"'Some in rags, some in tags, And some in velvet gowns'," Philip said with a smile. "Very well. Let's go."
Doctor Faustus gave Nick little to do. Jack and he had something in the clowning line as Ralph and Robin, and then Jack was to appear from below the new stage as the phantasm of Helen of Troy, while Nick might wait for the jig where he liked, for the under-stage opened on the doors that led to the tiring-space. At the last minute, however, he found himself hustled back in by Charles Massey.
"Helen's robes," he hissed. "Put 'em on. Jack has the flux, too much fruit most likely. We may thank our stars he got through Ralph's part."
"He's an inch taller," Nick whispered, wriggling out of his jerkin.
"No matter, kilt the skirts in your girdle. We haven't time to use pins." Massey whisked the costume off its rail and dropped it over Nick's head before turning him round and hauling the laces tight at the back. "The wig now. I hope your heads are of a size."
The wig was only a little too large, but Nick had seen Jack scratching his head the day before, and shared wigs too often led to shared lice. He said, "Leave it. Wrap a veil round my head and face. And give me a fan."
"Yes, that will do." Massey did his best with a veil, passed Nick the peacock-feather fan which was nearest to hand, and turned him round again. "Hm. Nobody would mistake you for the world's most beautiful woman."
"He's under an enchantment, it doesn't matter." Nick pulled the veil higher. "Give me my cue." They crept under the stage together, where Sol had slid the trap open and put the steps ready for Helen to rise up behind the hanging of thin muslin that Faustus would draw aside.
Charles Massey tapped Nick on the shoulder.
He had never heard this play before. He had never read it apart from Robin's scene. He knew nothing of Kit Marlowe's work. But here was Philip saying to him, "'Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss,'" and what could Nick do but kiss him? Philip gasped, although it sounded no more than an indrawn breath, and looked at him with eyes that were the player's, not the character's, for an instant.
"'Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies! Come, Helen, come, give me my soul again. Here will I dwell, for heaven is in these lips … '" And Philip kissed Nick, his hands on Nick's shoulders shaking as if he had the palsy.
After the scene was done, Nick stayed below stage. He crouched there unable to leave; listening, listening, to Faustus's farewell to his scholars, to the last scene of all, his mind whirling with the luxurious, rich, wonderful language, and the devils, and damnation.
"'O lente, lente currite, noctis equi!'" Philip crooned, "'The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike, The devil will come, and Faustus must be damn'd.'"
At last he was carried down under the stage by Will Bird as Mephistophilis, but instead of stopping, Will walked straight out, still carrying Philip, into the passage.
Nick darted after them. "Will! What's wrong?"
"Near fainting," Bird said. He sat Philip down, back against the wall, and made him lean forward before pushing back the devil's mask that he himself wore. "Ask them for brandy in the kitchen. Or anything they have. Quickly, boy!"
As Nick turned away, dropping the fan, Will began to pray. "Lighten our darkness we beseech thee, O Lord, and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers … " There was no time for brandy. Charles Massey hissed, "On stage! Jig!" at them.
"Jack is in the jakes since he went off, but no point in having all the rest of us," Bird told him. "We're the wrong number with or without Philip."
"Help me up now. I'll walk up the steps." Philip, sweat-soaked hair slipping from where he had combed it back for the play, held on to Bird's offered arm, and walked, a little unsteadily, back into the dark under the stage.
The applause was long, the jig short, and they were in the tiring-space again in quick order. Even in that brief time, the kitchen had put out food, but Philip would not eat. He sat against the wall, his arms round his knees and his head bowed. Nick went into the kitchen, asked again for drink and was given a little spiced brandy. "Philip. Drink this."
He lifted his head. "Oh. Thank you, Nick." He took the cup; his hands were shaking, and the reflected candle-light quivered on the glaze. Then he drank the stuff down in one gulp that made him cough. "Ah. That's better."
"Your Kit was a poet indeed," Nick said.
"Yes." Philip looked up, and then scrambled to his feet. "My lords - I crave your pardon."
The earl of Mar, and Sir Henry Howard, and the tall fair Scotsman with whom Philip spent so much time, stood near them.
