The Peacock's Eye

by Jay Lewis Taylor

Isbel Drummond opened the door for him, and curtsied. "My lord," she said, smiling; a smile that held something of amusement and something of complicity. Nick hoped he was not blushing as she closed the door behind him.

  Chapter 15

  December 1601

  "You cannot," Philip said, "be expecting me to climb up that to reach the balcony?"

  "Surely you're tall enough?" Will Bird called from the tiring-space.

  "Why does everyone think I'm the Long Man of Wilmington?" Philip said. "Thin, yes. Tall, not so much."

  "How far can you reach?" Massey asked. "Jump for it."

  "No more faldstools, mind. I still ache from last time." Philip jumped for it, nevertheless. "Nowhere near."

  "Tomb chests," Jack Wynter suggested.

  "Ah, yes. Well thought, Jack." Charles Massey slipped the gown from his shoulders. "Will, help me move that side-board. We can drape the canvas over it for the tombs." In the end, it took not only Will Bird, but also Sol Jeanes and Philip, to move the board up against the gallery column.

  "So. Philip," Massey said. "'But soft, what light - '"

  "' - forth yonder window breaks?'" asked a rather breathless Romeo, crossing the hall at a run and leaping on to the board. "'It is the east' - where is the east, Charles?"

  "It doesn't matter," Massey snapped. "You're looking at Juliet, not the bloody dawn."

  "I like to know these things," Philip said equably. "'And Juliet is the sun.'" Not too much of a jump, and he had his hand round the baluster.

  "Oh, fuck," said Juliet from the back of the gallery.

  Philip dropped to the floor and doubled up laughing; Massey gave a snort of rage that he would later use very effectively for Capulet, and looked heavenward as if seeking inspiration, or maybe patience. "Since when was that your line, Jack?"

  "Someone tied my shoe ribbons together while I wasn't looking," Wynter said plaintively.

  "Untie them, then. Standage, pull yourself together. A few moments, and we start again." Charles Massey straightened the robe over his shoulders, brushed imaginary dust from its fur edging, and closed his eyes.

  Lying in Sandy's bed that night, the echo of their love-making not yet ebbed in him, Philip told the story, for the joy of hearing the laughter that greeted it.

  "So that was why you were smiling so at Juliet, hey?" Sandy fondled Philip's feet and ankles. "Ribbons for these," he said, "scarlet against your white. I should like to see that."

  "It was," Philip said, luxuriating in his own nakedness on a velvet cloak the colour of blue midnight. His feet were in Sandy's lap, his arms flung back above his head.

  "And who did tie the poor girl's shoes together?"

  "Nobody will say, but I think it was Nick. Our Mercutio." Philip chuckled. "It's fair revenge; Jack tied Nick's stay-ribbons round a bed-post one night and left him, while we were all about our own business."

  "So Nick plays the women's parts too?" Sandy's hands crept higher.

  "For the moment, though less than he used to." Philip bent up his knees, and wriggled closer to the fingers that were coiling patterns of touch upon his skin. "Ah - Sandy … "

  "My love. You are insatiable." Sandy leaned forward. "The skin inside your thighs … so white, so soft … " He bit at it gently, and then harder, sucking, fondling Philip with one hand as he did so, then sliding two long pale fingers up inside him, pushing in hard. "Sweet love, how like you this?"

  "You - you know I like it," Philip said, whole body juddering at the touch in the depths of him, "but - I fear I'm flagging … "

  Sandy pulled away, and licked delicately at the marks of his own teeth on Philip's thigh. "You may not have noticed that I am as yet unsated," he said, "having used only my hands and lips on you." He slid his hand up towards his own groin, and unfastened his buttons. "That hardly seems fair exchange, and my pike has been set at stand too long. Let it find its home, Philip, my sweet."

  "Sandy - you know I - " He lifted his head a little, and watched, mesmerised, as Sandy knelt up, scooped some white lotion or other from a pot, and spread it on himself before sitting back on his heels. Kit said, 'Promise you'll never let anyone else - '

  "I know you love me, sweetheart. Or are you too tired?"

  "I - " Philip said, and then, "No, Sandy. Of course I'm not too tired."

  "Come closer then." He hauled Philip higher up the bed. "That's it; your legs there. I won't hurt you. Trust me, Philip."

