The Peacock's Eye

by Jay Lewis Taylor

  "Who was it said 'the morrow shall care for itself'?" Henslowe fumed. "He was never a theatre manager. The morrow only cares for itself if I have been here to care for yesterday."

  "I believe it was Our Lord," Philip said, stooping for the plate and handing it back.

  "What?" Henslowe stared blankly at the plate for a moment, and set in on the board again.

  "'Care not then for the morrow, for the morrow shall care for itself: the day hath enough with his own grief.' The gospel of Matthew, chapter six."

  Henslowe blinked at him. "If it had been Nick speaking, you know, I would have told him not to be pert. Here I am without my two most reliable - I don't say best, mind you - but certainly reliable, actors, all summer. And more actors with them than I can spare."

  "We paid our way last time," Philip reminded him.

  "That's so," Henslowe admitted. "Ah, well - I will see what plays we can let you have, or copy."

  "Thank you," Philip said. "Cecil told me, perhaps in jest, that a play with a lawyer will fill the Fortune from the Inns of Court. He may mean that he is prepared to use his influence for you as he has for me."

  "I hope so," Henslowe said, brightening a little, "but if by using his influence you mean sending me to another country, I would rather not."

  Philip laughed. "I have gained more than you imagine from Scotland, sir, and I dare say you can find some gain from our absence, after all."

  "True," Henslowe said. "For one thing, I can try some other boy players without trampling on Nick's toes." He raised an eyebrow. "Don't look so surprised. Nick has been with us four years or more, now."

  It can't be that long. But when Philip thought about it; yes, it was. "He does well, surely?"

  "Very well, indeed; his voice is still true, and he has kept slim, not like Jack who stuffs himself at every meal. But nothing lasts forever, and if it wasn't that his beard is so fair, you must have noticed it before now."

  "I - " I have never seen him shaving himself. But then, I am never there in the morning. "I hadn't," Philip admitted.

  Henslowe chuckled. "Head in the air, like the sparrow that you are. Go to Scotland in May, then, and good luck go with you."

  May 1602

  They had a better journey north than last year: warm weather, good going, and Philip light of heart in a way that Nick had not seen for a long time. It made a change to be on the road in summer, which brought them better audiences in town, although worse in the countryside, where farm work was at its height. They played at Burleigh's place in Stamford, and under the nose of the Archbishop in York, though they were careful to choose a godly play that day.

  Nick had spent four months with the spring rising in his blood as the sap rose in the trees, and being alone in bed was hard penance indeed. He could only hope that Jamy would be at the end of the road, for he could not imagine lying with another man unless that man should chance to be Philip; and Philip's loving was set on another man.

  Although they made better speed, the distance between London and Edinburgh took as many days; the saving was that they had more time at the end of the day to rest. But at last, there were the crags again, and the castle, and the city at the foot of all. In London, the apple-trees had been flowering since April, and the tide of blossom had followed them north. When they arrived in Edinburgh, a foam of pink and white lay across the orchards in the Holyroodhouse gardens, under a green haze where the leaves were breaking from the bud in the warmth of the sun.

  They arrived and were made welcome on the one day, and the next gave their first play in the afternoon, with the sun slanting through the high windows onto the stage. Again there was food laid out afterwards, and the company had not been eating long when Jamy came in as if they had never been away.

  He and Nick tried to talk, but with the others crowding round it was none so easy. At last Jamy said, "Ye'll come to Isbel's place, the night?"

  "I will," Nick said, and passed him a sugared apricot, which Jamy ate as he had done the first time; smiled, and went away. Nick's blood pulsed with sunlight and expectation, and he turned round ready to be friends with all the world - except the man Gray, who chose that moment to open the door from the hall and put both hands over Philip's eyes from behind, like a child playing a game. Philip ducked and twisted away, laughing. "Sandy! I don't need to guess."

  Nick was the only one of the company watching; the others had discreetly turned their backs. Sandy was bent close over Philip's left ear, and when he moved away, against Philip's neck there hung a garnet on a gold ring. To glare at Philip in Gray's arms was both discourtesy and folly, so Nick sighed and went to ask Alyson Massey whether she might consider letting out a few of the company's gowns in the sleeves.

