"The butterfly was smashing its web to pieces," Philip said, taking his seat once more. "And there are flies a-plenty."
"True." Cecil held the pen still poised above his writing. "Standage - "
"I wish you would call me Philip. You always used to."
"That was a long time ago," Cecil said. "But - very well." There was another long silence, and then he said, abruptly, "You and your sister were the only children in the village who never laughed at me. I remember that."
Philip smiled, but ruefully. "Fellow-feeling. We knew what it was like well enough, goddamn papists and Italian half-breeds that we were. You were the only one who never laughed at us."
"That did nothing to stop your younger brother mocking me," Cecil said, with an edge to his voice.
"Michael takes after our father, and always did." Philip looked at him. "What do you want with me, sir?"
Cecil stared at the tip of his pen, and wiped it dry. "Nothing, I think. I should have let you go back to your lodging. I crave your pardon, Philip."
"It's of no matter. I thank you for the drink; you are right, I was thirsty."
"If it's day, and you are passing and need drink, always feel free to come in to the buttery and ask. I will tell the servants." Cecil laid the pen down and closed the top of his ink-well. "Philip: why did you come to London?"
This is what you wanted, isn't it? For a moment Philip sat still, and then said, "That is between me and my father, sir. If my father will not tell you - "
"I have not asked him."
Philip shrugged. "If he tells you, then you will know."
Cecil lifted his head and stared at him, the eyes that had been so icy green under a cold sky in February now gleaming with reflected light from the window. Philip thought that he was angry, but all he said was, "I can find the answer without asking your father, I dare say. You might prefer to save me the trouble."
Laughter bubbled in Philip's throat. "Why, if you think I am worth the trouble, then by all means take it. Who am I to forestall you?" Rising to his feet he made an elaborate, sweeping bow: an ambassador's bow, with velvet cloak and all the trimmings. "At your service to have trouble taken, my lord."
Cecil laughed outright. "You always had something of the ridiculous in you, Philip. Indeed, you are quite unlike anyone else I know. Get you gone, with my thanks for entertaining Frances. I may call on you for the same service again, I hope?"
"For Frances' sake, always," Philip said, solemn now. I mean for Elizabeth's sake, who was so kind to me: but I had best not say that to you, here and now.
"My thanks. Ask the steward to send Rafe with you for a boat - the man who fetched you earlier. He will pay the waterman." Cecil rose from his chair and shuffled over to take a book from the press against the wall.
"You are kind, sir, but I am as happy to walk. My legs need stretching," Philip said, and clamped his lips shut in dismay. Fool.
"Are they not long enough already? Take care, or someone will hale you to the Duke of Exeter's daughter." It was said with a glimmer of laughter but no smile, for Cecil spoke of the rack in the Tower; but at once he went on, "A poor jest, Philip, and unbecoming of me. Think no more of it, I pray you."
"I will not," Philip said, bowing and taking his leave, a little shaken by the bitterness in Cecil's voice.
Philip would have reached the Swan sooner if he had accepted Cecil's offer of a boat, for the walk took him to London bridge, across, and back to the west end of Southwark. When he arrived at the Swan, it was locked and barred, and there was nobody to ask about the fair boy in the gallery. Another day. He turned homeward towards Henslowes, beyond the Rose, Henslowe's own theatre in which he played, when he was not out copying.
The house door was unbarred; he stepped into the cool hallway, listened for a moment, and made his way to the back of the house and a pungent smell of vinegar. "Agnes?"
Mistress Henslowe was not one to stand on her dignity, and all who lodged at Henslowe's called her by name except when her husband was nearby. "Philip, my dear. You're late." She turned from labelling jars of pickles, and pushed a wisp of grey hair under her cap.
He kissed her on the cheek. "I was called to Sir Robert Cecil's, and walked back. Have you dined?"
"Indeed we have, before Henslowe had to go out; but no matter. There's a pie in the larder - the small one that's already broken, mind, not the large one - and cheese, and cold spiced pears in the blue bowl. Help yourself. Or would you rather have a made dish?"