"Were any pardon needed, it would be freely given," Mar said. "A rare piece to hear, that was. His Majesty is much pleased." He handed over a purse. "Share this among the company, but be sure to keep a larger share for yourself."
Philip bowed. "I am his Majesty's humble servant to command, and his pleasure will ever be my aim."
"I make you known to Sir Henry Howard," Mar went on, "your fellow-countryman, as I believe. Also - "
"I thank you, Mar," the other Scot said, "but master Standage is well aware of my name." He smiled sweetly in response to Mar's glare.
"You presume too far, Gray," the earl retorted. "But that was ever the way of bastards."
If anything, Gray's smile grew even sweeter. Sir Henry Howard chuckled, a light noise as brittle as tinsel. He was a dark, saturnine-looking man, evidently old, but with hair that was still mostly dark; dark eyes, and a cultured voice and bearing beyond anything Nick had seen.
"Gray," he said. "Alexander Gray. We are but lately acquainted; yet your name seems familiar."
The sweet smile twisted a little. "You will have heard of my half brother, the Master of Gray? Possibly the one man in Scotland more devious than yourself."
There was a dry laugh. "I have heard of the unsaintly Patrick. You are pleased to jest, young man. Have a care that the jest do not turn its head and bite you."
They called the rest of the company out to be introduced; there was more bowing, and more gracious words, Philip all the while looking as white as if he was on the verge of fainting again. In the midst of it all, the man Gray stepped forward and picked up the fan that Nick had dropped earlier. There was a bent feather; he nipped it off between finger and thumbnail, and handed the fan back. "Your peacock has lost one of his eyes, madame."
"Argos may have had a hundred eyes, but mere mortals need only two," Nick remarked.
"Learnèd as well as bonny," Gray said. "Tell master Standage, if you would, that Sandy hopes for his company tonight."
"Not tonight," Nick said.
Gray turned a cool gaze on him, brows raised. "You dictate his comings and goings?"
"No, of course not, but look at him."
Gray looked. "Yes; I see. Well - tell him the same, sweet Helen, once he is recovered." He patted Nick's cheek, nodded, and walked away.
A cold Sunday afternoon, and a rainy one. There was no play; Philip opened Sandy's door to find him hanging his cloak, pearled with rain, from a peg on the wall.
"Sandy," he said.
"Philip, sweet." The kiss of greeting was swift. "Close your eyes. Hold out your hand." Footsteps as Sandy crossed the room, a rattle of wood as if he searched for something.
Laughing, Philip did as he was told. "What child's game is this?"
"Were you never made to accept a gift this way?" Something cool, like a stone raindrop, fell into Philip's hand. "I couldn't afford a ruby," Sandy said. "Will a garnet suffice?"
"Why should it not?" Philip said, opening his eyes. The drop of dark red lay gleaming in his palm, haloed by a fine ring of gold. "Nobody ever gave me a jewel before, Sandy. Thank you."
"No man ever gave me his heart before," Sandy answered. "Thank you. Now … I did say I would bring a needle."
Philip found himself both laughing and sweating. "I - I wasn't - I didn't - ah, well, I suppose I must." He looked at the jewel.
"Of course you must. I don't want to have spent my money for nothing," Sandy said
, smiling. "Do you trust me, or must I send you to some backstreet quack?
Philip said, "I trust you." And I hope I'm right.
"See, it's as thin a needle as I could find, and I am heating it in the candle-flame. The thread is waxed. You must keep the thread in, and move it every day, until the place is healed. Then I can put in the jewel." Sandy kissed him, sliding the kiss off the corner of his mouth and across his face to the left ear. "This leather here, so that I don't go into your neck, and - " The speed of it startled Philip; that, and the lack of warning. Although he had already closed his mouth, he could not keep back a short cry of pain, nor stop himself flinching.
"Good," Sandy murmured, "that's good, and now … " The pain changed and shifted and became a deeper, burning soreness as thread tugged at Philip's earlobe. "I can't hang the jewel on the thread," Sandy said regretfully, "the ring has no fastening. Shall I keep it for now?"
"Yes. Please. I should hate to lose it."