  "Will it never be dark?" It seemed a long time until dark; until Nick could go to Isbel's, and to Jamy.

  "Long daylight in England is longer still in Scotland," Philip said. "I dare say Sandy can explain it. He is learnèd enough for anything."

  "You - ?"

  "What, Nick?"

  Nick was only the apprentice; not for him to rail against Philip's choice. He shook his head. "Nothing."

  "Truly?"

  Nick looked him in the face. "No, but - I hope … he does make you happy?"

  The smile that Nick would have given anything to have directed at him and him alone, lifted Philip's face. "I'm not answering that. I shouldn't need to - and you should not have asked."

  "I know. I'm sorry." Nick leaned over, kissed Philip's cheek and went away. He would not wait for the dark; he would go to Jamy now. He could not stop himself from looking back over his shoulder, and it would have been better if he had not, for he saw Philip wipe his hand across where the kiss had been.

  Edinburgh was small, smaller than London; but Philip, who this time had delivered Cecil's message with no trouble, was heartily thankful that they were lodged behind the walls of Holyroodhouse and not in the city. All summer, when the wind was in the north or north-west, it bore with it the stench of cesspits and tanyards. In the light nights, he slept badly, except in Sandy's arms. He knew well enough that Sandy basked like a cat in his declarations of love, and never made any in return; but what did that matter, when Sandy's hands wove their pattern of lust around Philip's body, or his tongue parted Philip's lips in a kiss, or his cock spilled seed into Philip's mouth? It was enough to have this; more might follow or not, but Philip hardly cared. The garnet rested cool against his neck by day, as if Sandy still touched him, wherever he went.

  Cecil's Men had a good season, but at last Philip found an answer to his message, pinned inside the apparel he wore in his lordly roles. The seal on it was Mar's; he slipped the letter into his purse, and later into his writing-case.

  "Sandy," he said that night. "We have to go soon. I - I do not know when we will be in Scotland again, if at all."

  "Soon?" Sandy asked. "Howard is to come again from England, tomorrow; I hope he will be in time to hear a play or two."

  "Howard?" Philip said. "Where had you that news?"

  "Oh, there are faster travellers on the road than he," Sandy said, "especially at his age. Maybe I will go back to England with him. Maybe I will come to England on my own account, some day, and seek out my sweet player. My journey for your journeys." He kissed Philip's neck under the ear-ring, biting hard enough for Philip to suspect that there would be a bruise in the morning. "Say you long for that, my sweet."

  "Of course I shall, when I am in England myself," Philip said. "For the meanwhile, however - " He reached out with one hand and undid Sandy's girdle. "For the meanwhile," he repeated, "my hand on the bargain."

  Sandy laughed deep in his throat. "That is a most dear bargain that you hold, sweet Philip. Beware I do not make you pay hard for it."

  When the English travellers arrived, they brought some sickness or other with them, as was only too evident from the coughing and sneezing in the audience at the play. It came and went in a few days, for most; some suffered more than others. First Charles Massey was lai
d low by it, and then Alyson, and one by one the rest of Cecil's Men. The first day Massey came on stage again, Philip was still well, but that evening there was a heaviness in his head, and an ache that seemed to mask his whole face. His throat hurt; he sent his excuses to Sandy, and tried to hide the trouble from the others.

  To no avail, for the next morning Nick said, "You don't look well."

  His throat was appallingly painful by now. Philip answered, "I'll do."

  "No you won't," Charles Massey said. "You sound like a crow, not a lover, Philip. Take the Scottish musician's part, then we won't have to pay him."

  "Who'll play Romeo?" Philip croaked. "I may be better tomorrow."

  "Don't deceive yourself. Nick can try Romeo, and if he doesn't kiss Jack I shall box his ears. Jack must play Juliet."

  "But I'm the Nurse!" Jack protested.

  Massey buried his head in his hands. "We'll have to change the play, and I told the steward it would be this one, yesterday, Heaven help us."

  "Don't ask Heaven, ask me," Alyson Massey said. "I know the Nurse's part - I should do. I've heard one man or other giving it for more years than I care to remember."

