Philip buried his face in the mug of sweet, dark beer that Dekker set in front of him and said, "I always forget how tall you are, Tom. Until I see you."
"Comes o' being one-fourth Hollander," Dekker said, folding down into his corner again. "Keeps our noses above the floods." He rubbed the side of his own nose meditatively. "Curse this one for being so long, though. The bailiffs see me coming before I round the corner."
"You know what they say about men with long noses." Philip lifted his head and smiled, crookedly.
"I do, but you'll have to ask my wife for the truth." Dekker looked at him, a glint in his eyes. "No, I'm not going to tell you."
"You never fancied being with a man?" He's not Gabriel. Don't ask him.
"Not since my growing days." Dekker took another swig at his beer.
Philip's throat was dry, but he managed not to cough before asking, "Not even me?"
"Not even you, dear friend." Dekker patted his hand. "Lovesick, Philip? You?"
He hung on to his mug with both hands. "Of course not." He was drunk, he knew it - he would never have dared ask a friend so plain at any other time.
"Sad, then."
Yes. Yes. And lonely. But he smiled, and shook his head. "Who could be sad in a place like this, with a friend buying him good beer?" He took up his lute, tuned it, and sang.
"Heh, nonny no!
Men are fools that wish to die!
Is't not fine to dance and sing
When the bells of death do ring?
Is't not fine to swim in wine,
And turn upon the toe
And sing hey nonny no,
When the winds blow and the seas flow?"
Men sitting nearby took up the refrain, and soon the whole room was singing. Philip abandoned the lute-strings - too gentle a sound to be heard over the voices - and tapped on the body of the lute instead, singing although his throat was tight and his head swimming. "Though for myself," he said to Tom Dekker as the song faded, "I'd sooner swim in beer. Better cheap."
"Philip," Dekker said, "what's troubling you?"
"Today is the thirtieth of May. Do you remember?" he said, looking at his own knuckles white as the bone under the skin.
Tom removed the lute from his hands. "Careful. You'll break it. If there is something I should remember, I confess that I don't."
"Five years ago, this day. Kit Marlowe - " Philip's voice cracked, and for a moment he leaned forward with one hand over his right eye. It was a moment before he sat up. "He's dead and I'm alive. That should be enough to make me dance and sing." Kit made me dance to his tune for long enough, after all … but oh God, there was singing in my heart as well, there was singing …
"I - " Dekker said, hesitated, and went on. "I heard you were his ganymede, when you first came to London."
Philip gulped some more beer. "Yes. That, then, and more beyond."
"Did you love him?"
"Yes. No!" Philip clapped one hand over his mouth to silence a laugh. "I don't know. He drove me to madness every day that I was with him. Or rage, or terror, or longing. Longing for him to keep his mouth shut and his head down for once in a while. Wishing he'd go away. Wishing he'd come home. And then - and then at last he didn't." In their dark corner, his back to the company, Philip let himself slump forward, resting his forehead on his arms.
"Six years is a long time to put up with that." Dekker pulled the mug away from one sliding elbow before it fell.
"Maybe."
"So why did you?"
"Oh … " Philip's voice slid from between his lips soft as the echo of music. "I doubt you'll understand. Not you."
"Try me."
"I already have, and you said no." Philip pushed his fingers through his hair. "It was - it was - oh, God, it was being his." His voice sunk to a whisper. "Kit Marlowe. Him and me in one bed. He brought me as near Heaven as I'm like to get."
There was a long, long silence.
"Lust, then?" Dekker asked.
"Better than that. God gave us our bodies to enjoy, and Kit - we both had joy, of his and mine together." Philip tipped the rest of the beer down his throat. "Going to find me a man."
"No, you are not," Dekker said gently. "I'll take you back to Henslowe's. You'll wake in a gutter with your throat cut, the way you are now." He eased himself from his seat, slid an arm round Philip's back, and heaved. "Come on, friend. That's it. One foot before the other."
"You'll have enough of dragging me out of trouble, one day."
"Never. You'd do as much for me."
Wavering, they walked together into the night.
