"Nick, I am sorry," Philip said. "I should have made you known to donna Emilia, who came from Italy with my mother. Emilia, this is my friend Nick. Nicholas."
"Niccolò," she said, and curtsied. "I am very pleased to meet you. Are you also one of the players?"
"I am Philip's apprentice, mistress." Nick doffed his cap, and made his bow. "Yes, I am a player." He looked at Philip. "Are we not playing again at Theobalds tomorrow? Perhaps mistress Emilia … ?"
Philip closed his eyes for a moment. If Howard is still there … I really do not want to be on stage. But there was no help for it. He smiled and said, "Tomorrow, Emilia? The story is set in Verona."
She nodded decisively. "Then I will come - but I shall not be able to stop and speak to you. So I had best give you God's blessing at our parting now, Filippo. Va bene."
"Give my love to Giulia," he said. "Let me know where she lives."
"Ah, it is one of your outlandish country names, I cannot remember it. I will write it on a paper and leave it for someone to give you." Emilia stood on tiptoe, kissed him, and walked quickly back to the place that had once been Philip's home.
Chapter 21
After the cold summer's end, autumn brought unexpected sunshine. Cecil's Men trudged back to London on a road full of dust, coughing when the wind whipped it into their faces, and became Admiral's Men once more, on stage at the Fortune so long as the fine weather continued. Philip threw himself heart and soul into the work, and did not notice for some days how often Nick was watching him.
"Have I paint on my face still, that you stare at me so?" he demanded at last.
"No, but you don't look well," Nick said bluntly.
"How do you mean?"
"Sometimes I don't think you're truly with us, that's all."
Philip had been prepared to be told he looked pale, or tired, but to have Nick say this - He knows me too well. He sees too much. He stared at Nick, said, "I'm well," and then again, "I tell you I'm in health!"
"I'm sure, but - "
What had Nick not said? Are you in your right mind? And Philip was not; his mind was cast back to a night in Scotland, to a bed with - no. He wrenched his mind away from the memory, said, "Don't worry, Nick," and walked away, hauling his cloak round him against the east wind that blew chill from Moorfields.
Away from the Fortune, he headed south: for the river, for the Rose. Time I was back at Henslowe's. He glanced back over his shoulder; Nick was following him. He lodges at Henslowe's too. Why should he not follow me? Near the Strand, outside the garden wall of Cecil House, he paused; the breeze brought the scent of late lavender to him, and he smiled at the memory of Frances singing in the garden. That had been - what, five years ago? She would be a young lady grown, soon enough.
The street was crowded. Somebody jostled him, and Philip glanced round. There was always a stream of messengers to and from Cecil; that was most likely it. He moved on; another man collided with him, and he stumbled. Another, and another, and then a voice he did not recognise shouted "Philip, run!" He turned, too late.
A foot hooked round his shins sent him crashing to the ground; he flung himself to one side, but whoever it was had him pinned, and wrenched at his shoulders to turn him face upward. There was a blow on his forehead, the appalling noise of steel scraping bone, and again, burning like liquid fire down his face, pain tearing into the lobe of his left ear. The cry died in his throat with the shock of it, and he could do nothing but lie and wait in terror for the next, the last. Kit - was this how - ?
There was no last. A scuffle overhead, among the shouting and yelling. Two men fell on him, knocking the breath clean from his lungs, and only one scrambled, panting and cursing, to get away. Footsteps, voices, shouted orders. And then, almost, silence.
Only his right eye would open. The weight on him eased; above him, golden like a hero in the low sunlight - Nick. Nick, straddling him, dark brows looking darker than usual in a face that was very pale under the fair hair. Nick, riding him, as if, like - Kit -
Philip licked dry lips and said, "Get off me, please." His voice sounded very faint in his own ears.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt - "
"It's obscene."
"I didn't mean that!" Nick scrambled away to some place behind him. "I never so much as thought - "
"Sorry," Philip mumbled. I did, however. "My head's spinning."
"I haven't my cloak. I'll - will this be all right?"