  "A woman on stage?" Will Bird said. "I never heard of such a thing."

  Alyson smiled at him, showing her teeth a little. "No more you would, in London. What woman wants the likes of that crowd staring at her? There are preachers there and here, would rail at me and call me a whore; but who's to know? If Nick and Jack - and Philip - can counterfeit a woman in man's gear, surely I can counterfeit a man in woman's gear."

  Her husband stared at her for a moment, and then nodded. "It's all we can do, especially since Sol Jeanes is down with this damned fever too. Good. Thank you, everyone. Go and rest, Philip - practise your music if you must, but stay away from us."

  Philip was never quite sure how he got through that performance. He played the final dance with slow care, being in no condition to play faster without fumbling the notes. Through the balustrade of the gallery, he saw Nick and Jack and Charles and Alyson and the others adapting their pace accordingly. At the end, he stopped the strings and let go the lute. The applause echoed strangely in his head, as if the world were hollow.

  Chapter 19

  September 1602

  Philip shivered. He did not want to move. His throat hurt, he felt hot and also very, very tired. He hooked his fingers over the top of the balustrade and pulled; but his legs would not hold him up, and he sank back on to the stool again, still shivering despite the heat in his body. The pad of feet on the gallery stairs, and Nick, in his usual clothes, stood before him. "Phip, come down, do. We're all waiting for you."

  "I'm sorry. You were right. I'm not well." Too ill even to object to the nick-name.

  "I told you - ah, never mind. Here, lean on me."

  "On you? I'll send you flying." His voice trailed away, and he put his hand to his throat.

  "No, you won't. I've grown, you - you mazeling," Nick said, forgetting, once again, his place as apprentice. He slid an arm under Philip's left shoulder. "Shall I carry your lute?"

  "Is it made of lead? I can hold it." Philip hauled himself to his feet, trying not to lean too heavily on Nick. Together, precariously, Nick first, they descended the gallery stair. Half-way down Philip lurched, slipped out of Nick's grasp and sat down. "Sorry."

  "Fool. It was my fault."

  "Don't be angry." Philip shut his eyes and let his head droop.

  "I'm not, Phip, only - oh, no." He was whispering now, but there was no mistaking the resentment.

  "Can I help?" asked a warm, familiar voice. "Philip, sweet, what ails you?"

  "Why," he whispered. "Sandy. I thought you would have gone."

  Sandy Gray said, "I was waiting for you. Come, tell me. Can you walk? If you lean on me? I'll come up."

  "My throat hurts. I think I can walk." A strong arm at his waist, and Philip felt himself lifted. "Wait," he croaked. "Let me get my balance."

  Sandy waited. "Ready? Aye? Then let's go. Run along, boy. He were better to lie in my chambers than trudge all the way back to your rooms."

  "Philip?" Nick asked.

  Philip was beyond thinking of right or wrong or what was best to do. All he wanted was to lie down. "Yes. Tell the others, please."

  "You'll be - ?"

  "I shall do very well," Philip told him, and made himself walk out of the hall and along the tapestried walks and passages, as he had done so often. He set his feet down carefully, not sure that the ground was where his eyes told him it was. Once he had to stop and cough, and could not repress a noise of pain at the raw scraping of his throat.

  "Come, sweet," Sandy said, "a little faster, and we'll soon be there." His arm tightened round Philip's waist. "I have you. Come; I have you."

  Sandy's bed was warm, and soft as sin even without Sandy in it. Philip had only the pain of his throat for company, his clothes thrown hap-hazard on a bench against the wall. Presently, the door opened.

  "Sandy," he croaked.

  "Here's some cordial for your poor throat, my song-bird. We can't let you be silenced. Can you drink?"

  He nodded, and let himself be propped up on the swansdown pillows. Even then he could not take the cup, and in the end it was with Sandy's arm round his shoulders and Sandy holding the cup solicitously to his lips that Philip drank down the cordial; thick and sweet and strong, with the taste of blackcurrant and honey disguising something else.

  "There," Sandy crooned, "there, my poor lad. Lie down. Rest. And in a while we'll do something that will soothe you more."

