"I have been Essex's servant this long time, in the Low Countries and in other places. He pays me well. I earn nothing from this but a messenger's fee." His eyes, unwavering, were on Philip's face; he paid no attention to Nick whatsoever.
"What is this request?" Philip found himself saying.
"A play," Skeres said. "That the Admiral's Men put a certain play on their bill, and play it, two days from now."
"The play being?"
"The Life and Death of Richard the Second."
For a moment, Philip did not move. Then he said, "It is one of Will Shakespeare's. You had better ask at the Globe. We do not have it in our stock."
"Are you sure?" Skeres' smile was back, quicker and more hesitant. "It seems to me that you have a good likeness to the king. You would be a fine player of that part."
Philip smiled. "I take it you have not seen the image of him in the abbey at Westminster. There is not the least resemblance."
"Surely - " Skeres went on, and then, "The Earl promises much silver."
"I rather think," Philip said, "that you ask me because, if I resemble anyone in this sorry broil, I resemble my lord Essex. And I had rather not carry the resemblance too far. No. Go ask them at the Globe. Master Shakespeare is of good merchant stock and Essex is his patron, besides. He will appreciate the offer of much silver, I am sure."
Skeres shrugged, flung his arms wide as if in wonder or desperation, and said, "Well - if you will have it so - I had hoped to make amends." Then he walked away.
"Do you really think he wished to make amends?" Nick asked.
"Who can tell?" Philip's mouth twisted. "Everything is held to account for master Skeres, and it is a fine balance."
"The scales will tip against him, some time or another," Nick said.
"Yes," Philip said. "Yes … " and fell silent. All through the afternoon's play, he spoke his words as if some power beyond himself put them into his mouth, for he made no conscious effort to remember them, and instead was thinking, over and over, of tipping the scales and tripping up Skeres, of kings and death and dethronement and the white, gentlemanly hands of Will Shakespeare as they held open a book on the pages of which were written the words that Kit Marlowe in a dream had carved into Philip's skin.
Philip entered Cecil House through the scullery door, as he had done now and again in the summer months since Cecil had made him free of the kitchens, should he be in need of a drink. They knew him there, and let him sit at a corner of the great wooden board while they looked for the scrap of parchment that he asked for. When it came, on its surface danced a ghost of music. Once upon a time it had been a missal, but now it was scraped down and used to line pie-dishes. Praying for the soul of the monk or nun who had once written it or sung from it, Philip wrote to Cecil, begging a few minutes of his time, telling him why. Then he rolled it tight, tied it with a stray thread, and handed it to a serving-boy, who returned in a while with the message that he was to go upstairs.
"Philip," Cecil said pleasantly, in answer to his knock. "Come in. So you - you of all people - have 'news of a certain kind' for me."
"There is a man called Nicholas Skeres," Philip said.
"I know him. Be brief and to the point, I pray you."
"He is the earl of Essex's man."
"I know that also. Have you more?"
"Before the play at the Fortune this afternoon, Skeres came to me and offered - much silver, on the earl of Essex's behalf - if I would arrange for the Admiral's Men to enact The Life and Death of Richard the Second."
"Ah," Cecil said. "Aha. Thirty pieces of silver, no doubt."
"He did not say."
"Indeed. And what did you say?"
"I said no. I fobbed him off on the Lord Chamberlain's Company. Because - "
"You need not explain. I know Essex and his patronages." Cecil folded his hands in front of him on the desk. "Excellent, Philip. You have given me the rope I needed to hang Essex - or the whetstone to sharpen the axe, shall we say? He has been rash, and foolish, and above all he has insulted her Majesty; but none of these constitutes treason. Discussing the … deposition … of a reigning monarch, at such a time; that most certainly does."
Neither of them said aloud, 'In the play, the king dies.' Because that a king might be dethroned, and killed; that was beyond imagining, except in times past.
"And - Skeres?" Philip said.
"What of Skeres? He has his uses, troublesome though he is."
"I want him gone."
