"That's as well, for I know of none." Henslowe sighed. "Philip, I need to have the Rose open as soon as may be, and the way to do that is to assure - certain gentlemen of high estate - that there will be nothing on our stage to disturb the peace. And for that, someone needs to hear the plays through, with any business concerning - shall we say, apparel. Do you understand?"
Burghley. Or Cecil. Or both. "I do," Philip said. "I doubt I can play more than one part at a time, however."
"I shan't ask you to," said Henslowe, handing him a bundle of papers. "Now, pick the best of these and copy the parts; that will make a beginning."
Day after day after hot day. Philip grew tired of copying; he almost grew tired of rehearsing, which would once have been a thought to turn the world upside-down. Henslowe must have noticed, for one Sunday morning in September he said, "Who's to know if we work on the Sabbath so long as we're in church when the time comes?" and took Philip, with two other players who had not left London, to the apparel chests. "Philip," he said, puffing slightly as he turned a key and lifted a lid, "try what fits you. Matthew, the men's gear is here. Elias, look for smaller gear in this chest with Philip."
Over on the far side of the theatre, carpenters had the hasps off the gates; rain had got into the joints and rotted them, so they were being replaced by new ones.
"Consider The Cobbler of Queenheath or The Witch of Islington," Henslowe said. "There is a fine lady in each, is there not?" He peered into the chest, and rifled through it. "Try that green farthingale; we had it from some lady's maid or other, last year."
Philip nodded, and took the garment in question. "Elias, you'll act as my tire-woman, I hope? And mind those laces." He had been only a few weeks off stage, but missed it already, and even this was better than nothing. When all was ready, he donned a veil in lieu of a wig and, having half-learnt his part already through copying it, launched into a speech with gusto, only to forget his words half-way.
Matthew, still reading from the paper, raised one eyebrow. "I won't ask where your parts are."
Philip swept him what was meant to be a curtsey before it changed to a general collapse on to the stage, laughing. "I feel like a spring lamb," he said. "Let out to play."
"Dressed as mutton," Matthew retorted, and winked, before turning towards the sound of running feet. "Hallo; what have we here?"
A fair boy with straight hair - well, if it isn't my fellow-copyist - darted through the open door and ran for the stage.
"Press-gang," he said, barely able to draw breath.
Oh, I'm sure. But the boy might be telling the truth; the navy was always looking for active men. Players had been taken off the streets, or even outside the very doors of their theatres, before now. Matthew and Elias disappeared at a run for who knew what hiding-place, and the carpenters set off for the heavens above the stage.
"John!" Philip called to the porter, but he had his back to him and did not hear. John, old and deaf and stiff in his joints, was in no danger. Philip might be, unless his disguise was stronger than the press-gang's wits. As for the boy - "Under my skirts."
"What?" Hazel eyes, bright with laughter, met his, and Philip knew himself in danger of smiling back. He said, "You heard. You won't reach another hiding-place in time." A rustle of silk, a draught of air. "And keep your hands to yourself, or I'll throw you back," Philip added.
Henslowe came out to see what was happening; Philip, walking carefully and slowly, reached the trap-door and tapped on it imperiously with one foot before stepping back a little. Whoever was below was awake enough; there was a creak in the stage under him, a scuffle under the shelter of his farthingale, and a brief warm grasp on his ankle - I suppose I can forgive him that much - before the trap closed.
Henslowe was at his shoulder as he turned round. "What is it?
"Press-gang, or so the boy said."
"They're a long time coming," Henslowe remarked. "I'll go to the door. You keep moving."
Philip crossed the stage, maintaining his womanly air, and Stephen Magelt, tire-man to the company, closed the door behind him. Philip stood on the inner trap door; this side, it did not drop but lifted. "I suppose Paul's ushers are after you, and not the press-gang at all," he said into thin air, and was answered by a laugh under his feet.
"The ushers are worse, believe me. Can I come out?"
"Not for a moment." Philip peered through the grating that let players backstage watch for their cue.
Henslowe, returning, strode into the tiring-house. "Not a sign."
Outside, Sol Jeanes climbed up through the stage trap door.