"Careful." He could not see Nick's face now, and when he tried to open his eyes again he could see nothing at all. Firm hands lifted him by the shoulders, then laid him down on something softer and warm. It took a moment's thought to realise that he was lying with his head on Nick's knees. His hands groped, clawing up nothing but fragments of Strand mud, dry and hard. Another clutch, and he brought up something smooth, hanging from a ring. "What - ?"
"It's your ear-ring. I'll take it. Lie easy, Philip. Hush."
His face burned, burned. Thoughts - blindness, scars, pain, death death death death - wheeled through his mind like swifts, the devil-birds that had screamed overhead all summer. The background noise of voices rose loud again. He turned his head on to the unhurt side.
Nick slipped Philip's garnet, which seemed to be leaking its own colour, into his purse. Then he put his hand to Philip's head, trying to stem the flow of blood, but it ran through his fingers. Philip was breathing fast and noisily, gasping air as if he needed to feel it in his throat. Nick laid his hands on Philip's shoulders so that his fingertips met in the dip between the collar-bones; Philip's pulse fluttered against his skin like a bird's.
"I can't see," he said. "I can't see."
"It's all right, Philip," Nick told him - but he went on whispering the same thing, until Nick spoke louder. "Philip, your eyes aren't touched. It’s the blood, there's so much of it, all over your eyelids. You're not blind, I promise; I promise. You'll be all right."
Philip fell silent. His head was heavy on Nick's knees. "Your clothes," he said. "They'll be ruined."
"No matter." Nick felt through the blood-soaked hair. There was a bump on Philip's right temple, where his head had struck the ground, but the skin was unbroken; the real damage was on the left side of his face and on his forehead. Nick moved, so that his shadow might keep the sunlight off him; Philip made a small noise of pain, bit his teeth on it and lay still. After a moment, Philip said, "Your voice has broken."
"How did you know?"
"Not until you shouted. I didn't recognise it, not at first. But who else here knows my name?" His hand reached upward; Nick took it, and Philip gripped him hard.
"I've been trying to keep my voice high," Nick said, "but I had to make you hear. I didn't stop to think." Even in his own ears his voice sounded deeper. "I wish somebody would come!" They were alone, in the middle of an open space, as if they had the plague on them; men were milling round the space, passing, some stopping to stare, but when Nick looked he could see that they were being moved on by men in livery. The badges on their arms - "Who has blue and white bars in his bearings?"
"Cecil," Philip replied. "We are outside his house."
At that moment a girl's voice called, "Who's hurt? Who is it?"
"One of the players of the Fortune, my lady," Nick called back, although for all he knew it might be any street brat; but Philip murmured, "Frances. Cecil's daughter."
"Bring him in," she commanded. "Whoever he is, bring him in." At that the livery-men were all for helping, but Nick lifted Philip himself, and carried him indoors. There was a young girl at the stair-head; when he glanced up at her, an older woman said, "My lady, this is not seemly!"
"I want to see who - " she said, but the woman shepherded her away.
Nick laid Philip down where they showed him, in a warm room next to the kitchen, and before long a servant came with a bowl of water and a towel. "I'll do that," Nick said. "Philip, sweetheart, can you sit up for a moment? We should take off your shirt."
He didn't seem to hear, bu
t sat up obediently enough when the servant lifted him. Nick unbuttoned his doublet, and took it off him. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch as Nick pulled Philip's shirt off, as he had yearned to do for so long; but not like this. Not like this.
The servant laid Philip down again. Nick dipped one end of the towel in the warm, lavender-scented water, and dabbed at Philip's face. He didn't dare touch the wound itself, but sponged the blood from his forehead and then, very carefully, from round his right eye. With the other end of the towel, he dried where he had washed.
"Can you open your eyes now, love?"
Philip moved his lips, but no sound came out; then looked at him, with the one eye that opened. "Oh, thank God," he whispered.
"I told you all would be well." Though this, of course, was hardly 'all'.
"I was afraid."
