Philip craned forward, but this boy was not fair; instead, he was dark and smaller than the other, perhaps younger. "The day you last saw me," he said. "There was another boy. Fair-haired." He remembered something. "He told me his ankle was broken, and that was why he was sitting down."
"Oh, I remember him. Someone came for him when we were on the point of locking up." Gabriel cocked an eyebrow at Philip. "I remember him indeed, because I could have sworn he was copying Anthony's play as well, but he had nothing on him. You two weren't far apart, were you?"
"Not far," Philip agreed blandly.
"Well?" Above them, the stairs quivered as someone headed for the roof; there would be a descent from the heavens soon. "Well?" Gabriel said again.
Philip said nothing.
Gabriel shrugged. "I'll leave you to it, then. But - did you mean it, about wanting me to join you at Henslowe's?"
"Yes," Philip said. "Yes, I did, as it happens."
"Prove it," Gabriel retorted, watching him with an alert, bright gaze that was a challenge in itself.
Any moment now the play would start. The house was nearly full, but in that dark corner - Philip stepped closer still, cupped one hand round the back of Gabriel's head and pulled him forward into a kiss, long and deep and as seductive as he knew how. He broke away when the trumpet sounded, and smiled into Gabriel's face. "Proof?"
"Proof," the other whispered.
"I'm not talking of love, you realise."
Gabriel didn't step back; he too was smiling. "Lust will suit me very well indeed, believe me."
"Henslowe's, then?" He was listening with half an ear to the first scene, alert for words and movement.
"I'll let you know." Gabriel, still pressed close to him, made a suggestive movement of his hips, followed it by putting his hand firmly between Philip's thighs, and turned away, laughing. You … Half-laughing himself, Philip took his mind firmly off the sudden aching heat in his loins, and applied it to what was passing on the stage.
Martin said, not so much to Nick as to the class in general, "If one more of you slaps me on the back, I'll have my knife out. That's all." They were at their desks, translating, but taking advantage of master Giles' temporary absence to talk in English instead of Latin. Martin winced every time he moved his shoulders, much as Nick had done a few days back.
"What line are you on, Nick?" he asked.
"Bottom of the page," Nick answered. "Senex, his last entrance."
"Oh." Martin paused. "I don't know who is the patron saint of scholars, but he certainly takes care of you. My mother says mine should be St Jude, I'm such a lost cause."
"You're no lost cause," Nick said. "And - at least you have a mother and a father."
"Oh - I know." For a few minutes Martin wrote on. "Your uncle treats you well, though, doesn't he?"
"Oh yes, he's good to me. When he sees me. I don't even think he helps himself to my inheritance apart from paying the fees here. But he has his own family to look after."
Martin grunted. "Giles here says he's in loco parentis. Suppose that's why he beat me today."
"But what for?" Nick asked.
"Because of the playhouse," Martin said. "I may as well tell you. Wish I'd never gone near the place for you."
Nick scratched away with his pen, but Martin said nothing. They had not seen each other all yesterday, not till after curfew when Martin had climbed straight past Nick on the stairs to the dormitory, got into bed and turned his back on him without a word.
Nick said, "I am sorry. If there's anything - "
"It's too late now! I've had the beating, haven't I?" Martin sighed. "Keep on helping me with my lessons. That would be something."
"I do mean it. I am sorry." Nick dipped his pen in the ink-well.
"I know. That won't stop you asking me to help you another time, will it? And what's more," Martin added ruefully, "it won't stop me saying yes, either. Fool that I am."
The door banged. Giles came in, and with the cat back in the room, the mice had to stop playing; they set themselves to work for the rest of the afternoon. Only when everyone else was rushing downstairs did Martin say, "I have your copy."
"Wh- " Nick, hobbling down with particular care, turned to look at him, almost lost his balance, and said, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Ask my shoulders," Martin said, and then, "I'll tell you outside. Let me carry your books."
Nick handed them over, scrambled down the rest of the stairs as fast as he could for not being able to put one foot to the ground, and sat on the nearest low wall. "I did hear you? You do have my copy?"