It was not so far to Bankside, but both had drunk heavily and Philip was, all at once, overtaken by laughter. "The two of us," he said. "Arm in arm like a pair of lovers, and you as fain to drop me in the gutter as any man might be that fears I'll get my hand down his - "
"I won't drop you," Dekker said, "but I will gag you if you don't talk softer. Who knows who may be listening?"
"Ah, God. Do I care?"
"Of course you don't. But I do." Dekker shook him a little. "I have a wife depends on me, fool that she is for it. If I must be arrested, I'd rather it wasn't for sodomy."
"Oh." Philip walked another hundred yards or so with exaggerated care. "Crave your pardon, Tom."
"You have it, so don't fret."
At the end of the alley, Philip lurched sideways and Dekker, cursing, almost lost his hold. "Lord have mercy, Phip, what shall I do with you?"
Philip giggled. "Better find someone that wants me and hand me over. And don't call me Phip, or I shall have to be sober."
"All the better if you were. So who wants you, then?" Dekker straightened Philip by the shoulders and leaned him against the wall. "It can't be your new boy at the Rose."
"It is not. I don't do boys." Philip hiccupped. "Shit, take me back apace and leave me, Tom, before I drive you to Bedlam. I don't deserve you should take such care of me."
"You don't; and you a papist, and me that hates papists," Dekker said lightly. "I don't know why I drink with you."
"Because I pay for it, of course." Philip leaned forward and slung his arm round Dekker's shoulders. "Usually. Come on, man. If you hate me so much, take me where you won't see me. We're by the Rose, Henslowe's can't be far off."
They were, in fact, on the edge of the remaining rose-gardens that had once flourished on that part of Bankside. As they rounded the corner, a shadow detached itself from the hedge; both of them stopped short, and Philip crossed himself. "God have mercy, the trees walk."
"No trees," said a laughing voice. "Only angels."
"Gabriel," Philip said. "Gabriel Spencer." He turned to face Dekker. "This is who wants me."
"Is it indeed?" Dekker said, turning Philip round and pushing him. "Take him off my hands, will you, Spencer? I want my own bed."
"Of course," Gabriel said, catching Philip before he had leaned very far from upright. "Sleep well … Come, Philip. I have you - and I shall have more of you before long, if only you will walk a little faster."
The two of them, arms entwined, looked like one man with two heads and four legs. Thomas Dekker, without waiting to see what happened, made for the riverside, singing under his voice an old song that he had found written in a book in the north country, once upon a time. "Gabriel fram hevene king … "
The sound of it came faintly to Philip's ears as they rounded the corner into Maiden lane. No angels here, Tom … and no virgins neither.
Chapter 6
May 1598
Nick had been asleep until the door banged open and the two men came in with noise enough to wake the Seven Sleepers. He hunched deeper into his bed-coverings and turned his back. Soon it would be just Philip there, and they would go over the scene for tomorrow -
But tonight it wasn't going to be 'just Philip'.
Philip's voice, heavy with drink and maybe with something else. "Spence," he said, slurring the sibilants.
"Aye … lie down, Philip."
There was a mum
ble of protest. Philip took a long time to undress, to judge by the noise of cloth on cloth. Then came the heavier noise of the coverings being drawn back from his bed. "Stay," he said.
"Do I look as if I'm going?"
A soft, low laugh. "Rather the opposite."
"Lie down, then." Gabriel's voice was very dark and soft, and not at all angelic.
For a while there were no words at all. Nick wondered if they had both gone to sleep. He rolled over and opened his eyes a little, enough to see.
Philip was lying with his face turned away, arms flung back, both hands gripping one of the bed posts. Moonlight through the shutter-slats fell across his ribs, lines of light netted with lines of shadow. He turned and twisted slowly from side to side, like a fish on a line.
Below his waist there was no moonlight, only shadow. A blur of lines that might be his legs, or Gabriel's shoulders, one hand braced against the sheet, then darkness. There was a slow pulse of sound and movement, that seemed to increase in speed and yet stay forever the same; then Gabriel groaned deep as hell and Philip gasped, tensed his arms until his shoulders rose from the bed altogether, and sank down, shadows fluttering on his belly with the speed of his breath.
