"If I know Philip," Nick said, "he'll take himself off to the barn and leave the bed to me."
"Not if I tell him that he must take care of his throat," Massey said. "And even in the barn someone else may hear, so there's an answer anyway."
To be under orders to get himself into Philip's bed was more than he had ever dreamed of; but Nick didn't like to develop a cough too suddenly, so worked up to it during the next few days. By Friday, and York, he was in bed with Philip. And it was less than he had dreamed of, for Philip turned his back and lay at the far edge of the mattress. Nick kept on with the cough for veracity's sake, and then let it quieten as if he were falling asleep; until Philip's voice startled him into a genuine fit of coughing.
"I hope this is not some ploy to get yourself into my arms."
"I wouldn't dare," Nick said.
"Hm." But Philip said nothing more, and after a while Nick fell asleep in truth.
He was woken by Philip's laboured breathing, and the restlessness that came with it. "Philip," he said. "Phip, wake up. Wake up." The difficult rasp of air leapt into one shuddering, indrawn breath, and Philip's muscles bunched under Nick's hand. Then they relaxed, and he let the breath out, slow and gentle.
"What was it?" Nick asked. "What were you dreaming of?"
"Nothing," he said. "There was a weight on my chest, and I couldn't move or breathe. That was all."
"Does it happen often?"
"Ah - quite often."
"Every night?" Nick asked gently.
"I - I don't know."
"Every night since we left Edinburgh," said Alyson from the darkness on the far side of the room.
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Maybe it is the night-mare," Alyson said. "Do you say your prayers?"
There was a silence.
"I will," Philip replied.
Later in the night, he woke again; this time the Masseys slept on. "Come, Philip," Nick said in a whisper. "Let's hold each other. Perhaps that will help."
"No, I'll sleep again," he said, but when he woke a third time in the chill grey light before dawn, Nick held out his arms, and with a small sigh of something between relief and exhaustion Philip moved closer.
After that night they slept beside each other; only slept, and that with a linen night-shirt each between their two bodies. Nick yearned for more, but he would not take advantage of Philip in sleep. Needs must; he satisfied his bodily cravings as quietly as he could, and tried not to spill Philip's name from his mouth when his seed spilt from his body. And, apart from one night in Lincoln, where Philip woke him by muttering, "Sandy, no … please … " the night-mare seemed to have gone.
The autumn turned cold, and as they journeyed, stage by stage, down the road from the north, the rain fell unceasing. Philip had never been so tired in all his life. Nick's arms round him kept some fears away, but the feel of their two bodies together was always the presage of lust; in his dreams he lay beside Sandy, and woke with his own body aching with arousal that he would not satisfy.
And still the rain fell. "'The rain it raineth every day'," Nick grumbled, coughing, for they had played Twelfth Night again, unseasonably, in the George Inn at Huntingdon. "We should play A Midsummer Night's Dream and bring ourselves better weather."
"'Contagious fogs'," Philip reminded him, and patted Nick's back sympathetically; he had doubted that cough at York, but whatever its nature then, it was genuine enough now. "Cheer up, Nick. Cecil will give us warm beds at Theobalds."
"I'll sleep on the hard boards if only the room is warm enough," Nick said, huddling into his doublet and jerkin.
"Are you so cold?" Philip reached back into the cart. "Here, borrow this."
"But don't you need it?"
"I have better clothes, and no cough. Come on." Philip shook the cloak out, spread it over Nick's shoulders, and fastened it carefully at the throat. "There you are."
"Thank you, love."
Philip looked at him, startled. Not that, still. I do hope not. "Don't call me that," he said.
"I can't help it." Nick looked at him. "Does the night-mare still ride you?"
He shook his head, and knew that he had given himself away somehow, for Nick's hand was on his arm.
"Philip - are you sure?"
"I am quite sure." The insistent hand was still there, and he half-rose from his place, only to sit down again with a bump as the cart lurched over rough ground. "Nick. Please. Leave me alone."
"Just tell me, yes or no, and I will."