Sandy took back the garnet. Philip turned his head, and reached for the place, but Sandy stopped his hand. "No, love, treat it gently for a while. I have wiped it clean for you, but it will bleed a while, I dare say. It is bleeding now." He leaned forward. "Ah, I'm sorry. The blood is on the lace of your shirt. Let me take it; I'll give you another." He ripped the stitches, and wound the delicate cambric round his hand, before looking at Philip again. "My poor love. Does it hurt very much?"
"A little," Philip lied.
"Brute that I am," Sandy said, his mouth curling up at the corners. "Here, have some wine." He dipped a cup from the bowl that stood at the fire-side, brought it to Philip, and whispered in his other ear, "So how goes your business for Cecil?"
"Mine? I have none, the letter being delivered, except to watch."
"Ah, that letter. Which brought us first together." Sandy's voice was low and seductive in his ear. "What was in it?"
Philip shrugged, and drank the wine. "I never knew that. I was glad to be rid of it."
"Close as an oyster," Sandy whispered, chuckling. "What pearls are you hiding, dear Englishman?"
"I don't believe I could hide anything from you."
"Ah … that remains to be seen." Unexpectedly, Sandy sat in Philip's lap, rubbing himself against the braced thighs. "Is it true that you leave for London soon?"
"Candlemas, unless the roads are impassable," Philip answered, holding the cup so that Sandy might drink.
Sandy drank and, oddly hesitant, said, "I have nothing to remember you by, except memory itself. Might I - might I have a piece of your hair?"
Philip leaned his head against Sandy's. "Cut away. It's been a nuisance, falling in my eyes."
Sandy turned his head to kiss him. "Show me the offending lock, and I will crop it short enough, I promise you."
After an undignified minute or two of sawing with a pen-knife, Philip said, "You have it?"
"Yes."
"I wish - I wish I could stay here," Philip added, and had his mouth stopped with a passionate, wine-scented kiss by way of reply.
"Nonsense," Sandy said. "You must go back to your London, and learn new plays for us poor benighted Scots to hear, and bring them with you next time. There will be a next time?" He lowered his voice. "I will miss you, Philip. I shall be wanting you every night that you are away."
Don't believe him. But Philip smiled; he couldn't help it. "I'll be back if I have to play every man's part myself," he said.
"Good. Very good." Sandy came down heavily for a moment, all tongue and hands and urgent pressing weight, so that Philip arched up to meet him.
"We can't," he said. "Not here, now - daylight - the Sabbath - the door's open!" But his pulse and his parts quickened both, and Sandy must have noticed, for he slid his hand between Philip's thighs and laughed.
"Jeopardy," he said. "Oh my Philip, you like to put yourself in hazard, do you not? I see how it raises you up. Perhaps I should tie you down and take you."
"No." Philip shivered. "When I cannot get away, then it is not worth the risk. It is when I take the chance, to do or not, to stay or not - that - " His eyes closed. It's true. Oh God, supposing I choose wrong, one day? He stood up, taking Sandy's weight against him as he did so. "I'm sorry, Sandy. I must go. There is the play tomorrow, and we will be rehearsing early."
Sandy nodded. "I see. Never mind; I will think of something to amuse you. Soon."
Philip, rubbing his eyes, almost walked straight into Charles Massey standing in the doorway of the hall where they were supposed to be rehearsing. "I can't find Nick anywhere. Again."
"Be easy," Massey replied, putting one arm across his shoulders and sweeping him willy-nilly towards the stage. "He can look after himself well enough, that one."
"But this isn't London, and I haven't seen him since - " Philip tried, and failed, to remember when he had last seen Nick. "I'll wring the little brat's neck!"
"Two things as to that," Massey remarked. "Imprimis, in case you haven't noticed, he is not exactly a brat any more. Second, you can hardly blame him for going in search of a warm pair of arms - or more - when you are very clearly doing the same."
"But I haven't been out of the palace!" Philip said. Damn. I told him more than I meant with that.
Massey quirked an eyebrow at him. "Nick has gone out before curfew many times these last few weeks, and once curfew sounds he has the sense to stay wherever he finds himself. He'll be back."
On the word, a door banged, followed by running footsteps and the bang of another door. "Good morning!"