"Bring the ladder with you, Sol," Philip said, and smiled at the squawk of indignation from beneath him. He has good ears, I'll say that much. "Stephen, we'll have the room to ourselves if you'll trust me to stow the attire properly."
"Trust you more than I would that brat," Stephen said ferociously, the grin on his face belying his words.
"Let me out!" came from beneath their feet.
"Why?" Philip said. "You wasted our time; surely we're entitled to a little revenge?" There was too much amusement in his voice for the boy to be seriously worried, of course.
"You mean you believed me?"
"For a moment, perhaps." Philip raised an eyebrow, and looked at Henslowe. We need another boy, he mouthed.
Pat on the word, the boy said, "I want to be a player."
Henslowe grunted. "I need a player who can play breathless without having to run across the theatre."
"I can do that."
Philip said, "You study at Paul's. Your friend told me so."
"What of it?" The voice was wary now, and a thump at the wood beneath him made Philip jump.
"Fees. Who pays them?" he said. "Apprenticeship. Who binds you over to us?"
"I'll talk to my uncle. He sent me to Paul's to join Paul's Boys, but they never staged a play since I arrived."
Henslowe snorted. "Why make this scene of it? You could simply have asked."
"Come to that," Philip said, "you could have asked at the Swan, when you were there."
There was a pause. In a smaller voice, the boy said, "I didn't think you'd listen, if I just asked. Besides, my ankle was no good when I was at the Swan. You know that."
Philip turned towards Henslowe and shrugged. "What do we say?"
"Step off the trap, Philip." Henslowe raised his voice. "Come out and sing, boy. Show us what you're made of." He bent to open the trap. "What's your name, lad, and where are you from?"
"Nicholas Hanham, master. From Silton in Dorset." He flattened his hair with both hands, and took a deep breath. "What shall I sing?"
"Whatever you like."
Nick opened his mouth, closed it again, swallowed, and with a brief look of panic, very much like a player forgetting his words, sang. "Rose, rose, rose, rose, Shall I ever see thee wed? Aye, marry, that thou wilt, If thou but stay."
It was a round, an easy tune but needing pure notes and good timing. Philip knew it; he relaxed his shoulders and joined in with the tenor line. Nick, with a sideways glance of thanks or relief, sang on; and presently Henslowe, who had a fine bass voice that he used rarely, joined in.
They made Nick sing and speak and declaim; he played no instrument, but had learned to dance. At last Henslowe turned away. Nick fell silent, and cast a look at Philip, who did not return it.
He's good. He could be very good.
Henslowe turned back. "As far as I'm concerned, join us and welcome. Your uncle will no doubt pay some heed to a letter from a Gentleman of the Queen's Bedchamber, and I will write it - if master Standage here is willing."
"What have I to do with your choice?" Philip asked.
"As you said, I already have two prentices. So if we take Nick on, 'tis you must hold his indentures. You are free of one of the guilds, are you not?"
Seven years have I been with the Admiral's Men and you never troubled to ask me that yet. "The Musicians' Company, sir."
"Good. So; if you are willing." Henslowe w
alked away.
"Please - " Nick said.
"Be quiet," Philip said, turning his back on the beseeching look in those hazel eyes. I suppose I must. After all, I went along with the game in the first place. "All right," he said, without turning round. "But first you go back to Paul's. I'll have no man say we took you unlawfully."
"They'll never let me go once I'm between their walls again," Nick said, lifting his chin and giving Philip a defiant glare. "I'm staying here."
"No, you are not." Philip glared back, and then softened the look. "How old are you, lad?"
"Fourteen," Nick said, then looked at the ground. "Almost."
"Henslowe does not fail of his word, I promise you. First, we will go to church. Then I will take you back to Paul's. Next, I will entreat that you aren't beaten for playing truant, though you deserve it." He closed his eyes briefly. "And after that - "
"After that?" Nick enquired, looking as much like a cherub as a boy could with the below-stage dust on him.
"After that," Philip said, "I will find Thomas Dekker, take him to the nearest tavern and drink myself into forgetting what I have just done. But first of all, you can help me disrobe, because I can't wear a farthingale into St Saviour's."