"I know, Philip. But you needn't be afraid when I'm with you." Nick hadn't meant to say the words, hadn't even thought them until they were spoken, but there they were, hanging in the air, and Nick meant them. If he could protect Philip from harm, protect him from whatever he feared, if he could be with him; then Nick would be happy.
"I'm here," Nick said again, his heart beating strong, up in his throat as if he himself were afraid. His heart aching for Philip, his throat tight with all the words he could not speak; wanting to kiss Philip, to hold him. "I'll always be here for you."
"No." Philip's face did not change. He barely moved.
"Yes."
"Don't say it," Philip answered. "Don't feel it. Not now, Nico."
"All right," Nick said. "I can't unsay it, or not mean it, but I won't say it again. Not yet."
Philip nodded. After a moment he said, "My hand hurts. The left one."
Nick went round to that side of the bed. "Let me look."
Philip didn't move. "They kicked me."
Sure enough, when Nick lifted the sheet there were bruises on his side, and an angry red welt as if a stamping foot had scraped a boot along his ribs. He damped the towel again, and Philip flinched at his touch.
"Sorry, love. This won't take a moment." Cleaned, Philip's side looked a little better. His left hand was hidden under the sheet. Nick peeled the white linen back, and drew in a sharp breath.
"What is it?"
Nick said, "I think they must have stamped on your fingers. Even I can see that one of them is broken."
Philip winced, and closed his eyes again.
"I wish the surgeon would come," Nick said.
"It doesn't matter." His right hand reached blindly across his bare chest; Nick took hold of it, and Philip did not pull away.
They waited in that warm, close room, with the blood darkening on the side of Philip's face and two flies circling silently and persistently above the wound as if it were carrion. Nick did his best to keep them off, but they landed sometimes, and then Philip would frown, and move his head uneasily until Nick waved the flies away again.
"Nick - the man," he said. "With the knife. Was he in livery?"
"There were two of them. Yes, they were, but I didn't see which. And who would wear their true livery to do such a thing?"
His voice cracked. "God have mercy, this burns like fire."
"I daren't touch it," Nick said. "I'm afraid of hurting you worse."
Philip said nothing, and shifted his grip on Nick's hand. Somewhere, a clock struck the hour with two intolerably piercing strokes.
Not long after that the door opened. Nick had his hands on Philip's shoulder after brushing away one of the flies, and so was aware not only of how it startled him - his muscles tensed as if he were having a convulsion - but also of the sweat breaking out afresh on his skin.
Sir Robert Cecil came in, with a stranger behind him.
"Standage! I had not heard that it was you."
Philip turned his head slowly. Under the dried blood the skin was beginning to bruise. "I had thought mistress Frances would have told you."
"She herself knows only that it is one of the players." Cecil stepped forward and aside. "This is master Chamberlen, come to attend to you, as my usual surgeon cannot be found. I will leave you in his care. Perhaps young Hanham here will bear me company."
It was so long since Nick had been called anything but 'Nick' that at first he did not recognise himself, but in any case Philip, his grip on Nick's hand tightening, cut in first. "I want Nick here. Don't make him go."
"If you want him, then by all means," Cecil said, casting Nick a dispassionate look and turning away.
The door closed. Master Chamberlen bent over the bed. "I see, I see. A knife, more than once?"
"Yes," Philip said. "Is my ear-ring gone?"
"Your ear is torn. There is no ring."
"I have it, Philip."
Chamberlen took a fine, soft cloth from his bag and damped it in the water that had been standing there since the servant set it down, hours ago now. "Turn your head to the right. I must clean this, and then we shall see."
For a while, there was no sound except for the hiss of Philip's breath through his teeth, and sometimes a thoughtful grunt from master Chamberlen. "This will heal," he said at last, "though you are like to be scarred, of course. I will try honey and white of egg as a plaister, as the old surgeons did, and bandage your forehead and cheek where the worst cuts are. But before I do that, is there anything else I should know?"
Nick lifted Philip's left hand from the sheet and showed it to Chamberlen.
"Ah. It will be simple enough to splint those together in a moment."
Philip asked, "Will I be able to play the lute?"