"I do." Martin sat next to him with a thump. "I went to the play, and you said you had the first three scenes, so I did nothing. I got the next scene, and then a man sat down beside me and said he'd throw me over the gallery if I didn't stop writing."
"So you moved to another place," Nick said.
"Of course I didn't." Martin swung his feet, scuffing the dust.
"Oh Martin."
"Don't 'Martin' me. He was frightening. Quite pleasant, smiling, but he frightened me all the same. Philip said afterwards that he's a player, his name's Gabriel Spencer. I think he was in that Italian play we saw over at Shoreditch last year."
"Philip? You spoke to Philip?"
Martin was telling his story at his own speed. "Well, when Spencer said what he did I was ready to run, but he did make me angry too, threatening me like that, so I said I wouldn't have been there if it hadn't been for someone called Philip Standage."
"And?"
"And he laughed," Martin said. "Then he asked if I had an older brother with fair hair and a broken ankle, and I said not exactly." He wriggled his shoulders. "Ouch."
"But, Standage?"
Martin glared at him. "Don't be so impatient. It's your fault, this. I might just shut my mouth and not tell you any more."
At that very moment, the calling bell began to ring. Martin leapt to his feet, said, "Holy Mother of God, five minutes to go and I have ink on my sleeves still," and rushed off.
Nick was excused singing because of the crutch and the difficulty of processing in order, but he was still supposed to attend evensong. He hobbled into the cathedral by the nearest door.
It was noisier than usual. Some great lady's lapdog had escaped into the nave and, being an Italian greyhound, it was a lot fleeter of foot than most of the virgers; to see them chasing after it was almost as good as a play. Nick reached the quire, sat with his back to the screen, and tried to listen. He couldn't concentrate on either music or salvation; he was too busy thinking about Martin's story.
After the service came supper, and there was no chance to talk to Martin, who must have done well in the service because he was dining nearer the head of the table than usual. They didn't meet again until bedtime.
"Finish the story, then," Nick said. "The last you told me, Gabriel Spencer was laughing at you. Or was he asking questions?"
"Questions," Martin said. "He went off after that, but only for a few minutes. There wasn't time to take the paper out again, and when he came back, he stood close behind me. I wouldn't have tried writing anything for any money."
Nick didn't say 'Oh Martin' again, although he came close enough, and Martin, to judge by the look on his face, knew it. "What would you have done?" he demanded. "I could feel his breath on the back of my neck as near as anything."
"You do have my papers?"
"How many times have I told you now? Yes. But I don't see why I should make it easy for you." He smiled, and punched Nick's arm. "Serve you right."
"Well - maybe it does," Nick admitted, and grinned back. "Sorry."
"Here you are." Martin handed over the familiar roll of paper. "I had them under my gown all the time. Take them now before I forget."
"Thank you." Nick remembered, in time, not to thump him across the shoulders. "So how did you do it?"
"I enjoyed the play as best I could with Spencer looming over me," Martin said, "and then when I tried to leave at t
he end, he said, 'No, you stay there for the moment.' So I did."
"Proper little Martin mouse you are."
He ducked his head, blushing. "Stop teasing me, Nick. Life's easy for someone tough like you. Anyway - I reckon, that short time Spencer left me alone, he must have gone to find Standage, because the next thing I know is that someone sits down and says, 'I'm Philip Standage. I gather you're looking for me.' And he handed over your papers straight off, and apologised for not coming back the first afternoon. So that's that," Martin said flatly, "and don't forget what I went through for you."
"I won't," Nick said. "And I am grateful, Martin. Thankee."
He smiled, and shrugged. "My fault for letting you persuade me."
"What about Standage?" Nick asked. "What is he? Where does he come from?"
"Philip? He's one of the Admiral's Men," Martin said. "He lodges with master Henslowe at Bankside."
"Oh," Nick said. "Oh."
Martin looked at him. "That sounds as if you're planning something."
"I do believe I am." Nick flexed his ankle. "Ouch. Not till this is better, though."
