thoughts the devil himself has winnowed from my innermost heart. I do not wish these things—no, that’s not quite true, but I do not want to wish them. Dear God, lead me from these snares Thy adversary lays before me, which are partly of my own devising, and therefore seem the more enticing. Forgive my pride, that never saw that I could be so drawn in by the influence You’ve seen fit to let me wield.
Hubris, Philip, the voice whispered as if from a great distance, but Sidney shook his head. No, he answered silently. Merely truth, and in denying it, I do myself no favors. If I know the best of me, I also know the worst. A sudden, cool anger washed through him. And I will know your name, demon, and banish you, and destroy your master Bothwell. But no more than my commission will I fulfill. Tell him so!
I must obey, said the distant voice, and was gone. Sidney felt its departure this time, a rushing of air like that which banished the demon Rabdos. He bowed his head. The battle was finished; what lay ahead was war.
After that conversation came an ominous silence. The demonic voice seemed to have spoken unexpected truth: the palace was proof against any further attacks. Once or twice, Sidney felt Bothwell’s minions sniffing about the perimeters of the defense, whispering past its barriers like wind deflected around shutters and good stone walls. Then even that ended, while the days grew shorter and the ground stiffened with an early frost. Sidney waited warily, unable to act until Bothwell did, not daring to risk breaching his own barriers for any seeking ritual until he knew more certainly where the wizard was hiding himself. Not yet, at any rate, some inner voice murmured; not yet, while the year is on the wane, and the night of all souls fast approaching. Those were papist thoughts—worse, pagan thoughts, but they held power. Sidney waited, and king and court waited with him, even their faction quarrels suspended, almost as though they were holding their breaths until the siege were ended. No, Sidney thought, it was not a siege—there was more life to war, more movement and false gaiety. This was more like a hunt, a blind hunt under the ground: the ferret was loosed already, down the hole and seeking in the crawling dark, while the rest of the hunt could do nothing but stand and wait, until their creature flushed the rabbit. I only wish, Sidney thought, I knew which of us was hare and which the hunter.
To no one’s great surprise, the Master of Ruthven was soon restored to the freedom of the court. The king’s forgiveness was as immoderate as his anger, but, truly, Marlowe thought, Ruthven’s frantic speeches, repentance and a desperate plea for protection and forgiveness, could have melted stonier hearts than James’s. On the other hand, is it too much to ask that a king show some constancy? Or have the wit to hold even a little aloof from a self-convicted traitor? Occasionally, as Ruthven sat demurely at the king’s feet to watch some new play—new to Scotland, at least—the poet found himself watching Sidney for some sign of the famous temper, but Sidney remained impassive, and made no public comment on the favorite’s reascension. Nor did he make any private comment, and that was even more surprising. Like all the rest of the court, he seemed caught and held in some mysterious spell, as chilling as the unseasonable frost.
At least Ruthven was bearing himself very
humbly now, Marlowe thought. There was some satisfaction to be gained from that… but not enough. His own demon, his own Mephistophilis, had not vanished with the other apparitions, though the soft voice and mocking laughter seemed to reach no other ears. It was the pin, the satyr brooch he had been given in Flushing, he knew in more rational moments, but he still could not bring himself to be rid of the pretty jewel. It was too rich to destroy, he would tell himself one day, or too beautiful; the next, he would tell himself it would be better to sell the thing, and make some profit from an otherwise unprofitable toy. In the meantime, he did nothing, and the brooch appeared and reappeared mysteriously—not mysteriously enough, the poet thought, not mysteriously at all—pinned to hat or jerkin. He removed it each time he found it, but could not seem to do more.
The king rode constantly. Hunting, he called the daily expedition, though he never crossed Holyrood’s protected bounds, or expected to find much game on the barren ground. It was an excuse to be out of the palace, to seem, at least, to be doing something, and, finally, it was one of several ways to ensure he slept at night. If he rode himself—though never his horses—into tremble-legged exhaustion, how could Fletcher’s herbal brews fail to do their work and lull the king to sleep?
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