  Philip nodded, and let himself be pulled down on to what awaited him, hot and hard and inexorable. He had thought there was no more feeling in him, but as Sandy writhed and thrust and mouthed profanities in the taking of his pleasure, Philip fell into the dark glory of it, hollowed out, given over to a lust that wasn't his.

  Nick had never seen such a winter. The weather was glorious, cold but crisp, with blue skies against which the crags of Edinburgh stood out sharply; the Castle, and Calton Hill, and Stirling Crags, and Arthur's Seat. Outside the city, the Nor Loch froze hard, and in the reeds the king's men trapped ducks and geese for the royal kitchens. Every morning, the garden walks were rimed white, and at night in their chambers, Cecil's Men huddled all in the same room for warmth. The days were bright and clear, and the evenings thronged with the riches and wonder of the royal court. When the afternoon's play was over and the stage cleared, Cecil's Men became once again the English company. Apparel and props had to be safely stowed, and the takings and any gifts shared out. After that, it was time for supper; and after that, Philip disappeared, most nights. Nick caught a glimpse of his Scotsman sometimes, tall and fair and gleaming, like a figure painted on glass.

  Knowing about the Scotsman did nothing to stop Nick wanting Philip for himself. He spent some of his own nights with Jamy instead; at first trying not to talk about Philip too much for courtesy's sake, later for the sake of their growing friendship.

  At last the weather turned; the wind blew for a night and a day, and then blew itself out, first in a stinging drizzle, then in heavy rain. Philip went out as usual after supper, but returned only a little later. Rather than spend the evening at close quarters with him, and all to no avail, Nick set out for Canongate once more; back of the third lane, the second wynd, the end door. The rain was falling steadily, and he looked forward to warmth and a chance to dry himself; but when he came in sight of the window, there was a guttering candle, and a shadow, and a voice. He whisked into a gap between two houses, that was closed by a wall farther back.

  "What do you want?" a woman's voice said, soft and deep. "Something to make her love you?"

  "Not that," a man said. "There is love already, or else desire. That will suffice."

  The woman was Jamy's Isbel, and she was looking out of the open window. She might have seen Nick in his hiding-place from the corner of her eye, but if so, she gave no sign. The man, looking in from outside, was half-turned towards her; his back was toward Nick, his hair and head muffled against the weather.

  "What, then?" Isbel said, holding the shutter in one hand as if it might shield her from hostile looks.

  "What can you do?"

  "Anything; within reason, and more certainly if she knows what the charm should do." Her voice was so calm, so nearly drowned by the noise of the wind, that it was a moment before Nick realised what she was talking about.

  Witchcraft.

  The man replied, in measured tones, as if he were thinking his words out while he spoke them, "Can you devise … a charm that will make h- make her believe that I am watching over her? But which in truth will bind her to me?" The wind died down; the rain fell harder.

  "Certainly," Isbel replied, a hint of dark amusement in her voice. "I will not ask for what purpose."

  He drew in a breath, as if he would have laughed himself, but after a moment let out nothing but a sigh. "No," he said. "Do not ask, for you'll get no answer."

  A dog ran up to Nick; sniffed, whined, and cocked its leg against the wall. Rather than wave it away and perhaps alarm it into barking, Nick stayed stock still. After snif
fing round him again, the dog ran off, the noise of its claws drowned in the patter of the rain.

  "If I do not know," Isbel said, "then it will cost you more."

  "As to that, Mistress Drummond," he said, "for the sake of having what I want, I will even pay your higher price."

  "No names, my lord," she said. "I told you no names."

  "And I am no lord."

  "I know what colour of man you be," she said clearly, and was met with a small cough or gasp, as if what she said cut home.

  "Very well, lady. No names. Are you still willing?"

  "I am." The sound of the rain faded. The candle-light from the window scrawled an uncertain line on the wet earth of the wynd. "But I must have certain things."

  "Tell me."

  "First," she said, "the eye of a peacock. That for the watching. Second, a lock of her hair; third, a ribbon or lace of hers. Those for the binding."

  "You shall have them."

  "The feather and the hair are the most important," she said. "Even then, it may not be as strong as it might be."

  "What will make it strong?" he said. "What will make it sure?"