  All he wanted was to be left alone. Sleep reached out dark arms, and Philip let himself fall into them.

  Later, much later, he was awake, if not watchful; aware, but not able to move or think. Somebody turned the bedclothes back and slid in beside him, close and warm and breathing hard.

  "No," Philip mumbled, but Sandy's hands were deft as they always were, sliding to his belly and down, stroking and touching him, dissolving his words into nothing and the tension in his body to liquid acquiescence.

  "That's it, love," Sandy murmured. "You'll not mind this, I promise. You'll not mind a thing in the morning. Poppy-juice in the cordial against the pain, you'll sleep well, I promise you." The soft Scots voice was an incantation, a spell. There was - Philip could not think what there was. Another warmth, a weight. Something at his back, an intolerable pressure. He shook his head and said "No" again, but nothing changed. His head lay on Sandy's breast. His eyelids were closed, heavy, weighted: he opened them for the barest moment, and saw a hand in front of his face, a gold-and-blue chequered ring on the first finger. A little later, someone's hands were at him in another place.

  "No, Sandy," he said again. More than hands.

  "Hush, love. Does it hurt?"

  "No," he said, truthfully. But -

  "Does it feel good?"

  "Yes," he said, because it did, but, but, "Doesn't mean I want it," he tried to say, and was greeted by warm, indulgent laughter.

  "Of course you want it, heart of mine. Don't fret yourself. Lie easy." Sandy's hands were on him. Two breaths. Two people breathing here. Himself and Sandy, that was all it could be. But how come, then, that invasion of his body, that half-forgotten, once-familiar ecstasy, which was almost more fear than pleasure? It took him and shook him, burned him up worse than the fever and exploded into a bright flame of the senses from which there was nowhere to fall but down. He cried out one name, and let sleep take him once more.

  The two men looked at each other across his sleeping back.

  "Satisfied?" Alexander Gray said.

  "I will send your reward." Sir Henry Howard slithered off the bed, and began to clean himself. "He cried out something, did he not? I - was in no state to hear him."

  "He said, 'Kit'."

  Sir Henry shrugged. "His catamite, I dare say." He sat on the edge of the bed, and laced his points.

  "He has no catamite. Rather, he is one - for which you may give thanks."

 
Eyes already narrow creased in a smile. "Indeed. I wonder that you sell him so lightly."

  "If I think it to my advantage, believe me, I will sell anyone," Gray said. "I have tasted poverty and it is bitter, and I have had enough of it."

  "I hope I may bring you the sweets of such wealth another time, then." Sir Henry fastened one last button, and swung his cloak across his shoulders. The door closed behind him.

  Gray spat, with care, into a corner. "Withered as an old cow's teats," he said. "Be thankful you were out of that, my Englishman."

  Their journey south should have been as smooth as the journey north; indeed it was, as far as the travelling went, but Nick was too worried about Philip to notice. He had come back to the company's rooms late, two days after they had played Romeo and Juliet, and although he was well of his sore throat and cough before long, he was not like himself.

  Whenever Nick asked him, he insisted that he was well, but in such a subdued voice that Nick was sure his throat still hurt. Philip and the Masseys took a room to themselves each night, and Nick slept in the chamber with the rest of the company. On the fourth day south from Edinburgh, Charles Massey dropped back along the line to ride alongside where Nick sat on the tailboard of the cart.

  "Nick," he began, "you are on good terms with Philip, are you not?"

  "I hope so," Nick told him. After so long, they were beginning to dispense with 'master' and suchlike words.

  "Then I wish you would find out what's troubling him. Alyson says he wakes in the night."

  "He says he's well."

  "Aye, so he says to me when I ask." Massey sighed. "He's not like to tell us. He might tell you, though. Or you might hear it in his sleep. We sleep too heavy, Alyson and I."

  "And you think he will take me into his bed?" Nick said. "I doubt it."

  "Autumn nights are too chill to be sleeping in carts and barns," Massey went on, a twinkle in his eyes. "Especially for a poor young player who might, ah, acquire a cough, and could therefore beg a place in a warm bed."