Cecil blinked, twice, slowly. "Indeed. A personal matter, perhaps."
"That is out of the reckoning."
A spark of interest gleamed in Cecil's eyes. "I had not thought you … well, no matter. I cannot guarantee to remove him. But if a man goes through Newgate, or some such, he may need no man's hand to help him into another place." Cecil nodded. "I thank you for your good service, Philip. I suppose you want payment."
"I … that is as suits yourself, sir."
Cecil laughed. "A twinge of conscience? Do not let yourself be troubled; the account will be balanced, I assure you. Although you may have to wait."
Shakespeare, like the merchant that Philip had called him, took Essex's money and put on The Life and Death of Richard the Second.
Essex had gambled; and he lost. He was beheaded on the twenty-fifth of February.
And still the account was not balanced. From Cecil, there came nothing.
Not until six weeks later, in early April, when there was a message, and Philip set out, uneasily, for the house in the Strand.
Upstairs, in the same room as ever, Cecil wrote on, calmly and steadily as if nobody waited there before him.
"It was enough to sharpen the axe, then," Philip said, when the scratching pen fell silent.
"Yes. Essex is gone, and we may breathe again," Cecil said, shaking sand on the wet ink. "I had thought master Shakespeare more careful of his skin; or at least to set it at higher worth. Forty shillings to play treason, and put his life and his company's life at risk? A small profit for a great loss."
"You have not - ?" Philip asked, the blood shaking in his veins as he spoke.
"Master Shakespeare is as hale as he ever was. Though recovering, no doubt, from a great fear. He may count himself lucky that her Majesty cherishes his work." Cecil tapped the paper on the desk to shake the sand from it. "Your Skeres is in Newgate, having been among the conspirators. There were more kings than Richard in the story, you see."
"I am not sure I understand."
"Perhaps I should have said 'there are'. There is one, at any rate; James of Scotland." Cecil folded the paper and ran one thumbnail along the crease to flatten it. "Essex was in dealings to secure the succession for him, and that was treason."
"But," Philip asked, "why are you telling me this?"
"Because," Cecil said, "I must take over where Essex failed. The succession must pass smoothly from one to the other. Which is treason for me to say, but also truth. And I tell you this, Philip Standage, because you are going to help me."
Philip stepped back, shaking his head. He knew that protest was useless, so he said only, "I am not the man you want, sir. Indeed I am not."
"Oh, but you are." Cecil's green eyes, calm as cold sea-water, watched him. "Who can move up and down the country undetected but a player? Who is so welcome to all that he will be invited to house and hall and castle - and palace? I choose you, Philip, and you will go."
"Supposing I refuse?"
Cecil leafed among the papers on his desk and pulled out one small, battered sheet. "This does not look much, does it?" he said. "It was written by Nicholas Skeres. Not exactly turning King's evidence, but maybe attempting to keep himself at liberty." He held it out to Philip. "He lists the names of London papists known to him."
Something fluttered at the base of Philip's throat. He did not take the paper. "And?"
"I think you know."
The flutter in his throat became a tight band past which it was difficult to swallow. Philip s
aid, "You have known for years that I profess the old religion."
"Yes," Cecil answered. "But that knowledge has been no use to me before now."
There was a long silence.
"I will not act on this," Cecil said, "if you will help me."
"May I have time to think about it?"
"No. You may not." Watching him closely, Cecil said, "All I ask is that you carry a letter to Edinburgh. A message to Edward Bruce, commendator of Kinloss, and to the earl of Mar. Once, maybe twice, maybe more. You will have good money for your expenses. I will pay you wages besides; you, but not the others. If they are not sharers, Henslowe must pay their wages in the usual way. And you will have a licence; you will be Cecil's Men, though there be never a trace of you in the records afterwards."
"Nothing but a letter?" Philip asked, dry-mouthed.
"That, and to watch the man I shall send to the King. I do not trust him."
"Who?"
"Sir Henry Howard."
"Essex's man!" Philip was startled out of the calm he had forced on himself.