Slowly, Gabriel crawled alongside and laid his head next to Philip's on the pillow. His back was to Nick, who saw nothing but his hair, dark in the moonlight, and Philip's fingers sliding into it, white as bone. He turned his back on the two of them, ashamed of his ill manners in watching; unbearably curious, but with something uncurling inside him that he had not dared to think about before.
In the morning, they were still there, fast asleep and twined together, although Philip's hand was not on Gabriel's head now, but open on the pillow; fingers slightly curved, lax with sleep.
Gabriel moved first, wriggling gently backwards and away before rolling over. His eyes met Nick's; widened a little, and then relaxed into a smile. "Nick Hanham," he whispered.
"Yes."
"Did we wake you?"
"I was awake when you came back," Nick said, and then, "I saw … "
"Did you indeed?" Gabriel looked suddenly dangerous; Martin had said he was afraid of him, and Nick had laughed. Now, he didn't blame Martin at all.
"I didn't mean to," he said, "but I didn't realise, at first - "
"Hm," Gabriel said, and then, "Are you rehearsing this morning?"
"Yes," Nick said, and then, "So he should be too."
"Phip?" Gabriel replied, eyes laughing. "Look at him; dead to the world. He'll have the headache later, and no surprise."
"Aren't you going to wake him?"
"Not for a while," Gabriel said, standing up and stretching, so that Nick saw his body full naked before he picked up his clothes and pulled his shirt over his head. "Come, Nick, show me the ways around this place."
Nick scrambled to his feet, pulled yesterday's shirt straight, and took a fresh one from the chest that Philip had got for him when he first arrived. "The privy's in the far corner up here. We wash in the scullery; it's too much trouble to bring hot water. I have another head towel you can borrow." He added shoes, hose and jerkin to the bundle under his arm.
"Thanks, lad, but I'll make do without for one day."
Once washed, dried and dressed, they coaxed some bread and beer from Meg, and went out into the garden to eat it. It was early enough in the morning to be still cool, but the sky was blue as a dunnock's egg.
After a few moments, Nick said, "If you feel - like that - about master Standage, why don't you come and lodge here with him?"
Gabriel licked crumbs off his lips, and said, "But I don't feel like that about him."
"Oh." That asked more questions than it answered, and Nick wasn't sure whether questions would be welcome. He said, "Ben Jonson came to the theatre yesterday, about that play he's writing."
"I saw him," Gabriel said. "He seemed to have a lot to say to you."
Nick pulled at the grass with the hand that wasn't holding a hunk of bread. "He was warning me against becoming anyone's ingle. Ganymede. You know."
"I know." Gabriel chewed thoughtfully, and said, "Is that what you wanted when you came here?"
"It wasn't why I came here." Nick's mouth was dry; he took a swig of the beer. "I wouldn't mind if it happened. I think."
Gabriel raised one eyebrow. "If that's what you say, then you don't know what you're doing." He drank from his own mug, took a deep breath, and leaned closer. Nick made to edge away, but he was confiding rather than threatening. "The thing is about Ben Jonson, he loathes sodomites. He also loathes Puritans. But the Puritans loathe sodomites too, so Ben, bless his big boots, doesn't know which way to turn because he can't decide which he hates more. If he tells you there's sodomy in all directions - you'll need more than a pinch of salt before he can be believed, that's all."
"And - master Standage?" Nick said.
"You saw us together," Gabriel said, and smiled, looking into the distance. "Mostly, you know, a boy in the theatre, that likes men that way - well, he starts as an ingle. Ganymede, catamite, whatever you like to call it. Philip did, but Philip's different. Now he's older, he still takes that part. No, I don't feel 'like that' about him, but that's why I came to his bed. He's generous. He's kind, anyone'll tell you. Phip will put himself out for anyone - once he's awake. So now you know enough."
Nick made no reply; and after a long pause Gabriel said, "Or is there more?"
"What do you mean?"
