"Enough of your prayers, what good will they do me?" He picked up some bread and cheese and a pasty, awkwardly, dropping most of it, and in the end held a leather bag to the edge of the board and pushed the broken meats in. In his pale face, his eye-sockets were dark smudges, his eyes darker still.
The players must have been given the leftovers of the king's dinner; there were whole quails on the platter. Nick held one of them out.
"I cannot hold it," the young man said. The bag had a loop in it that went over his wrist. "Will you drop it in?"
"Surely," Nick said, and did.
The other smiled at him crookedly. "My thanks."
"No matter." Nick waited, eating some dried fruit, more to stay there than because he wanted it. "What work did you use to do?" he asked.
"Nothing I'd tell to a stranger," the other muttered, his head down.
"What sort of house?"
He froze, his hands stilled, and then said, "No sort of house for such as you, English."
For a long moment, Nick could not think how to go further; then picked a sugared apricot from the dish and held it out. "Don't be so sure of that, Scottish."
He glanced up at that; smiled, took the fruit delicately with his teeth, and ate it. "My name is Jamy Moffat," he said.
"And I'm Nick Hanham. Will you show me your hands?"
He drew in a sharp breath, and stepped back. Nick made no move, but smiled, holding his gaze.
Jamy laid both hands palm-upward on the table. The skin was smooth and shiny, red in places, white in others. Nick took his right hand and turned it over. The skin on the back was dusted with freckles, and with hairs that glinted like gold in the candle-light. On his finger-tips, the skin was pink, taut around the nails. "My left is better than that," Jamy said. "But still not good."
"Is it only your hands?"
He nodded. "I beat the flames out on the man who was with me. He came off lightly, but he's never been back. He sends me silver now and again, for saving his life, but he's not always here to know when I've none left."
"At least he sends it," Nick said.
"Aye."
For a long, long moment they looked each other in the face. Nick's mouth was dry, his heart beating in his throat, or so it seemed. Jamy's eyes glinted green in the candle-light.
Nick licked his lips. "I can't pay," he said, "but - if you would - " It was too much to ask. He turned away. The kitchen door creaked as Jamy opened it.
"Along Canongate, back of the third lane, the second wynd, the end door," he said. "I lodge with Isbel Drummond."
Nick whirled round to ask whether he meant it, but the door had swung to, and Jamy was gone.
The letter was out of his hands. Philip, his mind lightened beyond what he had thought possible, came back to the company's chambers, and picked up his notes ready to destroy them now that the need for them was gone.
The inked words leaped out at him even by candlelight. Leave the letter in the third bedroom along in the east wing, the notes said.
"Oh, God, no."
"What's up, Phip?" Will Bird asked.
"Shut up. I can't tell my east from my west, that's all." I'll have to go back and get it, now, soon, before the wrong person finds it, before all this falls about my head… "Don't anyone watch up for me. I'll be back."
He hurried through the dark, fingers trailing against stone and wood and tapestry on the wall, retracing his steps. How could he have been so stupid, how? Three of his five senses, sight, hearing, touch, were straining ahead of him. From the others, he had only the taste of failure, the smell of fear.
He was in too much haste, breathing too hard; this would never do. At the foot of a stairwell he stopped, the down-draught chill on his face. Slow. Step slow and soft. He began again, his pace more measured.
At last his sense of smell came to his aid; the faintest breath of orris-root and rosemary in the room where he had left the letter. He stepped through the doorway, stood, listened. Silence, well past the length of time that a man might hold his breath.
With infinite care he knelt by the bed, whose hangings were still drawn aside. Nobody could be sleeping there that night. The wood of the bedstead was smooth beneath his fingertips, the linen crisp and slightly rough, and between the two, the stiff sharpness of folded parchment.
Thank God. Oh, thank God. Philip pulled the letter from its place and slid it into the purse at his belt. He knelt there a few more minutes, to still his breathing, then went out to the passage again. For all the effort he had made to calm himself, his heart-beat was loud in the silence and soon he was walking fast once more, trying to outpace his heart, eager for safety. Stop. Slow. Again he stopped, and this time rested one arm on the stone wall, bending his head to lean against it.