"Yes, of course," Chamberlen said, rummaging in his case, "but only if the bones are set and splinted."
"I would be glad if you will see to my hand first, then."
"As you wish. Give it to me."
"I have your other hand," Nick said, patting it. "Hold on as hard as you like."
Philip nodded, swallowed, and said, "Ready."
It was over soon, and master Chamberlen went to fetch the egg-white and honey. Philip was breathing hard. Nick's hand ached from his grip, and the smell of sweat was heavy in the room. When Chamberlen returned, Philip drew in a sharp breath, but lay still and quiet as the surgeon worked about his face.
"Would you like something against the pain?" Chamberlen said at last, tying off the bandage. "I have poppy-juice."
"No!" Philip said, and then, more gently, "No. But I thank you."
Nick had not expected it once he refused the poppy, but Philip slept peacefully, as if the trouble that had come to his body had driven out the trouble in his mind. All night long he slept, and Nick watched him, Philip's right hand between both of his.
Chapter 22
October 1602
Philip lay at Cecil's house, in the room next the kitchen, for a fortnight. His face began to heal, and the bruises on his side faded. Nick visited him most days, and Frances Cecil sent lavender-water and other dainties from the still-room. Once, Philip opened his eyes from a drowse to see her sitting beside the bed on a footstool, her hands folded in her lap. She was so small that she looked younger than her age - was it nine or ten, now? - but her face had a maturity beyond her years.
"You should not be here, my lady," he said, wishing that it did not hurt to smile.
"My governess is asleep," she answered, "and I am in no danger from you."
"I - that was not what I meant. Is not your household at Theobalds?"
"Mostly," Frances agreed. "But I prefer to stay with my father. At Theobalds, my brother William and his friends are not kind, and here I do not go to court because of the unkindness my father remembers, when he was young."
"I am sorry," he said. "But surely you have cousins? I seem to recall … "
"Oh yes, there is Dorothy, and Bess, and Anne." She shrugged. "I like them well enough, but we meet so rarely that I am foreign as a painted savage to them."
Philip, uncomfortable with the silence, asked, "What do you do with yourself all day?"
"
Oh, my governess is kind. I read, and I sew, and sing." She smiled. "I sing the songs you taught me - do you remember?"
He nodded. "I was thinking of them at that moment. When - " He touched his face. "When this happened."
"I hope you may teach me some more," she said, and then winced. "I should not have said that. I forget your hand. Does it hurt to talk, too?"
"I have not talked enough to put it to the test," Philip said.
"You must stay," she said. "Stay and get better."
But he could not stay there forever, and when the time came, Philip was glad to be back in his room at Henslowe's. He walked to the Fortune theatre and back again the day after his return, and again the day after that. He hardly exerted himself otherwise, and spent little time on stage; yet he woke the next morning bone-weary, his face sore and his hand aching.
"Nick."
Nick grunted, yawned and rolled over. "What's to do?"
"I was too long abed at Cecil's, my legs have lost their strength. I don't think I can walk to the Fortune today."
Nick rubbed his eyes, and got up to sit on the edge of Philip's bed. "Would Alleyn let you lodge with him?" he said. "I'm sure he would. Then you'd not have so far to go. If you can just get there this morning."
Philip shook his head. "I know my limits."
"I'll ask - "
"No!" Philip breathed hard. "I'm sorry, Nick. I didn't mean to snap."
"I know," Nick said. "Can I do anything?"
Philip sat up. "You could ask master Henslowe if he will kindly come to see me. And then go, or you'll not be at the Fortune in time for the rehearsal."
"Damn," said Nick. "I did so want to play this one with you."
"Next time."
Nick nodded; then, quickly, he bent and kissed Philip goodbye, before gathering up his gear and running downstairs.
Henslowe came up soon afterwards, and sat down heavily on the chest where Philip kept his belongings. "Well, Philip," he said. "I'm sorry you're in low health, but to be honest, I'm glad you haven't gone to the Fortune today. Alleyn told me your heart seems gone from the work. Why?"
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