"That will be another month, didn't they say? Well - do me a favour and leave me out of it." Martin pulled the bed-covers carefully over his shoulders, and rolled on one side.
"Don't worry," Nick said. "I will."
"Charming boy," Gabriel said.
Philip looked at him. "Far too young for me. You, on the other hand - "
"Eighteen," Gabriel said. "So there."
"I had thought you older." Philip looked round. The Swan was almost deserted.
"Oh, as to that - ancient in vice," Gabriel said, winked, and put his hands on his hips. "Come and see me on stage in August."
Philip walked past him to the stairs, turning back with a smile. "Come down with me now, and I'll think about it."
Gabriel chuckled. "How far down, and before or after?" But, as Philip had both guessed and hoped, he came downstairs behind him. They wandered into the afternoon sunlight, and round into a piece of waste ground where a house had been pulled down. There was a pile of planks stacked against a wall. Philip sat on it, dug in his satchel for the pasty he had meant to share with Nick, and broke it in half. "Here you are - I can't eat it all."
"The pasty of the transubstantiation of beef - into something purporting to be venison," Gabriel said, sitting beside him, and twiddled his fingers over the handful of meat and pastry. "Tibi gratias."
"Don't, Gabriel."
Gabriel looked at him. "Why? You're not papist, are you?"
"I own the authority of the Church of Rome. So I promised my mother I would always say," Philip said, feeling the words come stiffly from his mouth.
"But do you really?" Gabriel bit the end off the pasty.
"Does it matter? I'm only a player. Who cares what I think?" Philip shrugged. "Eat it and enjoy it, that's all." He began to eat his own half, brushing the crumbs from his clothes into the dust.
"I will. Thank you."
"So what's the play?"
"Tom Nashe's latest. Isle of Dogs, it's called," Gabriel said through a mouthful of crumbs.
"Comedy?"
Gabriel swallowed. "To the utmost, believe me. I play a courtier who dresses as a woman in order to seduce the Lord Chamberlain."
Philip whistled long and low. "That I would like to see, but I hope it doesn't reach Burleigh's ear, or Cecil's."
"What of that? The old man needs shaking up, and his son will come to no harm by it." Gabriel's face was unconcerned, his hair lifting in the summer breeze, his eyes bright.
"Cecil owes a lot to his father," Philip said, "and before you laugh, I don't mean money. He won't stand by and see him mocked."
"Ah, with luck he'll never know. It's a poor man who can't take a joke." Gabriel twisted on the stack of planks, and stroked Philip's face. "Come see us, friend."
"Since when was I your friend?"
"When you offered to pay off Langley," Gabriel said, low-voiced, looking round as if someone might overhear him. "I've had to make my way alone so long, and it hasn't been easy. To have someone make such an offer as lightly as you did, it never happened before."
"Nor ever will again, I dare say," Philip answered. "And I won't say I'm not hoping for something from you, whether in return or not."
"I know that." Gabriel finished the pasty and stood up; then he looked over his shoulders again, all round where they were sitting. The streets were full and noisy, but this patch of land was deserted. "Until August, then." He leaned forward, snatched a quick kiss and walked away, swaggering.
Chapter 4
August 1597
The jig at the end of The Isle of Dogs was not so much a dance as a riot of lust, and would have had the Puritans fainting where they stood if any had been there to see it. It was also very, very funny, and Philip was still smiling when he returned to Henslowe's afterwards; not least because he had met Gabriel Spencer in the tiring-room afterwards. The play being over, they had the place to themselves, although there was not time or privacy for anything but kissing.
"Tomorrow," Gabriel said, into the curve of Philip's shoulder. "Early, before rehearsal. I'll bring the key to below-stage. Yes?"
"Yes," Philip said, breathing hard. "Sweet God, yes."
And tomorrow early, he went to the Swan: but all the doors were locked. He walked round the theatre twice. Not a sight or sound of anyone, and so he walked back to Henslowe's.
No sooner was he through the door than Agnes put her hands on his shoulders and stopped him in his path. "Away with you this minute, my boy," she said, "Henslowe is like a bear with a sore head, believe me - something to do with the Privy Council, of course - and I wouldn't be in the same building if I were you."