"Not for the last three years, despite appearances," Cecil said. "He is papist too, although I do not suggest that you cultivate his acquaintance. More importantly, he was Essex's go-between to Scotland. Watch him for me. Will you go, Philip?"
Philip sighed. "You know I will. I can do no other. But do not expect me to lead Cecil's Men; that is all."
Cecil's smile was wintry cold. "I am glad you see sense. Let Henslowe appoint what leader he likes. I am expecting - visitors from Scotland, in May, so you need not travel until then."
"Thank you," Philip said warily.
Cecil nodded. "If it will sweeten the task for you, I have a gift." He opened a drawer this time, and took out a sheaf of manuscript. "I would say that this came with master Shakespeare's compliments, except that he does not know I am giving it to you. He was glad enough to copy it, in return for his liberty. Take it."
Philip took the papers and glanced at the heading. Twelfth Night, or What You Will.
"If it is good," Cecil said, "Cecil's Men have my permission to play it at Theobald's, when you come south again. And I will make sure that you will be welcome at Stamford, too."
"You have thought of everything," Philip said.
"Of course," Cecil answered. "How else does a man survive?"
Chapter 12
August 1601
Before Philip left London, word came that Nicholas Skeres had been moved from Newgate to Bridewell; on reaching York, he found that word had come ahead of him. The company had arrived later than intended, but they were expected, and the innkeeper handed Philip a sealed note. He barely glanced at the seal. It could only be from one man.
"What is it?" Nick asked, jumping up and down to get the stiffness of the day's cart-ride out of his legs.
"Nicholas Skeres," Philip said, looking up from the letter into Nick's startled gaze. "Dead of a fever in Bridewell."
"How did he end up there?"
"Cecil, at my asking," Philip said, and threw the twist of paper into the midden. "Come, it's late. A bite to eat, and then bed."
He slept badly, dreaming now and then of the letter that he had carried from London, troubled at having encompassed another man's death. On the other hand: Nicholas Skeres is dead. Thank God. He opened his eyes on darkness, and reached out. He was in the middle of the bed, alone, although he and Nick had begun the night on opposite edges of the feather mattress. Charles Massey, the leader of Cecil's Men, was snoring with his wife, Alyson, in the bed across the room.
In a moment, the door creaked open, clicked shut and the bed dipped. "Drunk too much," Nick said sleepily.
"Yes." Philip moved over to the far side.
Nick yawned, rolled against him - almost pushing him out - and promptly fell asleep. Philip waited for long enough to be sure that he really was sleeping, edged out from under the covers, got in again on the near side, and waited for sleep to reclaim him.
It did not, so he waited for dawn, then took both shirts - one clean, one not - from his pack, and went out in search of water to wash his face and hands, and a laundry-maid, and something to eat. When the rest of the company came down, he was in the stables, checking that all was well with the cart, cleaning tack, and - oh damn, that letter, that letter … He ran back upstairs for his lute case, and opened it hastily, feeling with swift fingers in the silk lining. Still there. After a moment's thought he took the letter out, and hid it instead in a more solid compartment in his box of writing things. Anything not to see it every time I'm in the humour for pleasure. Save it for business.
Outside, the sky was blue and the leaves heavy green on the trees, turning on the verge of autumn. The birdsong was subdued, but summer it still was, for all that, and a good time to be travelling. Philip stretched his arms above his head, feeling the tension in his shoulders dissolve. They would break their journey here for a few days, after which it was twelve days' journey to Edinburgh. Once there, they would be lodged in Holyroodhouse, and it would be for him to find the room where he could leave behind the letter that was beginning to haunt his dreams.
September 1601
If Nick hadn't been trying so hard to pretend he was asleep, that first night in the inn at York, he would have cursed out loud when Philip slipped away from him and got in at the other side of the bed. For a brief, tantalising moment, Nick had lain against him, softness and warmth together, and it was not better than nothing, but worse, because it put too many pictures in Nick's head. He slept at nights, because travelling four days out of seven was weary work, and learning lines more tiring than anyone who never had to do it would think. His dreams were full of Philip, or rather not-Philip, bodies with Philip's face and hands that he came to the edge of lying with in his dreams, only to wake and find himself at a stand in more ways than one.