When he straightened up, meaning to go on his way, a thin line of steel touched the side of his neck, cold as fear. Philip drew breath, swift but quiet, and stood very still. How did I not hear him? For it was a man; the scent of him, something in the very feel of the air, told Philip that much. The knife blade traced a thin line of sensation round his neck like a chain of ice.
"Well, stranger." A voice soft as wood-smoke at his back: Scottish, but not overly so. A thin hand slid across his eyes. "Turn round. Keep your eyes closed."
"I - " Philip began.
The hand moved swiftly to his mouth. "Not so loud. Not out here." It was across his eyes again. "Turn round."
Sharply aware of the pressure of finger-tips against his left eye, and of the knife somewhere in the darkness, Philip turned.
"Keep your eyes closed," the man repeated. "Step forward, and we will be inside the room and I may shut the door."
They were facing each other now, and Philip must be standing within the curve of the other man's arm, supposing he had not let fall his hand; he stepped forward, and the door closed. The sound of the other man's breath faded. Presently a light was struck, and through Philip's closed eyelids gleamed a hint of light.
"Ah, but I know you," the voice said. Philip dared to think that there might be a little warmth in it. "One of the players, is it not? I saw you, this afternoon. You are a long way from your home. And farther from your bed than you should be."
"I was indeed looking for a bed," Philip said, low-voiced. "Not mine, however."
"Indeed." Yes, that was warmth; and maybe something else. "Then - whose?"
"I am charged with a message for - for the earl of Kinloss. I had mistook the place." He let his lips waver into a smile.
The finger-tips that had been so firm on his eyelids drifted caressingly down the side of his face. "Kinloss finds no room for such as you in his bed. I, on the other hand - I might be tempted."
"Might?" Philip said. "If you admit as much, then you are."
There was the ghost of a laugh. "A hit, indeed. As it happens, his lordship's room is nearby. I can show you … in the morning. To his room, that is. If you will stay here tonight."
Am I so easy taken? Philip breathed in, slowly. "I should like to see … " What you can show me. "I should like to be able to see," he said.
"In a moment." The air moved round him. "What is your name?" The voice was closer.
"I am Philip Standage." A band of something that was not quite fear tightened round his throat. "Is your name - James?"
Another laugh, a little louder. "It is not. I am Alexander Gray, but my friends call me Sandy. You may open your eyes, if you like."
Philip opened his eyes. There was nothing in front of him but the room: panelling, tapestries, a chest against the wall. He turned round.
Alexander Gray was a young man, taller and fairer than Philip. His eyes were heavy-lidded under exquisitely-arched brows, and seemed to tilt up at the outer corners, as if he were perpetually smiling; but his mouth, despite the chiselled lips, was at the moment straight, and a little severe. He watched Philip for a moment, one hand resting on the curtains of the bed, and smiled. "I have done you an injustice, I see." The candle-flame wavered at his side.
> "I don't understand you."
Gray lifted his right hand, and caressed Philip's face. "That is not the face of a deceiver; not unless I am much mistaken in my judgement."
Philip smiled back at him. "I thank you."
Gray's left hand rose to mirror the right, so that Philip's face was cupped in air and skin. Then he stepped forward and bent his head, his fingertips sliding so that his hands encircled Philip's neck. Philip tipped his head back; their lips met; Alexander Gray stepped forward again.
Their bodies were pressed together, close, close - and it would have been so easy, but Philip pulled away. "No," he said. "I am not taken so easily, however near his lordship's room may be. I thank you, Alexander Gray, for your - " his lips quirked upwards - "for your offer of yourself, as I take it. But not tonight. Among other things, I am expected back."
"As well," Alexander Gray said, "for I lied to you; his lordship's room is not nearby. It is quite the other side of the palace." He in his turn smiled. "However; I shall be glad if you will call me Sandy, all the same. Perhaps we may be better friends by light of day, before we begin any game by night."
"Perhaps," Philip said. "Now, if you will excuse me - " And he made his escape; pursued - unless it was a fancy wrought in his overheated brain - by the sound of mocking laughter.
