"For so short a time."
"Briefly, yes; but, ah … deeply," Sandy replied, low-voiced again. "Soft - I hear his step."
The door opened, and a tall man walked in. "Gray," he said, inclining his head. The hair was as smooth as the velvet mask, but not as dark. Under the mask full lips were framed by a moustache and a narrow, pointed beard.
"Sire," Sandy replied, his Scots a little broader than usual. "Pray be seated. I am fain to make you acquent with master Philip Standage, of Cecil's Men."
Philip, gaze dutifully lowered, curtsied; but when he stood again he looked the man in the eyes; dark eyes that, like the mask itself, reflected nothing. I have seen those eyes. "I am at your service this hour," he said.
"I thank you," the stranger replied, sitting in the chair. An English voice, southern, and of high degree. "Gray says you might play for us?" His hand curled in an inescapably obscene movement that Philip was meant to see.
"I have not that instrument in this garb," Philip said.
"Sing, then," Sandy said.
Philip nodded. For you.
"My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven."
There were ten lines more to the song, and it seemed to Philip that both words and notes came true without an effort. When he fell silent and drew breath again, he thought, I have never sung better.
Sandy, on the bench, was smiling at him. The stranger was applauding with a soft sound of glove on glove.
"Excellently well, master Standage," he said. "Pray sing again, and - will you not take off that ruff?"
"You will have to help me with the pins, Sandy."
"I am sure the gentleman will be happy to assist you," Sandy said. "You had best kneel down so that he can reach."
Sandy, this is taking courtesy too far. But Philip knelt, nonetheless.
"Closer, I pray you," the Englishman said. "I am short of sight."
A glance at Sandy; Go on, love, Sandy mouthed at him. An infinitesimally small shake of his head. For me, Sandy's lips said; and, perforce, Philip gathered his skirts a little and shifted backwards, finding himself kneeling between the Englishman's legs.
Nothing happened. Nothing, that is, beyond the unpinning of his ruff, although he knew from the cool touch on his neck that the stranger had removed his gloves. Sandy stood up, took the ruff with the line of pins stuck in its inner edge and said, "There. Now we can see you better."
Philip stood and turned round, finding himself still the object of the dark gaze. "What would you have me sing now, sir?"
"Why: perhaps Alexander Gray will choose," the Englishman said, at which Sandy laughed and shrugged. "I know none of your English songs. Sing of - why, sing of being abed, love. Sit next to me."
Philip sat close, and Sandy put an arm around his waist.
Behind the velvet mouth the eyes glinted a little, and the full lips parted. The Englishman's hands, still ungloved, were folded in his lap.
So my mouth is a mere conduit for his lust? I think not. Philip drew breath to sing. "Care-charmer Sleep," he began and, turning his head, glimpsed a wry smile on Sandy's face.
"Cease dreams, th' imagery of our day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain;
And never wake to feel the day's disdain."
There was soft applause again, and a sardonic English drawl. "So I am the day, maybe, that you think I disdain you? Well … we shall see. I wish you joy of your clouds, though they may be greyer than you think."
"It is nothing to me if you disdain me," Philip said. "I sing as I was asked."
"Yes, and your singing has been my pleasure indeed." The stranger rose to his feet and looked down at the two of them. "I would pay for … other things, let me tell you."
"I regret, sir," Philip said, knowing it to be clear from his voice that he regretted nothing, "that I have room for one account only, in both heart and body. I thank you indeed for your proffer - " and that is the greatest lie I have told this year - "but, no."
A smile, and a nod. "A man of honour - which is a strange thing to find in any court these days. Gray, I thank you for your hospitality, and for making me - acquent - with master Standage. We shall speak again, I hope." And with that, he departed.
There was silence.
"You are not angry with me, Sandy?" Philip asked, after a while.
"Lord, no; I am, indeed, in great admiration. Not every man would behave as you do, my love. However, I think the gentleman may be angry with me, so I shall follow after him soon."
"I am sorry if he is."