"Yes." Which was the truth. "But not so much." Which was a lie, and it seemed to him that Nick's eyes must search it out for what it was; but Nick said nothing. Only, when they reached the more-than-majesty that was Theobalds, somehow Nick and Philip ended up together in a small eyrie of a room, close to the rest of the company but separated from it by a small flight of steps. Philip looked at Nick, and pulled out the truckle bed to claim it for his own.
"I'll sleep on that," said Nick. "I'm the prentice."
Philip shook his head and lay down, ignoring Nick's exasperated sigh.
I should have gone home. The village outside the walls was his birthplace, after all: he had spent his childhood there. I haven't been home for fifteen years. He had waited too long. Could there be any going back, now?
In the morning, when he woke, Nick was holding him close; the night-mare must have returned, although Philip could remember nothing. Nick was very fast asleep indeed, and it was still dark. Philip unclasped the warm arms, slipped out from between them, climbed into the other bed and fell asleep again.
Sir Edward Alleyn had ridden out from London to greet them, and Cecil had a fancy to see Twelfth Night again. "Better call it Twentieth Night by now," Charles Massey said sourly, but at least they were all word-perfect. Alleyn would play Orsino, and Philip, Olivia. Nick would play Viola for the first time and Jack Wynter would be Maria.
"Not until tomorrow? So we eat and drink out of Cecil's bounty tonight, and play for our supper twice only?" Nick asked, taking Viola's part from the sheaf that Charles Massey held out. "What else does he want from us?"
"After tomorrow, Romeo and Juliet. Otherwise, I can't think," Philip said. But he knew; Cecil wanted time to pick knowledge out of his brain once more. Indeed, at that moment a messenger walked into the company's chamber and shouted, "Standage!"
"Here," said Philip wearily, uncoiling from his place on the floor. "Save me some supper, Nick."
Chapter 20
"With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day."
Twelfth Night was over, yet again. Nick unlaced his bodice, heaved a sigh of relief and wriggled his shoulders. "Ouf. That's better," he said. "No more Viola for me. Sebastian next time."
"Indeed. What have you been doing to broaden your shoulders so?" Philip hung up Olivia's farthingale, stepped out of the slippers and, still petticoated, sat on the ground to peel off the stockings.
"Growing, not that you seem to notice." Nick pulled the pins, one by one, from his ruff, and looked sideways over the white lace at Philip. "I hope they'll let me change. I'd rather kiss you than Alleyn, any day."
Philip laughed. "That's nothing. Think of me, having to kiss Charles Massey."
"Philip! I mean what I say."
Philip, one stocking half-on, half-off, could only stare. "I - I thought you were past that," he said.
Nick shook his head. "Deeper in, if anything." He continued to disrobe himself slowly amid all the chatter of the tiring-room. Philip could not look away from him: the back with that dip at the spine, so desirable to trace with one finger; the curve of his backside to slim, strong legs, shadowed along the muscle and tendon. Philip swallowed. "Turn around, Nick?"
"And have the whole company see what effect you have on me? I think not." Nick pulled up his trunk-hose. "So you're tired of your Scotsman?" he asked. "I've waited long enough."
The heat in Philip's blood dowsed itself with shame, and then ignited agai
n as he recalled being abed with Sandy. "No, I - I shouldn't have said what I did. It was the heat of the moment." Sandy. "I'm sorry, Nick."
"So am I. I want you, Philip."
Philip shook his head, and applied himself to the remaining stocking. "You can do better."
"I don't want to. Philip - " Nick began, but stopped short when the tiring-room door opened. "Damnation. We are the raree-show tonight," he muttered, tucking his shirt where it should be.
Alleyn swept past them, saying out of one corner of his mouth, "Henry Howard. Be on your best manners and on your guard, for he may not keep his hands to himself. Smile through it. You can curse him after."
They stared at each other, and Philip got to his feet unwieldily, one hand holding the stockings and the other a veil. "Damn Cecil, for dropping this on us."
"What was that about his hands?"