Philip shook his head. "It's too warm to put you to more work than you have. My thanks, mistress Agnes." He made to kiss her again, but she batted him off.
"Away with you, wretch, and leave me to my work, or you'll drop paste-crumbs in my ink. I know you players." But she was smiling.
Philip, already with a mouthful of pie, swallowed it, coughed, and said, "When I've done with the food, I'll come back and write for you. And - Agnes - were you in the Rose, this afternoon, by chance?"
"Me? As if I had not work enough to do here." Agnes flourished her quill, failing to notice the ink that she dripped on the parchment in so doing. And then asked, "Why?"
"No matter." The door banged. Philip backed off, brushing crumbs from his doublet, and turned his head. "Is that master Henslowe?"
"It must be," Agnes Henslowe said, putting aside her pen and straightening her clothes and cap as if she were still a young girl and not a matron of years and quality. "In here, my love!"
Master Henslowe strode into the kitchen and banged that door shut too; then he threw a letter on to the kitchen board. "Philip. Read that. Does it say what I think it does?"
Philip set down the cheese, wiped his fingers surreptitiously inside the hem of his doublet, and opened the letter. A few moments' reading was enough. "Oh, in God's name. Not again."
"Again," Henslowe said with heavy irony. "The Privy Council prohibits acting, and orders that the theatres be plucked down."
"If you fling your arms across the bed tonight," Nick whispered, "I'll push you out. My shoulders are sore as the Devil's nose after Dunstan's tongs had hold of it."
"I never mean to," Martin said, contrite, "but I've always been a restless sleeper." The dormitory was full, pallet after pallet of sleepers lying flat or hunched, silent or snoring. "At least he chose your shoulders; with your ankle as it is, you need to be able to sit down."
"I suppose I must be thankful for small mercies." Nick wriggled under the covers until his head was level with Martin's, hoping that they wouldn’t be overheard. "He says he's not letting me out of school again until I have a copy of that play, but if I can't go, how can I do it?"
"I'll do it for you," Martin said. "If you'll help me with my lessons."
"That seems fair enough," Nick answered. Martin was one of the best singers and players, but not the best scholar. "There is something else, too. The man who went off with my copy, his name is Standage. Philip Standage, I think. If you can find him, or find anyone who knows him - well, I'd like to know, that's all." He wriggled his shoulders, then wished he hadn't, because the rough linen caught on the weals that master Giles' cane had made. "Ouch."
"Have a sucket," Martin said. "I saved it for you. It's not fair to ask you to copy plays, is it? It's not as if we're allowed to play in public any more."
"Playing for each other is better than nothing," Nick said, round a mouthful of rose-flavoured sugar paste. "One day they'll remember we're here."
"I hope so. My father keeps saying the school fees are a waste of money." Martin's father had more money than Nick's had ever dreamed of in his life, and seemed to do little good with it. "Suppose he puts me to a school nearer home, one day or another?" Martin said.
"He'll not do that. He wants you to be more gentlemanlike than him. And he won't admit to a mistake, not he."
"You're a good friend, Nick. I don't know what I'd do, otherwise."
"Neither do I," Nick told him. "You're too soft-hearted for your own good, that's your trouble. Where did the sucket come from?"
/> "Oh, a dish at supper," Martin said. "I don't care for sweet stuff, but we were allowed one each, and you weren't there."
"Thank you." Nick licked sugar from his fingers. "Look, if you're going to copy that play for me, I'd better let you have a penny or two. I think they're putting it on again come Tuesday, but that's probably the last time for a while. If you can't do it for me - well, then I shall have to make friends with someone at the Swan."
"Two pence?" Martin said, offended. "I can pay my own way, you know." He rolled over. "But - this Philip Standage. What was he like? I suppose he must be a hired clerk, if he was copying. So they must know him at one or other of the theatres, if he does that sort of work often. He might even be there when I go."
"That's true." Nick tugged back the covers from round Martin, and repeated the waterman's description. "Thin he is, and foreign-looking. Dark hair. I couldn't see much else, the sky was too bright. I can't even tell how old he is." He thought for a moment. "He didn’t look like a clerk, he wasn't dressed for it. The way he moves, quick and lithe, he might even be a player."