Sandy shrugged. "He may not be, but I will let him cool himself a little, for all that." The smile was back on his face. "Before I forget - I have another gift for you. Nothing, maybe, but as you once told me, there are gifts and gifts." He fished in the purse at his waist, and held out what seemed to be a skein of cord. "Here. Take it."
From Philip's hand swung, small and oddly light, a cylinder of chased leather. It was perhaps two inches long, glinting with flecks of gold leaf which at first sight showed like letters, but seen more closely were only lines and curves that had no discernible meaning.
"What is it?"
"A small thing," Sandy said. "A charm to keep you safe, since I can't watch over you myself."
"Witchcraft?" His heart thumped, part-fear, part-delight. He loves me that much?
"Indeed no - a better magic by far; stronger than witches or demons. Wear it for me, love?" Sandy whispered in his ear, pressing against him.
"Of course." He handed it over, and bent his head; Sandy's hands brushed his hair before withdrawing. The thing was hardly to be felt against his skin.
"There," Sandy said. His fingers were around Philip's neck still, the tips pressing, the smallest of warm weights, just below the Adam's apple. "They say, you know, that being hanged or strangled makes a man's yard to stand. Perhaps we might … try the game?"
"I've no desire to put that one to the test," Philip said, although he quivered at the thought, and between his legs his rebellious flesh said otherwise. "Besides, you wanted to go after - "
"Ah, that can wait. We will be over and done within a few minutes."
"And yet - " But Philip did not resist as Sandy pulled his borrowed skirts up from between them.
"No?" Sandy murmured, resuming his grip on Philip's neck. "But picture it to yourself, my love - you that seek hazard and jeopardy - if you were to put myself in my hands entirely - if you were to trust me to take care of you - so that you could put it to the test?"
"No," Philip said, but uncertainly, for all the blood in his body seemed to have flowed to his thighs and what stood between them.
"No?" Sandy repeated, pressing closer still. "I've not begun, and you're already harder than a whore's heart, my love. Love," he whispered again next to Philip's ear. "You cannot deceive me, Philip Standage. Choose to go, if you will, choose now; or choose to stay, and you will know things you never knew before. You want to know, I think." His fingers pushed harder still into Philip's neck. "Do you not? Hm?"
Philip's whole body trembled. His legs lost all strength, and he slid from the bench. He could barely breathe, but he remembered, despite the dazzle of sensuous turmoil that blazed through him, how to nod. Sandy made a small, pleased noise of agreement and bore him to the ground, turning him as he went down so that Philip landed on his back; then thrust and thrust against him, tightening his grip with each spasmodic movement.
Somewhere in the burning dark, they came together.
"Did you enjoy the play?" Nick asked Jamy, linking an arm in his as they walked.
"I liked it fine," he said. "Your Philip must have made a bonny lass when he was your age."
"He's no
t so bad to look at now," Nick said.
"No." Jamy crowded him into a dark corner. "I wish I had not to go back to Isbel's. Nor you to England."
"I'll be - what is it you say? - sweir to leave you."
"Aye; and I you," Jamy said. "But I've always known ye would leave, sooner or later, though I'm glad it was later. I shall miss my English lad." He kissed Nick gently.
"We may come back," Nick said, slipping his arms around Jamy and leaning on his chest. "Players travel."
"Aye," Jamy said, "and more than I ever will, but I don't grudge ye. If it were love, now - "
"But we didn't do it for love's sake - did we?"
"Oh no. Not by any means. But it's more than when we first began, is it not?" Jamy stroked Nick's hair.
"It is, but - do you mind, Jamy?" Nick stroked his hair in return; those soft, fire-red strands. "I wouldn't like it said that I loved you and left you for my own selfish purposes - however it first began."
"I mind everything," Jamy said, "which is what you would say for I remember everything. But it doesn't hurt me. Nothing can, these days. Besides, you mis-remember. You may have been first to ask, but that would have been nothing without I told you where I lodge."