  "Blood."

  The single syllable fell into the dark like a pebble into a well. After a moment the man laughed, half-whispering, the sound harsh. "A higher price still. But you shall have it. I thank you."

  "Well you may. There are worse spells, more demeaning to the binder." She lifted her head, her face and neck a blur of white above a swathe of green, her eyes in shadow. "Now get you gone, sir, and about your business. You are not the only man who will come to this house tonight."

  Nick pressed back into his hiding-place. The man bowed, bade Isbel farewell and turned away. Nick waited. There was a creak as the shutter moved. Closed or open?

  "Come here," Isbel said.

  Nick did not move. Could not.

  "Young man who watches from the dark wynd," she said, "do not pretend that you cannot hear me, and do not pretend that you are not here."

  Still Nick stayed where he was, in the hope that she might think he had crept away. When she spoke again, there was a touch of acerbity in her voice. "My candle casts your shadow behind you on the wall."

  Nick sighed, and stepped forward. "I'm sorry. I meant no harm. I came to see Jamy."

  "Ah … Jamy's English lad. Come in, then." She closed the shutter, and a moment later the door opened, and another scrawl of light wrote itself on the wet ground. "Is he expecting you?"

  "He said I could come when I would."

  "Yes, he did … I had forgotten. He must like you," she said. "Go you upstairs, then. Wine? I have some warming on the fire."

  "Thank you, yes."

  Up above, Nick turned, and reached down for the wine that Isbel handed up. Warm and spicy, the smell of it reached into his head and mind. Jamy was already lying under the covers, smiling at him. Nick tried the wine; it was hot, but not too hot, and the mouthful that he swallowed burned sweet down to his guts with the tang of spice and honey. He crossed to the bed, and held the other cup to Jamy's lips, who drank too, then turned his head aside, towards Nick; the wine warmed and flavoured their kisses. Before long, Nick set both cups down on the table, out of harm's way; neither was empty, but another thirst called them.

  He disrobed slowly. Tonight there was a fire in a brazier on the floor, as well as a candle, and a darker fire than candle-light flickered on his skin and on Jamy's hair. Naked Nick stood there, watching the curve of Jamy's lips.

  "Oh, but you are bonny, my English lad. Fair and bonny. Though not mine, after all."

  "Thank you," Nick said. "And you are more than bonny, Scots Jamy; you are kind. I thank you."

  The smile widened. "Kindness costs little, and gains much. Come closer, Nick. Let me see you close again."

  Nick looked down at himself, as ready for the fray as Jamy had been that first time; but now Nick had learned not to be too eager, and the ache was not an ache but a thrill.

  Jamy said, "I think ye're ready, my dear lad."

  Nick pulled the bedcovers back where Jamy lay on the sheet golden in the flame-light; lay down beside him, and they kissed, and touched, and Nick felt the heat in Jamy's body and the softness and the hardness, bone and flesh all held by one skin. Jamy smelt of spices, like the wine, or maybe of roses and ginger. On a ledge in the bedstead stood a small glass phial, green as Jamy's eyes. Distracted by the beauty of it, Nick took it up.

  "You want to use it?" Jamy whispered.

  "What is it?" Nick whispered back.

  "Sweet almond oil. It … eases the passage."

  Nick gulped, not for fear, but because the breath had gone from his lungs. "Tell me what to do, Jamy."

  Jamy's own breath was heavy with laughter. "What do you want to do, English Nick? If I were the man you want. If I were your man … I believe Nick is hardly the name for you, after all."

  "Indeed not; once I'm in bed I'll not take the woman's part, this time or any," Nick said. He kept the phial in his hand and lay down alongside Jamy, smelling spice and roses on his neck, the soft white skin, dizzying, "I would be a sodomite, Jamy; will you let me?"

  "Faith, no, I'll not hinder you, though your hinder parts - " Jamy's voice dissolved into laughter. "Lord, Nicholas - Nico - I cannot speak this jesting vein. I am no player. I'll allow ye entrance, sure enough, but make it soft for me." With a single twist of his body he rolled so that he was face downward. Nick knelt up, and spilled oil on his hands; clear as diamond it was, not green like the glass. A little spilled on Jamy's back, making him shiver. Nick trailed that drop down to the base of his spine, into the cleft between his buttocks where his skin lost all colour and was white as milk again.