Philip turned back, and squinted across the hall. "What has he been doing to himself? He looks - "
"He looks as debauched as you do," Massey said. "Have you seen your own face in a mirror lately? You have shadows under your eyes as deep as my little finger is wide."
"He's supposed to be my apprentice," Philip said, and Charles Massey snorted.
"In that case I suggest that you do your proper duty by him, Philip. Or debauch him yourself, if you're so worried."
Philip gritted his teeth to stop his jaw from dropping. As if -
Nick wants it, don't pretend you don't know that.
He said he did, which means nothing. He has found solace elsewhere, and so much the better. In mid-stride across the hall, Philip made up his mind not to be angry. "Nicholas. You slept well?"
"Ah - " Nick turned a guileless face up to him, but his complexion gave him away; he was blushing like the sweet spring rose. "Yes," he said. "Yes, thank you. I slept excellently."
"So did I," Philip said. "Come on," he added. "Rehearsal, if, ah, sleep hasn't driven your lines from your head."
The blush deepened. Charles Massey, drifting past close behind Philip, murmured, "And also from yours," in his ear; which Nick must have heard, because he said, fervently, "Amen!"
Chapter 17
Twelfth Night 1602
Will Shakespeare's new play was enacted in the hall after supper, by candlelight. Once the jig was danced and the audience gone, Philip should have stayed to disrobe, but he was no further than washing his face, having removed his head-tire and his wig, when a boy handed him a note: Come to me, sweet player. All cats are Gray in the dark. He considered for a moment. Go now, go later? And in the urgency of his own lust, he broke the rule that he himself had dinned into Nick so often: stage apparel stays on stage, and if it does not there is a fine, and if it is spoiled there is a larger fine. He glanced round to see that nobody was watching, then walked to the door and through the palace. He could have found his way to Sandy's room with his eyes closed by now, but the place was lit for Twelfth Night and he need not be secret. In a few minutes, he was opening the chamber door.
"How is your ear?" Sandy asked at once. "Ah, it's red. I'm sorry."
"It's not so bad," Philip said. "Nobody has spoken of it." He was still flown from the evening's success; his cheeks were hot, and probably flushed from the scrubbing it had taken to remove his face-paint. He was breathing hard; his stomacher was laced a little tighter than usual, for Char
les Massey had been adamant that Olivia should look as womanly as possible, despite Philip's age. The part should have been Jack's, but the boy was still wan and shaky from his attack of the flux. Philip, who had been Maria, took on Olivia, and Sol Jeanes played Maria as well as his usual role.
"Or what you will," Sandy mused. "Well, here is a man who can have what he will of me. What is this Shakespeare like, who wrote it?"
"Like nothing that I can describe," Philip said. "We are not so well acquainted."
"His is the loss." Sandy set his hands on Philip's shoulders and stepped back to look at him. "My, you make a bonny woman, Philip. And yet I know you are all man." His voice dropped low. "Do you ever fuck, in woman's gear? Do you play the woman's part and let the man plough you deep and hard? Do you - "
"I've let you do that once," Philip said, his own voice shaking and husky, "and once was enough. No."
Sandy's face was between where Philip's breasts would be, had he any for the stomacher to push up; Sandy's hands were on Philip's backside, pulling the two of them together; and then he stepped back, and said, "I ask your pardon, love. I know I am importunate. Forgive me."
"Anything, Sandy - but not that again." He breathed deep. "Why did you send for me? I would have come anyway."
Sandy said, "A gentleman of your Queen's court visits me in a little time. Will you play for us, perhaps? A song?"
"Gladly, but my lute is away back in the company's room, although I can sing without it."
"That will be pleasant," Sandy said. "You will not mind that my friend is masked? He should perhaps not be here - and before you become anxious, his name is not Robert. Nor James." He stroked Philip's pierced ear with one light fingertip.
"If he should not be here, then perhaps I should not?"
"On the contrary: he was taken with you, this evening," Sandy said. "He wished to spend time with you. I might be jealous."
"And are you?" Philip looked at Sandy sidelong, and had an indulgent smile in response.
"I know you too well for that, my Philip."
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