Gabriel pulled the last of his bread apart, dipped it in the beer and said, "Do you want Philip?" before putting the sop in his mouth.
Nick hadn't thought of that, but now his skin tingled, and he wondered if he were blushing. He shrugged.
"You don't know what you're doing," Gabriel repeated softly. "Don't waste your time. If you want to be a player, all well and good; learn, learn, learn, and he'll teach you. He knows the craft. If you want to be Phip's ingle, leave now. He took no notice of me until I was a grown man."
"I want to be a player," Nick said.
"Good." Gabriel raised his mug in salute, and drained his beer. "One last word of advice and don't call him Phip, whatever I may have done. He hates it."
"Why?"
"He just does." Gabriel dusted crumbs from his lap, and got up off the grass. For a moment, he scanned the earth under the rosemary bushes, then picked up a pebble and hurled it accurately at the shutter. "Philip!"
A disgruntled, and muffled, reply from above. "Go away."
Another pebble. "Rehearsal."
"Rehearsal be damned."
Gabriel laughed, took a deep breath, and sang. "Awake, sweet love, thou art return'd … "
The shutter opened. "What have I told you about singing Dowland that loud? Your voice would crack plaster."
"I'll sing until you're downstairs," Gabriel said. "Come on, Phip, you don't want to be fined."
"What I don't want is you calling me - " The shutter banged shut on Gabriel's laughter.
Gabriel turned away, picked a spray of rosemary and pulled it apart. One piece he chewed on. "Come on," he said, handing the other piece to Nick. "He'll catch us up."
August 1598
For Philip, the summer was a bright one, although shadowed by the old ache of being apart from his family; but he knew he was not the only one. Nick must have left a family too, after all, and then left friends when he left school, but he said nothing, and was cheerful and hard-working and sometimes most infernally impertinent; but Philip could never bring himself to punish him. The two of them were sitting with Agnes Henslowe, polishing pewterware, when the door opened and Henslowe came in. "News," he said.
Philip sighed. "I suppose it's the Privy Council against the theatres. In our best month, too."
Henslowe shook his head. "More than that. Lord Burghley is dead."
It was as if they all four let out the same long breath, and all had the same thought. Queen Elizabeth had the dominion of the realm, but it was - had been - Burghley, her Secretary of State, who steered it. Philip said,
"Well - his son is ready to take his place, after all." Cecil, in his grand house on the Strand.
"Will it be a good change for you, Philip?" Agnes asked. "Your families are neighbours in the country, are they not?"
"It may be," Philip said. "Yes, my father has a farm next to Theobalds; but I will not presume." He looked up. "Nor should you, Nick - certainly not before I introduce you to him - if I ever do."
August crawled by in heat and drought. Burghley was buried at Stamford. Cecil took the helm from which his father's hand had fallen, and all seemed unchanged. But in the heat, tempers were fraying; English armies were in the Low Countries and in Ireland, and there were more rumours of another armada off Spain. For the fourth successive year, the harvest was bad. All kinds and conditions of country folk began to drift into London, in search of work or charity. Philip tried to take as little notice as possible of anything beyond the theatre; one evening he made the mistake of extending this ignorance to the weather, and was benighted by a summer storm in Shoreditch, north of the city wall. He could have gone back through Bishopsgate, but that meant walking along Norton Folgate, where he had lodged with Kit. Instead, he stayed overnight with Gabriel at Hoxton, and the two of them walked through Moorgate to Bankside together the next morning.
Inside the Rose, the storm was still rumbling; or maybe, another one was brewing. As Philip opened the doors, Henslowe's voice boomed across the theatre as if he were aiming to out-declaim Edward Alleyn himself. "You have the nerve to come here, after giving your latest work to the Lord Chamberlain's Men?"
Another voice, defiantly London. "All your others write for both companies!"
"Because I can afford to let them, and your work brings in the money, Jonson. Besides, you are safer here. I thought you had learned that, after your dealings with Langley."
"I don't need safety," Jonson said, "I need money, the same as everyone else does in this damned trade, if they aren't lending it out at usury the way you do."
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