Chapter 13
December 1601
After that first play, Jamy came often to sup with the players where Nick had first seen him. He made friends with all the company, it seemed, and never by look or word referred to the conversation they two had had. It made it easier to think of him as a friend; it made it more difficult with each day - or night - to think of going up into the city, especially for the purpose Nick had in mind. But at last, in December, because it had been Nick's eighteenth birthday the night before and nobody else had troubled to remember; at last, he left the palace and walked warily along Canongate.
Back of the third lane, the second wynd, the end door, Jamy had said. Nick followed the directions as best he could, all the time feeling the cold wind at his shoulders. It was still light, but between the walls the sky seemed far away and darker than it should be. There were good smells and foul all around him: in the air, the savour of baking meat and wood-smoke; at his feet, the mud and filth of the kennel, and a darker, charcoal tang than he was used to in London. He kept his hand on his knife. Although he would have liked to be sure that his purse was still on his girdle, he did not reach for it, which was the surest way of showing a cutpurse where it was. As he swung round a corner he saw movement from the corner of one eye; a little later, the same movement. He was being followed.
He waited until the next corner, drew his knife, and stood firm.
The other backed away. "Nay, I mean you no harm." He was hooded and cloaked, so that a pale face and a square chin were all Nick could see.
"Why follow me, then?" Nick said, low-voiced.
"Because it was I that sent ye here." He pushed back his hood.
"Jamy." Nick rocked on his feet with the relief of it. "So this is where you lodge?"
"Nearby," Jamy said.
"You realise I'm a stranger … so did you mean what you said? Can I trust you to take me safe to your lodging?"
"Ye can trust me," Jamy replied. "And to show you I meant it, I'll kiss on the bargain, if ye care for that." He stepped closer. Nick looked round; nobody to see, nobody but Jamy. One lifted head, one bowed, and their lips met without any hesitation. Nick drew in a breath, not meaning to, and Jamy chuckled deep in his throat, still kissing.
When they drew apart at last he said, "I told ye of mistress Drummond, Isbel, that I lodge with - ye'll not care that she'll be in the house? Some have their doubts of her, but she's been a good friend to me."
"If she knows to keep a secret."
Jamy chuckled again. "She keeps more secrets than mine."
They walked on, and presently Nick said, "I should tell you."
"Ye should?"
"Well, maybe not: but I want you to know. This will be the first time."
Jamy went several paces farther before saying, "Are there none in London, that ye must seek a man in Embro?"
"You know I'm with the players," Nick said. "And I'm only a prentice. I might find me a man in London but - " He shivered. "It's a rope-walk there, and I've come close to falling off once already. I've no way of buying safety."
"You think it's safer here?" Where another man might have set both hands on Nick's shoulders, Jamy simply blocked his way. "And you swear it would not be a woman in London, and you only trying a man for the game of it now you're far away?"
"I swear," Nick said. "To tell truth, there's a man I want. He's one of the players. Worse, I'm his prentice. But - I know nothing of these things. And he won't lie with me, because … I don't know what. For all that, there is a man."
"Good enough," Jamy said, setting out again. "I'm sorry I doubted ye."
"We're almost strangers: why would you not?" Nick said. "I understand."
Jamy nodded, and walked on. "There's Isbel's place. The end of the close." He led Nick along under the dark walls, and then halted. "There's no light in the window. That's to tell me not to come near. We'd best wait awhile."
"For long?"
"I think not: she has another sign, if I should go away again." He held his arms open. "Come in under my cloak."
So Nick came in under the warm folds, and they stood very close together. Jamy's hands rested on Nick's hips.
"Ye may touch, if ye've a mind to," he whispered, with the hint of a smile in his voice; so Nick touched. From his shoulders up the soft skin of his neck, down again to the dip between the collar-bones. Nick touched Jamy's back and chest more firmly, to feel bone and muscle under the rough linen that he wore, and trailed finger-tips down his arms, although Jamy moved his hands away before Nick could clasp them; and finally Nick slid his hands down, down between Jamy's thighs, making him bite back a small groan of pleasure.