"That's all very well," Philip said, "but where am I supposed to go?"
"Join the others in the Rose, of course. You can't perform, but you can still rehearse, surely." She made shooing movements with her hands. "Oh … take a drink and be gone with you, there's a good boy."
"Agnes," he said, torn between laughter and indignation, but following her to the kitchen. "I'm nearer thirty than twenty, if you please."
"Don't you presume that that means anything, sweetheart. I remember you as shrewish Kate being tamed - and very pretty she was, too," Agnes said, dealing him a brisk slap on the backside. "Master Drayton was much taken with you, as I recall."
"Drayton?" Philip said. "I always wondered why he came looking for me."
"And went away downhearted," Agnes said. "Kit Marlowe was more to your taste, was he not? Stronger meat - so to speak."
Philip stared at her. "How did you - ?"
"Thomas Downton told Henslowe in his cups, once, and Henslowe told me." Agnes poured him a cup of beer. "There's no hiding some things. This much, or more?"
"That will be plenty." He took the cup, still trying to absorb that she knew about his likings. "Thank you, Agnes. For everything."
"God rewards the charitable," she said with a twinkle in her eyes. "Go on, and don't forget to bring the cup back."
Philip arrived at the Rose to find that news had arrived before him, and the place was full of it: "Nashe buggered off to Norfolk like the coward that he is" - "Damn the bloody Puritans" - "Not them for a change, this was Burleigh, and they were fools to think he wouldn't" - "How long do you think Shaw and Spencer will get?"
"What?" he asked, grabbing Sol Jeanes by the shoulder and swinging him round. "What happened?"
"You went to the Swan yesterday, didn't you?"
"Yes, and it was bloody funny."
"Too near the bone for some," Jeanes said, "and that fool Langley ignoring the latest order from Council, too. Nashe got away somehow, but Jonson is in the Marshalsea, and so are Shaw and Spencer."
"What about - who were our two who went over to him?" Philip asked.
"Downton and Jones? They'll be running back, tails between their legs, I dare say. If this brings Langley down, all the better for us." Sol Jeanes looked around the theatr
e. "I can't see us rehearsing this morning, you know."
"I told Spencer when I saw him last that I'd pay the fine if he wanted to break with Langley," Philip said. "Marshalsea, though … "
"Don't you worry, Phip - "
"Don't call me that, cullion." Philip swiped at him, half-heartedly; the nickname was a perennial grievance.
"All right, then; don't worry, and that's all." Jeanes grinned at him. "Henslowe will bail them if he thinks they're worth it."
"Of course they're worth it. Besides, they're our friends." Philip drank the last of the beer. "I hope Henslowe does something."
"Oh, he'll do what he always does when London's too hot, one way or other," Jeanes said. Philip looked at him: they nodded, and said in unison, "Time to go on tour again."
But Henslowe did not go on tour. Some of the Admiral's Men, with little to line their pockets except a licence to play, went off on their own account; but at the last minute, Henslowe offered Philip more to stay in London and copy some old scripts afresh.
"I'd rather be on the stage," Philip told him.
"Aye, and so you shall be; we can run through some of these to see if they will serve for next season," Henslowe said. "Also, you're a slothful creature, Standage; don't tell me that you'd be happier on the road than here."
Philip laughed. "You know me too well. So, what plays?"
"Several. Our lost sheep are returned from the Swan bringing plays with them, and one William Borne, too. He will need to learn how the Admiral's Men work - Langley has no talent for managing players. Speaking of which; you can play women still?"
"Assuredly." Philip swept him a curtsey, holding imaginary skirts. "When do we begin?"
"Tomorrow, in the morning. We must look through the apparel and so forth. We may as well find out whether what we have fits you still. And I know there will be no public performance, but - " Henslowe shrugged, and looked sideways - "there may be those who will come in private, in a few days' time."
"Ah, hush," Philip said. "I don't deceive myself that I have any admirers at court."
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