"Wedded to books, bedded with boys," Philip said, standing up. "Luckily he prefers those of noble blood, or so they say. Get your doublet on, quickly."
"Where - oh, on the floor." Nick wriggled into his doublet, and began to fasten it. "Damn these buttons, why did I ever have them put on so small?"
"Let me."
"But you're still - "
"I'm older. I'm safe." Philip folded the stockings carefully over the rail, and undid a button of Nick's that had gone into the wrong loop. He worked quickly and neatly, with his eyes on the task and his ears on whatever was being said behind him. Alleyn was introducing the visitor and his entourage to the other players first, drawing nearer.
"And these," the mellifluous tones said as Philip fastened the last button, "are two of our ladies for tonight. I would tell Nicholas Hanham to make his courtesy, but I see that he is returned to his true self again."
Nick, with an élan that Philip had not expected of him, made an excellent courtly bow.
"On the other hand, this is Philip," Alleyn said, "or perhaps I should say Phyllis, Standage."
Damn Alleyn too, and his little jokes. Philip sank into a deep courtesy, head bowed, and was presented with a hand to kiss. A broad hand, fingers a little swollen at the knuckles, and on the first finger a ring. A gold ring, set with gold and azure chequers.
I have seen that ring before.
He thought, but knew that it was not true, that another hand caressed the back of his head, and trailed fingertips down to the nape of his neck. For a moment, the memory of the taste of blackcurrant cordial filled his mouth, and his mind reeled.
"My lord," he said. "You come in different guise from our last meeting." He looked up; and saw the secret amusement in Howard's dark eyes fade into a moment of panic, before the shutters came down.
"You talk in riddles," Howard said, but at the sound of his voice, Philip remembered what had happened and knew that the man was lying. He held Howard's gaze with his own, until Howard, breaking into a meaningless chuckle, said, "Charming indeed, Phyllis," and moved on.
If Nick had not known that Philip had removed his face-paint before Howard arrived, he would have sworn that it was still on; Philip's face was so pale. He continued to divest himself of Olivia's apparel, slowly and steadily, while Alleyn escorted Howard around the tiring-room. Nick fetched him his shirt, and was thanked with a quick smile directed not at him but at the wall. On went nether-hose and trunk-hose; Nick fetched his shoes and doublet too. The shoes Philip pulled on easily, but when it came to the doublet, his hands were shaking so much that he made a worse mess of the buttons even than Nick had.
"Let me," Nick said.
Philip stared at him for a moment, gave him that smile again, brief as a light from a shuttered lantern, and said, "Thank you."
"What's wrong?" The buttons were slippery with Philip's sweat.
"Nothing. Nothing I that can tell you." He straightened his partlet strip. "I - help me with the ruff, Nico." And he stared again. "Why did I call you that? Who calls you Nico?"
"Jamy," Nick said, his own throat suddenly tight with longing. Jamy had been so uncomplicated, by comparison. "In Edinburgh."
"Oh." He tipped his head back as Nick slipped the ruff into place and pinned it. "May I - do you mind if I do, as well? I liked Jamy."
"He liked you." Nick swallowed. He and Jamy had never said goodbye; there had been no time to send a message and with the contagion spreading like fire in a stubble field, he had not liked to visit Isbel's house. "Is that right?"
"Thank you," Philip said vaguely. "I have to find Cecil." His hand went up to his throat, and then briefly over his mouth. Alleyn and Howard were gone; Philip crossed the room in a few swift strides, faltered in the doorway, and was gone.
"So Howard is a sodomite. But what is that to me?" Cecil said. "Can you prove it, or can you bring any man here that he bedded?"
Philip breathed deep, to steady himself. "It is beyond proof. Will you accept my word?"
"Your word as - ?" Cecil asked.
"The man that he bedded." Philip could hardly speak. "I was ill, and he came to me." Even as he spoke, he knew that something was not altogether right, and that he had not remembered everything; but Cecil's eyes when he looked into them were set in nothing more accusing than a look of mild enquiry. "My cordial was drugged, I think. I could not stop him."