"No candle yet," Jamy said.
"I can wait."
Jamy pushed one leg hard between Nick's thighs then, and laughed softly as he gasped and bent forward over the sunburst of pleasure crawling up his body out of loins and guts. Nick pressed into him in return, feeling flesh and spirit rise together.
"Na," Jamy said, "na, not so eager. There's time and more comfort in bed, I promise. I'm glad it's your first time, my English Nick." His voice was low and soft, like a cat purring. "I'm good, I promise again. Whatever ye want me to do or be, I will. I'd like fine to be over or under, whichever ye will." He ran his hands down Nick's spine, and down farther still.
"No candle yet?" Nick asked in his turn, face pressed into the side of Jamy's neck.
"Why, ye cannot wait after all?" Jamy said, laughing. "Yes, there's a candle; Isbel's but now opened the shutter. Come."
They went, and Jamy said, "I'm no alone, Isbel," as they hastened through the door. "Up the ladder, friend, and take the candle with ye."
"The bed's fresh redd up," a woman said from behind the partition by the door, her voice deep and musical, soft as velvet. "Will you have wine?"
Jamy looked, eyebrows raised in question, and Nick nodded. "Aye," Jamy said, "we will."
"I'll set some by the ladder-head soon," she answered.
Jamy held back while Nick climbed first, his head emerging into a room that he had expected to show the thatch or tiles at the ceiling, but which had been panelled and plastered, though it was small and bare. The bed had a tester of the plainest sort, and there was a faldstool, a small table and a carven chest. That was all. A single candle, fresh-lit, already burned on the table.
Jamy scrambled up, hung his cloak on a hook in the wall, and took Nick's to hang there too, flicking it up with his arm so that it caught on the hook. "The wine," Isbel said, and Jamy whispered, "Will you take it?"
"Of course," Nick whispered back. Isbel had left the wine on the edge, and retreated, so that Nick did not see her. He took the cups, stood, and held out one to Jamy. A
fter a moment's hesitation, Jamy took it, left-handed. "Your health, Nick."
"And yours, Jamy," Nick said, then, "Jamy," again, trying the feel of the name in his mouth. He lifted his cup; the wine was sweet and dark and strong. Jamy set his own cup on the table and sat down, bending his head to it.
"I cannot grip so well," he said. "Not since the fire. Help me to my drink, Nick."
Nick held both cups. They were glazed pottery, more like a goblet perhaps, the stem of them between his fingers cool, about the same width and length as … Nick's hands shook as he held a cup to Jamy's mouth and his own, and they drank. "Jamy," Nick said, "I've no idea in all the world what to do."
Jamy looked at him, candle-light throwing shadows across the pale face and the red hair, under and above the stark bone-hollows, until Nick could see how he would look starved and fleshless, how he would look -
"Say something, Jamy!"
The smile curved Jamy's lips again, and drew lines of shadow up his cheeks. "Take my clothes off," he said; got to his feet and came to stand in front of, but with his back to, Nick, who put his arms round the thin body and fumbled for loops and buttons and girdle, feeling the warmth of the wine in his own belly, and another warmth growing in his loins.
With a wriggle of his shoulders, Jamy shrugged off his doublet and jerkin; a push of one hand slid his girdle and trunk-hose down to settle on his hips; now Nick could get his hands under the hem of Jamy's shirt and lift it over his head. His shoulders were freckled like the back of his hands, and glinting with the same golden hair. Nick traced the line of his bones with his fingers, and then let them drift down the furrow of Jamy's spine. Jamy kicked his shoes off, and, still behind him, Nick unlaced his hose, letting his hands drift where Jamy was roused already, calling a deep noise of pleasure from Jamy's throat. A few more movements of Nick's hands and Jamy stood with the rest of his clothes pooled at his feet. He stepped out of them and turned round.
Where it was not freckled, his skin was white as milk and, when Nick touched it, soft as a fine lady's. In the dimness, the flame of his hair was quenched and it looked black. Like Philip's. Nick mouthed the name, Philip, and set his hands at Jamy's waist.
The Peacock's Eye Page 11