  "More," Jamy murmured, and Nick did it again. Jamy raised himself a little. "Go on. Go in."

  Biting his lip, Nick gathered more oil on his fingers, and pushed into the darkness of Jamy's body, feeling the heat of it wrap his touch in fire. He pushed harder, and Jamy made a noise of open-throated pleasure that reached for Nick's flesh as sure as if Jamy had tongued it where he lay. He had to bite back his own response. "Is - is that enough?"

  "For me. Put some - let me see you, Nico, put some on yourself, come stand at the bed head," Jamy said, low-voiced and incoherent. "I want to see you touch yourself, I want to see what's coming inside me."

  Nick slid off the bed, and did as Jamy asked, barely able to stand for the shaking in his knees as he caressed his flesh with one hand, gently, carefully, spreading the sweet oil on himself in front of Jamy's green gaze, in which the pupils had gone wide and dark with desire. His lips parted, and Nick leaned forward for his mouth, but Jamy shook his head. "Take my arse, Nico. Take it slow. Be easy."

  Nick climbed up, straddled Jamy's shoulders, and worked his way down until he was past the buttocks. Jamy bent his hips, raising himself towards Nick. At first, Nick hadn't the angle right, but then Jamy opened to him and he slipped in, and all was dark and the leaping flame of the brazier and the bright flame of the candle, and Jamy beneath him was groaning for sheer lust before saying hoarsely, "Sweet Christ that's good, Nico. So good. Do nothing, lie there and I'll work ye. Lie close, tell me what you will, speak in my ear, say what you like … " As he spoke he moved, gripping Nick's flesh with his inward parts in a way Nick had never dreamed of. He couldn't lie still, couldn't, wanted to thrust in, and when he did Jamy slackened, and gripped, and slackened, until they had a pulse together that was beyond desire and far beyond any lust Nick had read of, and he couldn't keep quiet any more than Jamy could, his back cool under Nick and his arse hot, hot where Nick pushed in, their legs a tangle of flesh and bone and skin and touch and fire until the flames roared up and burned them out.

  Chapter 16

  December 1601-January 1602

  If Cecil's envoy had ever come to Holyroodhouse, he had been and gone before Cecil's Men made their appearance. Philip had been made known to the commendator of Kinloss, and had knelt and kissed his hand; but there was no word of the letter, as indeed there sh
ould not have been, for he had delivered it to the right place in secret, at last, and it should have been found in secret. What had happened to it after that, Philip neither knew nor cared.

  Then, in the very deep of winter, travellers arrived at Holyroodhouse for Christmas. At their head was the earl of Mar, come from Stirling Castle, and with him Sir Henry Howard, cousin to the Lord High Admiral of England.

  Charles Massey entered the company's chambers with the look of a man who would have torn out his hair if that had not been below his dignity. "The King, who does not care for plays, wishes to hear a play on St Stephen's Day, and we have given the court all we travelled north with, except for the new one of Shakespeare's which you say is for Twelfth Night."

  "Not quite all," Philip said. "It seems that the King interests himself in witchcraft and the like. Henslowe gave me something to the purpose."

  Charles stared at him. "What - oh - not that one of Marlowe's?"

  "The Tragical History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus, yes." Philip's mouth was dry. "Do you think we can do it?"

  "Admiral's have done it often enough, by all accounts," Massey said. "You must have played in it yourself more than once."

  "Yes." I read through every line of it aloud, Kit and I together in his bed. For a moment Philip struggled to speak. "Henslowe suggests I should portray Faustus."

  "I'll be glad if you will." Charles Massey laughed uneasily. "I don't care for the idea of being dragged down to Hell myself, even in counterfeit." He crossed himself. "You heard tell of the players who counted each other, and found one more devil on stage than there should be?"

  "Then we do not count each other. Also, prayers before we begin," Philip said. "And if Hell is in the question, we should ask to have a stage built, with a trap-door. The kitchens here are hot enough for Hell, to be sure, but the trap would look better."

  Charles Massey looked down at himself. "I'll borrow a robe from the tiring-chest. You too, Philip. Then we can go ask together, and not look like beggars."