Next morning; another warm day. Philip, waking unwillingly from sleep at last, peered through the gap of brightness where the shutter was ajar. Agnes was in the yard below, sleeves rolled and skirts kilted out of the dust, rinsing the linen under the bright sun. She was pounding and wringing it so hard that her knuckles must be stinging sore, then spreading it over the rosemary bushes. This was Meg's task of a Monday morning, but Agnes, being softer at heart than she let herself show, had given Meg leave to cross the river to Holborn and visit her sick mother.
The dry scent of rosemary cut through the drier smell of dust and the distant stink of river mud. Philip, head pounding, closed the shutter and lay down again. In this weather the air under the roof grew hot, but he would rather endure the warmth in dimness than fresh air with the dazzle of light. The ghost-smell of spices rose from the floorboards: pepper, nutmeg, maybe even cloves. Philip put one hand on the floor, and found the pine boards as cool as if they still remembered the Baltic. Sitting up, however carefully, made his head spin, but he pulled the coverlet from the bed and laid it on the boards. He had slept on harder beds, and the coolness was what he needed. With a sigh, he pulled the bolster to the floor and lay back. I should not have had so much to drink last night. I should have remembered - oh God.
I have an apprentice. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and, after a little while, slept.
Chapter 5
October 1597
It took so long for letters to travel to Nick's uncle and back, and for all to be arranged, that it was six weeks until everything was settled. He walked out of Paul's after evensong, swinging his baggage in one hand and with his new master beside him. He was sorry to leave Martin, but that was all; damp and dark as it was, he could have turned cartwheels.
Philip beside him was as dour as the weather. He had smiled briefly at Martin, and asked after his studies, and had signed indentures and promises and all with a good grace, but hadn't spoken to Nick, still less smiled. He didn't go to the river-bank and hire one of the watermen for the crossing; instead they walked across the bridge. There at last Philip did speak to him. "Best come in front."
"I'm not going to run away!"
He sighed. "I never thought you were. But if you're behind me, I won't notice if I manage to lose you. And you've caused me enough trouble that I wouldn't want that to happen."
"Philip - "
"Master Standage to you," he said. "If you don't mind."
It was Nick's turn to sigh, but he kept it quiet. Philip was his master, Philip held his indentures, and had the right to beat him and more. Nick decided, until he knew how even Philip's temper was, to tread carefully. "Master Standage, then," he said, coming alongside. "Ah - I'm sorry. For causing you trouble."
Philip glanced at him. "Somehow I very much doubt that."
Nick could not see from his eyes whether he was amused or not. "I'm not sorry to leave Paul's," he said, "but if it was a trouble to anyone - I'm sorry, that's all. Besides - I was well thrashed that night because you didn't bring my copy back, did you know? And then Martin had the same for being late, when he helped me."
"Ah," Philip said. "I didn't know that. It seems I should apologise to you, in that case."
"Of course," Nick said, and then quailed in case he was being too pert.
All Philip said by way of reply was, "And to Martin."
They picked their way through the arch at the Surrey side of the bridge, and walked westward under the shadow of St Saviour's. "Well," Philip said, "I apologise to you for the beating. I hope the play was worth it. And I apologise even more to Martin, because he was doing for friendship's sake what you were doing - I don't know; for wages?"
"Not exactly," Nick said. "A few ha'pence. Giles likes to have plays for us to rehearse against the time when Paul's Boys may open their stage again."
"I see," Philip said, and then, "Come. This way. I lodge with master Henslowe and his family."
"May I ask … ?"
"Yes. I have few secrets, you may as well know that now as later." Philip's stride was lengthening with the nearness of home.
"Then," Nick said breathlessly, trying to keep up, "are you a player? How long have you been in London? Do you write too?"
"Yes," Philip said, "Ten years, almost eleven. And no." He shut his mouth firmly, as if not intending to say more; then seemed to relent. "I am a sharer in the company. I sing and I play the lute, I copy parts and sometimes I write other things. But I could not write a play." A few strides further, and he opened a door. "Have you dined today, Nick? Are you hungry or thirsty?"