Martin yawned. "I'll do what I can on Tuesday," he said. "But for now, I'd like to go to sleep." And with the word he slept, as if there were a spell on him. Nick wriggled from under the covers, to let the night air cool his sore shoulders and the pillow cool his hot forehead, and lay there, thinking of painful deaths for schoolmasters and copyists.
"What will you do?" Philip asked.
Henslowe snorted. "The same as ever. Comply for a week or so, send letters to Cecil and such at the court as I know will lend ear to me, and then open again. If young Burbage has any sense, he'll do the same."
"What about Langley?"
"He has the sense of a skinned rabbit, and greedy as a wolf with it. The Swan's a grand theatre, but the plays he chooses - " Henslowe shrugged. "He may weather the storm. Or - if what I hear about him and Cecil is true - Cecil may have raised this storm to bring foul weather on him." He turned to his wife at last. "Well, my lamb, so I am home. Leave your labours with those jars, and come to the parlour. Meg can set things straight here."
Philip took the quill from where Agnes had laid it, and said, "Tell me the labels you want, mistress Henslowe, and I'll write them as I promised."
"Oh," she said, a little distracted. "They should be all the same. Beans pickled. You see the jars there. Are you certain - "
"Quite certain," he said, and smiled at her. "Mistress, would I lie to you?"
"Oh, you men," she said, but went away with a dimple in her cheeks.
The labels done, Philip climbed aloft where his bed was, and took from his purse the two papers that he had been guarding all afternoon. Once opened, the lid of his clothes chest doubled as a writing slope: he laid the two sheaves of paper on it.
The boy had written all of the long speech. Excellent. He read it over. Yes, a good speech, not too much ranting; it would make an audience sit up and take notice, in the mouth of a good player. Fast, carefully, Philip copied it to his own papers with the artist's silverpoint that he always used for this job. Done.
He sat for a while, and then, with something of a twist to his mouth, cut himself a new nib to his quill, and reached for his ink-well in its own compartment of the chest, its joints sealed with beeswax. Better give him something in return. The boy's shorthand was good, and Philip inserted his own words where the boy had left spaces. In the silence, his pen scratched across the poor paper with a noise like leaves against the wall. Outside, the light slanted and reddened, and at last it was too dark to write by. He folded everything away, did off his clothes, and lay down. For a while now he had been the only lodger, and although he shared the loft space with rats and mice as well as the cats that prowled among the forest of roof-beams, they did not trouble him; but he would have liked more company. There was no turning back the years, and there would never be another Kit; but Philip liked life and its pleasures too much to live the life of a monk. A line of music drifted into his mind, and the words with it: My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given …
Perhaps Kit took my heart, and I have none left any more.
But the heart in his breast ached too much for that to be true. With a sigh he rolled over, and tried to sleep.
* * *
Chapter 3
July 1597
"You still want me to go to the Swan?" Philip asked master Henslowe, early afternoon on the Tuesday. "I have the play, more or less."
"Make it more," Henslowe grumbled, rummaging in his chest of papers. "It's poor stuff in some ways, but there are good conceits in it. I wish a better poet had taken it on. Kit Marlowe, now; he could have done wonders with it."
Philip ducked his head a little, as he often did when Kit's name was mentioned: but he said, calmly enough, half-smiling, "Not Will?"
"And lose it to the Lord Chamberlain's Men? I thank you, no." Henslowe snorted. "You might go over it for me, Philip. You have an ear for what will please."
"Perhaps so, sir, but only once the word is written. I couldn't write it to save my life." He rolled a corner of the paper between his fingers. "You might ask Tom Nashe, perhaps?"
Henslowe snorted. "He's busy with something for Langley. Anyone else?"
"Dekker?"
Another snort. "Your drinking-partner? Oh well, if you must. But as I said, make it more: go to the Swan, if you will. I shall be grateful." Henslowe pulled out a book, spread it on his desk, and opened his ink-well. "Thank you, Philip."