"Thank you for that," Nick said, "and for everything."
"I could say the same." Jamy held him close. "I wish we might lie together here. Is there no place?"
"The company has a chamber, but they'll be taking to their own beds. Charles will be in his room with his wife … or there's Philip's bed," Nick said. "He has his own room too, but he went off with his Scots lord, I saw him. He won't be back tonight."
"Shall we?" Jamy said. "I want to."
"So do I. Yes. Come on." Nick took him by the arm again, and they ran upstairs. Philip's room had two doors, one from the passage-way, one from the company's chamber. Nick rolled up the sheets of his part from Twelfth Night and wedged them under the chamber door, then turned to face Jamy. They had spent time enough together that Nick no longer hesitated to help him disrobe, but tonight Jamy said, "Only my girdle, Nico, I cannot wait tonight - ah, quick … "
"Oh, no," Nick said, teasing. "Everything off."
"Ach, you - English." But he was laughing.
The end of it was that they were both naked, but not so far gone as they might have been, when the door opened and Philip drew the bed-curtain back with one hand. He held a candle in the other; he was still attired as Olivia, but his ruff was gone, and his gown was half-off at the shoulders. The candle-light showed a dark smudge on his throat. He was smiling, with an odd, dazed look on his face as if he were drunk, and the pupils of his eyes were wide and dark. "Nicholas," he said, very soft and low. "And Jamy."
"I … you'll be fined for taking your gear away from stage," was all Nick could think of to say, and Philip laughed again, more heartily.
"Nicholas, brat, you'll be managing a company of your own before time's done with you, I can tell. I'll go sleep elsewhere."
It was Jamy who said, "No, don't."
Philip looked back over his right shoulder, his eyes darker still. He was swaying on his feet. "I'm tired," he said. "And I ache. I can do nothing but hold you where you lie."
"Join us and welcome," Jamy said. Nick climbed out of bed and helped Philip off with the gown and shift before folding them back into the apparel chest in the corner. By the time Nick reached the bed again Philip was in his night-shirt and under the covers, but despite what he had said, he touched neither Jamy nor Nick. It was Jamy and Nick who reached for him, Nick stroking the curve of his neck and Jamy laying one arm across his waist.
"You'll do better without me," Philip whispered.
"We will not," Jamy told him. "Lie quiet, and we'll do just fine. We're friends, are we not?" And he kissed Philip lightly, not on the lips but on the forehead. In response Philip sighed, and moved closer; but both Jamy and Nick had lost the urge to do what they intended, so that in the end all three slept, curled up in each other's arms, and did nothing else.
Chapter 18
February 1602
The days sped all too soon to Candlemas. Nick took what time he could to be with Jamy, and so did Philip with Alexander Gray. He was often enough absent, but he never spoke to Nick about Gray, although he asked after Jamy now and again.
Master Massey directed the stowing of the travelling gear, early the last morning. Nick knelt down beside Alyson Massey and began to help her with the apparel.
"You're quite a stranger at this hour, young Nicholas," she said.
"I suppose so." He picked up a veil; it had a line of pins in the hem. "Do you have a pin-pillow?"
"Here." Alyson pushed one towards him. "Is she so comely, your girl, that she takes you away from us every night?"
"Ah … yes," Nick said. "And kind."
"That's good." She sat back on her heels. "They say that fornication is a sin, of course, but to me it seems more of a sin to make each other unhappy."
Any learnèd divine would have driven a plough-team through that argument, but Nick could have hugged her. Instead he said, "Mistress Alyson, about Ph- master Standage, I mean. Do you think he looks well?"
"Come to think of it," she said, a slight frown on her face, "maybe he doesn't. Perhaps it is no more than tiredness, but the same could be true for you, and most likely for the same reason. But it's not for us to interfere." She took a length of velvet out of his hands. "There should be some gold lace with that."
"Here," Nick said, picking it up from the floor. "Where is he? I haven't seen him today."