When they came to Edinburgh, it was a day of brilliant sunshine. The first they saw of the city was Holyroodhouse, the King's palace; and the first they saw of that was the south gardens, all apple-orchards and green grass, with the palace chapel rising up behind them out of the low roofs of the surrounding buildings, and the steep crags beyond all. It was like reaching a small Paradise, especially after the long journey.
"We're not lodging here?" Nick said to Philip, slithering down from the cart-shaft to the ground. "With all our dust on us?"
"I think we are, dust or no," Philip said, although even he sounded a little hesitant. "I have Cecil's seal on it." He was looking towards the castle, high on its own crag. "I wouldn't like to be the army who tried to besiege this city, for certain."
"We could just camp in the park and enjoy ourselves," Jack Wynter remarked.
"We could, but we won't," Charles Massey said. "You do have Cecil's seal, Philip? I haven't seen it except on our licence."
Philip nodded. "In my saddle-bags. One moment." He slid down from the jennet he had been riding for the last few days and unbuckled half-a-dozen straps before finding what he wanted. "You take it, Charles. You look more important than I ever can."
"It was you that Cecil sent," master Massey remarked, his face pleased nonetheless, the lines at the corners of his eyes lifting a little. "What play should we present first, think you?"
"Cecil," said Philip, his mouth twisting a little, "suggests that we play Tom Dekker's Shoemaker's Holiday. To impress upon the Scottish court the richness and freedom of London."
Charles looked at him suspiciously. "I suppose that would be why we played it at Northampton."
"And York, and Newcastle," Philip agreed. "Don't quibble, Charles, but let's establish ourselves first."
Undoubtedly, the play was a success, although with only two boys to play Jane and Rose, Jack and Nick had to change fast and play Sibyl or Margery as the plot allowed. In places, the writing was by no means as it had left Tom Dekker's hands, but so much the better for them; and Philip made a fine Lacy, which would have been well enough for Nick, had he been playing Rose and not Jane. As it was, he was married to Wi
ll Bird as Ralph, enough to turn any young man's stomach.
They had no theatre as such, but a hall in the palace did good service, and afterwards supper was laid out in the passage between hall and kitchen that had served as tiring-room.
"I could eat an ox," Nick whispered to Philip as they came off stage.
"I'm sure, but into your own clothes first to keep the apparel clean," he said. "The lords and ladies will come and stare as if we were the Queen's beasts, and better they see us in our own gear than in these counterfeits."
Philip was right about the staring. One tall man at the back seemed to be watching him, while the Danish queen unnerved them all by having her servants open the door so that she could stand there and watch the visitors eat. When the doors were shut, the released breath of the whole company might have put out more than one candle.
Nick had been last out of his stage attire, thanks to a knotted lace, and he was the last eating. The kitchen servants were no longer as quiet as they had been with the noblesse in earshot, and were cursing and shouting at some intruder, until a flung pewter pot and a young man shot through the door at the same moment.
The young man turned and kicked the pot back, then swung towards the table, only to stop short at the sight of Nick. He was still dressed for outdoors, cap pulled down and the hood of his cloak well up.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I'll go."
"No need." Nick, mouth full, waved at the table. "Were you after the food? Plenty left."
"Aye." After a moment's hesitation the newcomer pushed back his hood, revealing a bony, half-ugly, half-handsome face and a flame of red, red hair under the cap. "I must needs beg my food, most days. I cannot work, see." He made no explanation, but remained there, his hands hidden in the folds of his cloak. His face, unmoving in the candle-light, looked younger than his voice sounded.
"Not at anything?" Nick asked.
"Do you think I have not tried? All the work I can do is the work I used to do, and that not since the house burned down."
"God have mercy," Nick said, crossing himself.
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