"I see." Cecil was silent for a moment, fiddling with a pen between his hands, until he said unexpectedly, "Ah, Philip, I am sorry for you. I had not thought you to be in that danger."
Philip's throat was too constricted for him to speak; he replied with a shrug.
"Do you wish to accuse him in public?" Cecil asked.
"I - I do not know. But - if it is knowledge useful for you to have, then take it, and use it."
"I will; and thank you." Cecil looked at him again. "Go and rest, Philip. You look tired."
"I doubt I will sleep." Philip opened the door; Sir Henry Howard was outside, hand raised ready to knock.
Philip bowed, stepped aside and, once Howard had passed him, went back to his own chamber. The others were at their supper, but he had no appetite. He lay down on the truckle bed, fell asleep almost at once, and slept all night long. Waking, all his anxieties were still fresh in his mind; he could not rid himself of the sick memory of Howard's hands on him, Howard's - No, stop. Don't think of it. But of course he could do nothing else.
Nick was still asleep on the other bed, curled up the way a child sleeps, his face calm and a little flushed. Tell Nick, Philip's heart urged, to which his mind replied, What good will that do? Who can help? He sat up, dressed, and slipped downstairs to the courtyard.
A chiming bell reminded him that it was Sunday.
God can help.
In a Protestant church, in Protestant England?
Well enough for a failed papist like yourself.
Mother -
She said, God will listen.
He had better, for if he doesn't I am damned.
You may be damned all the same.
Philip went to church.
He sat at the back wall and listened through the service, and through an interminable sermon on the Prodigal Son. Only when he lifted his head after the last "Amen" did he realise that his father was in the church too; in the family pew, across from the Cecils' place, which was empty this morning because Sir Robert preferred to use the private chapel in Theobalds.
Philip rose as unobtrusively as he could. Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee … but his mind would not complete the sentence. His brother Michael was nowhere to be seen. His father's hair, that had once been brown, was now grey; he had risen, and was within a yard or two of the west door. Philip stepped out in front of him and knelt down. "Father."
The word spread a circle of silence, like a pebble thrown into a pond.
There was no reply.
A voice, which after a moment Philip recognised as Nick's, said, "Sir, it is your elder son."
"I have one son only," Matthew Standage said, his voice sounding in Philip's ears as if from a great distance, "and he is in Cheshunt this day."
>
The draught of his father's passing, against the side of his face; the sound of his footsteps retreating. Voices, subdued, indistinct. And then the church was empty again.
It was what he had expected, but that did not make it any easier to bear. The voice in his mind mocked him.
You have seen too many plays, player. You hoped, didn't you? More fool you for hoping. This is life, and no stage-play now; there are no happy endings.
With an effort, he got to his feet.
The church was not quite empty. Nick was there, waiting for him.
"No happy endings," Philip said, and walked away.
Nick came and walked by his side. "There might be," he said, taking Philip's hand; Philip shook it off.
At the lych-gate, he found that someone else had waited for him.
"Emilia!" He hesitated a moment. She might agree with his father, after all.
He need not have worried. She flung her arms around him. "O Filippo caro, it is like water in a dry land to see you. How is it with you?"
"È molto bene, Emilia," he replied. "You see I have not forgotten all my Italian."
"No, but your accent is of the most English, enough to make one weep." She hugged him again nonetheless. "Giulia is not here now. She is married, did you know?"
"I did not," he said, a pang of anxiety at his heart. "Is she well? He is good to her?"
"She was well when last she was here, and happy. Her husband seems kind. I am to go there soon, she is incinta. Her second. She will like to have someone from home."
"Especially you," Philip said. "Give her my love." He set his hands on Emilia's shoulders. "You have not changed one bit since I used to hide from you among the gooseberry bushes, Emilia."
"Nonsense. I am older, and if the Lord is good, you are less wicked now that you are taller," she said, smacking his arm lightly as he bent to kiss her, "only I doubt it. Is he very wicked?" she asked, turning towards Nick, waiting a few steps away.
"Not at all," Nick said.
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