"He went to the stables early," said Alyson. "If you want a good horse, ask Philip to choose it, or so Massey says. We are to hire another horse and a guide as far as St Boswell's, so that Lady and Bayard have an easy time of it at first." She cast a quick look round the floor nearby, then stood up and brushed her hands down her skirts. "How many weeks is it, before we're home again? I shall be glad; but meanwhile, I do believe that is everything. Ask Massey for the keys, there's a good boy, and then you can help carry this out."
They alternated one-night and two-night stays in their travelling, so that the journey south took five or six weeks. After years on the road, the older men knew which inns were best for players; by the time they returned to London at last, the company was weary of the road and eager to be home. Philip was quiet, as if deep in thought. Sometimes he raised his hand to his neck and let it fall again.
"Will we go back to Scotland?" Nick asked him.
They were in the crowd outside Aldersgate, waiting to go through into St Martin's lane. Philip's hands were restless on Lady's reins, keeping her from backing up the shafts of the wagon. "Yes," he said. "We will, one day or another." A moment later he whistled, long and low. "How does he know?"
"What? Who?"
"See there? The liveryman? That's Cecil's livery."
"Perhaps he's here every day," Nick suggested, and Philip shook his head.
"Cecil's not one to pay a man's wages for wasted time. He must have a hundred eyes, like Argus." He waved at the liveryman, and received a sharp glance of acknowledgement. When Nick looked again, the man was not there.
Under Cecil's deft questioning, Philip recalled much; more, indeed, than he had thought himself to know, until he felt obliged to say, "Whether I remember any of this truly - for indeed I begin to doubt myself - I leave it to you to judge, sir."
"No matter." Cecil signed to his secretary, who stopped writing at once. "Your memory for names is excellent, as I know already, and you do not need leading to remember them, which is more valuable."
"It makes me wonder that torture should ever be necessary," Philip said, only half-jesting.
"Some men's memories need a little assistance," Cecil said, calmly as if he were speaking of the weather. "But it is costly, and time-consuming; I prefer not." He was running one pale finger down a list of names. "Did it seem to you that Howard made any friend in particular?"
"The King smiled on him often enough," Philip said. "He stayed with Mar at first,
and he was much about the King's favourites. But that may have been mere policy."
"There is a thing that they say of James, concerning - favourites." Cecil's eyes were on the paper before him.
"I know what you mean."
"Well?"
"I saw nothing, save that if you are a man in the Scottish court, the younger and better you are to look upon, the more likely you are to be - well-favoured." Philip resisted the urge to touch Sandy's talisman at his neck. "I was not admitted to the king's presence and he never spoke to me. He came only once to hear us play."
"And paid you well?" Cecil asked.
"Well enough, but not … not lavishly."
"Yes. The Scots treasury does not hold what it might." Cecil rolled the quill of his pen between his fingers. "I have fears for the English treasury, if - but enough of that. You have done well, Philip, and I thank you."
"For the sake of the English treasury, you may like to know that the expenses were more than sufficient." Philip handed over a canvas bag that held full purses as well as empty ones.
"Yes. I gave you more than would suffice, on purpose to see whether you spent it all." For once, Cecil's smile was warm. "I am glad that you did not. Take what remains for your wages."
"I - " It was more money than Philip had seen in one place, even after Henslowe's better successes at the Rose or the Fortune.
"Take it."
"I thank you," Philip said, remembering his manners; and then he too smiled. "I suppose this means I will earn less next time, for you will know how little we spend."
Cecil shrugged. "As to next time, I will consider. You must be ready to travel at the beginning of May and return in September." He raised his hand to forestall Philip's words. "I know it is the theatre's best season. Henslowe will have to endure it, or endure worse. Let him find a play about a lawyer, and I will see to it that the gentlemen of the Inns of Court fill his theatre daily."
And end by burning it down, most like. Philip bowed and took his leave.
Henslowe never shouted in his rages, except in the theatre. At home, there were other ways of knowing that he was angry. The pewter plate missed Philip's head by a hairsbreadth.
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