Philip nodded, and hitched his satchel up on his shoulder. It held both rolls of paper, and in his purse was enough money to buy food and drink for two if need be. After all, he owed some apology to the boy, whoever he was - and wherever he came from. His voice had a southern accent, or maybe west country, and certainly he was a stranger; surely that cap of fair hair and the level, dark brows would be noticed, even in a crowd?
"Sir," he said, "there was a boy in the Swan, copying. He may have been to the Rose, perhaps?"
"I hope not! Describe him." But when Henslowe had heard the description, he shrugged. "How many boys look like that? A hundred or more. For all that, I'll ask the men to keep watch. Did you speak to him?"
"A little. He has a good voice and writes a good hand, too."
Henslowe looked up from trimming his pen. "So, a school boy, and at the play. One of Paul's, maybe, and if that's so he'll be pining for a little freedom." The faded grey eyes creased into lines of amusement. "We need another boy."
"You have two apprenticed to you already, sir," Philip pointed out. "Who would take on this one?"
"Cross that bridge when we come to it," Henslowe said. "Be off with you, Philip, and catch both your play and your boy if you can. I'll see you later."
Talking with Henslowe had taken more time than he had intended; the shadow of the gable was pointing along the street already as Philip set out with a long, swinging stride, weaving round people and beasts, and turning aside from piles of refuse that had not yet been cleared. The breeze was hot in the chasm between the tall houses, the air dusty with the smell of wood and plaster and things fouler, relieved sometimes by a draught of fresher air, or a scent of herbs. The Swan's gable, bare of flag or banner, came into view above the crowding rooftops, and Philip slowed his pace, looking not only for the boy but for Gabriel and Michael too.
Gabriel Spencer saw him first; indeed, startled him from his place in the gallery by whispering, all unexpected, in his ear. "Glutton for punishment, Philip?"
Philip clutched at the rail, every muscle in his back and arms taut. Gabriel, you - bastard. With a deep breath he loosed his grip and turned his head, smiling. "Come to hear the play, Spence. A man may do that now and then, I hope?"
"You've heard it before, and it's not a good play. That's what I meant." Gabriel propped his elbows on the rail like a farm boy leaning on a gate. "It's dark here, in the angle of the stairs. You've not come here to be seen, and you won't see much with this post in front of you."
<
br /> "I came to hear. I'll see enough," he answered, warily.
"Come, tell truth. You're copying it, aren't you?"
"Well - yes." Philip waited, his heart thumping. There was no movement beside him, no demand, no nothing. "You're not throwing me out, then?"
Gabriel laughed. "I have this minute climbed all the way to the top and back to hoist the flag. I haven't the strength. And you've paid your pennies. Besides - Langley deserves anything you can take off him." He kicked the baluster with a vehemence that made it creak. "I'd leave, if it wouldn't break my contract."
"Mm." After a moment, Philip said, "Leave him anyway. Henslowe would pay your fine, or I will. We need another boy, in truth, but you know your way around the stage."
"Henslowe?" Gabriel spat. "He'd sell his own grandmother at whatever price she fetched - and then buy her back for less."
"He and Agnes have been kind to me," Philip said.
"Oh." Gabriel held on to the rail, and swung from side to side, slowly. "In that case, I apologise." And then, "You'd really pay my fees?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Do I dare tell him? Philip stared into the swirling crowd with its constant movement of hands and feet and heads, the exchange of money and beer and signals and maybe more. "Something Michael Drayton told me once." It was dark in that corner; there was barely room for one, let alone two, and the noise rising from the yard ensured that his voice would not be heard except by someone nearby.
Gabriel stopped short. "About - what?"
"You. And him. And - a cup of wine."
"Oh, indeed." There was still no movement from beside him; and then Gabriel said, "He had no business to be telling you that."
"I thought not, at the time." Philip turned, very close to Gabriel, facing him, and set his hands on the other's shoulders. "But that is why I'd pay your fees. Or lend you the money, if you'd rather not be beholden."
Gabriel shrugged himself out of the light grip. "I'll remember, but this isn't the time." He pointed, cautiously, wrist against his doublet. "You said you were needing another boy? I bet that's one of Giles' pupils, along there."
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