Nick yawned. "Chiefly, I'm tired," he said. "I'd like to sleep." They stepped indoors into the smell of rush-lights, and wood-smoke, and a cooking fire.
"Well enough. There's a truckle-bed for you in the attic, I saw to it before I came away. You can meet the family tomorrow," Philip said. "This way."
A straight flight of stairs led to the first floor, from where, along a gallery, was a smaller, spiral stairway that wound its way up the corner of the building. Nick started climbing; as he made the first full circuit, the house door opened. A young man, his hair unkempt, his face lined and unshaven so that he seemed older than his years, looked up through the bars of the gallery. "Philip - is that you?" he asked.
Philip turned on his heel and ran back to the head of the stairs. "Gabriel! When did you - "
"This afternoon," Gabriel said wearily.
Philip walked down. "Langley?"
Gabriel started climbing to meet him. "Bugger Langley. I'm coming to Admiral's."
They met at the turn of the stairs. "Good," Philip said, and held out his arms. Gabriel near as anything fell into them, and they held each other close, Philip stroking the wild hair and murmuring to him and kissing him. Not the usual kiss of greeting either, but something deeper, something more. Nick looked the other way while they whispered, fierce and intense and beyond hearing, until Gabriel said, "No … not for a while. Marshalsea takes it out of a man, you know. I'll go back to my lodgings soon, but I have business with Henslowe first."
"I understand," Philip said. "And - Gabriel. It's good to see you. Very good."
"It's good to be out of that hell-hole." He smiled. "When I'm ready, Philip; then I'll come to you." He ran downstairs.
Philip sighed, and, once alongside Nick again, said, "As I told you; I have few secrets. But if you value my good will, then mind your manners where Gabriel Spencer is concerned."
Nick nodded, and followed him to the loft. It ran the length of the building, criss-crossed with beams, smelling of dust and other, stranger, things; it wasn't particularly warm.
"You don't mind cats?" Philip said. "There are several; mistress Henslowe keeps them against rats and mice."
"I don't mind cats," Nick said.
"Are there rats?"
"Not for long." Philip looked up, whereupon a cat with a white nose and chest that had been stalking along a beam jumped down, and wove itself round their ankles. "I hope you can look after yourself of an evening," Philip said, leaving ridges in the fur of the cat's back as he stroked it. "Mistress Henslowe is kind enough, and will let you pass your time in the kitchen or with the family, I dare say, though you may find yourself scrubbing pots or sorting silks as you learn your lines."
"Where will you be?" Nick asked.
He shrugged. "Maybe here. Maybe with musicians, some place or another. Maybe meeting with friends. There are many taverns in London, as you no doubt know - and which you can stay away from unless I am with you - and there will be times when I want my own company and not my apprentice's."
"Yes, sir," Nick said, meekly.
Philip smiled. "Oh God," he said, "does either of us know what we're doing?"
"Yes," Nick said. "At least - I do."
"I'm glad you do. Because I have not the least idea. Go to bed." Philip turned away, and started downstairs. The house creaked, and something scuttled across the roof. He hesitated, and turned back, but heard nothing more except soft sounds as Nick got ready for bed.
Seven years apprenticeship, starting here. Where would they both be at the end of that time?
May 1598
Philip untied his purse, pulled it open and tipped it upside-down over the board. A single farthing fell out. "God damn it," he said, "I would have bought you a drink." If this had been Gabriel - but I've barely seen Gabriel outside the Rose these six months - and if it had been Gabriel, I wouldn't be here drinking anyway.
Tom Dekker chuckled. "No matter. They paid me for the interlude tonight. I'll buy you one."
"They should have paid me," Philip said. "I was your musician."
"They made me your banker. Here." A few coins clinked on the wooden board.
"Can you spare it?" Philip asked, stopping his hand in mid-move.
"For a wonder, I'm not in debt this week. I will be soon, no doubt, so make the most of me while you can." Dekker lifted a hand, then obviously decided that the potboy would never see him in that dark corner. He unfolded from the stool and wove an unsteady, but remarkably direct, course to the tap.
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