The Peacock's Eye

by Jay Lewis Taylor

  "He's only had two days to see that," Philip said. "It will get better, I'm sure." He thought for a moment. "There is one thing, of course."

  "Yes?" Henslowe led him nowhere; simply waited.

  "It's not easy, given that my - my face as it is - well, you see it."

  "Half of your face, as it is," Henslowe said bluntly, "would frighten angels; but I see no reason that it won't heal. Until it does - well, the Children of the Chapel at Blackfriars need a musician. I can arrange that. Afterwards, we'll see. Or you could play Richard the Third."

  "He was crook-backed, not scarred."

  Henslowe shrugged. "Backs can be counterfeited, and paint will hide a multitude of scars. Besides, there may be little to see, once you are healed. But best wait until next spring, eh? Let young Nick go away with the others this winter, find his feet a little."

  "Thank you," Philip said, and then again, "Thank you. For I don't think I ever have thanked you, master, for taking me in after Kit died."

  "After that bastard killed him, you mean," Henslowe said. "What else could I have done? He'd have haunted me else, one way or another. And I've been glad to have you here, although I may not have said so." He coughed, as if this was too much to admit. "I'll see that someone brings food for you. Would you rather a room downstairs, by the way?"

  "Thank you, but I prefer this," Philip answered. "When will the company go on the road?"

  Henslowe snorted. "That's up to Alleyn. Fool that he is, he has said he'll go with them: I expect in a month's time or so. Lord knows, having him play will bring people in from miles around, so it will serve us well, but - " Henslowe shrugged. "I suppose he wouldn't offer to do it unless he was able."

  Nick came back after the play, full of praise for it, regretful that Philip hadn't been there.

  "I'm glad you enjoyed it," said Philip, who had come downstairs earlier in the day, and walked about Bankside, and gone to the play at the Globe, feeling as if he were playing truant. He had walked too long, in fact, and was exhausted; at dinner with the others, he almost fell asleep over the rabbit in mustard, and refused a second cup of wine for fear it would make matters worse. He withdrew early, climbed to the gallery, and stood at the foot of the ladder that led to the attic. I swear this place is taller than it used to be. He climbed awkwardly, favouring his left hand, and once in the attic lay down on top of the bedclothes and closed his eyes. A rest before I take my clothes off. Presently, he fell asleep.

  He woke, chilled and uncomfortable, probably not very much later, with one spot of comfort at his back where the smallest of the cats had curled itself against him. Philip sat up on the edge of the bed, leant his head on his right hand, and groaned. Get into bed. Warmer. The cat stalked across his lap; in the dark all he knew of it was the weight of its paws, and the brush of fur on his wrists.

  His jerkin buttons undid easily enough, for the loops were wide, and a little worn. The smaller buttons on his doublet, however, were the very devil to undo; his fingertips grew sore with fumbling at them, and the two first fingers on his left hand began to ache. One button broke off and dropped to the floor, where the cat pursued it into silence, probably down a crack in the floorboards.

  He sat still for a moment, hands dangling, then sighed, and set about the buttons once more.

  The door opened, letting in candle-light and Nick together, the flame-shadows dancing on the young man's face and into the corners of the room. Philip looked up, his eyes a little dazzled even by that small flame.

  "I thought you were going to bed," Nick said.

  "I've slept. I was trying to undress."

  "Shall I help?" Without waiting for an answer, Nick knelt, setting the candle on the floor. He undid the buttons deftly, eased the sleeves down Philip's arms, and slid the doublet off him. "Anything else?"

  "My shoe latchets, if you would," Philip told him. "That's all."

  "Points?"

  "I can manage those, thank you."

  "Ah, that's a shame. I was hoping I might see more of you."

  Philip said nothing, but moved out of the circle of light and finished undressing on the far side of his bed, in the shadow of the hangings. Then he climbed in and rolled to face away from Nick. Sandy. Sandy. The talisman brushed lightly, secretly, against the skin between his collar-bones.

  A week passed. Philip had not meant to, but somehow he put off discussing the plan for Nick to travel with the company until the day before they left. It will be good for him. Henslowe's right, he needs to find his feet. And yet he could not bring himself to say the words. Only at the last moment, when he took breath to do so, did he realise: I don't want to hear what he'll say.

  "I'm not leaving you here alone!" Nick snapped.

  They were in the Henslowes' solar, where Philip sat most days now, casting up the Fortune's accounts or writing parts from the latest plays. The sun through the window was warm on his hands; he moved his fingers, and watched the shadows of the lead cames slide across them. "Hardly alone," he said. "Mistress Agnes, and Joan Horton, and Meg, the other servants. And anyone else who happens to come through the door. It's better that you should go, Nick. This is not the time for you to break off learning the craft."

  "But Ph- master Standage - "

  "We'll talk about it later," Philip said, hoping not to talk about it at all. "Go and eat. They're waiting for you."

  "And what about you, Philip? You can't live on air, whatever the books say."

  "You forget yourself," Philip said wearily. "I dined with Meg a while ago, and now I'm going upstairs."

  "Master Standage," Nick said, "I mean what I say. I won't leave you here alone. Why should I?"

  Philip curled his hand to a fist. "Would 'Because I asked you' be answer enough?"

  "Ah," Nick said, short and sharp. "But why?"

  "Because I don't know what you want, that you're so urgent to stay."

  Nick stared at him. "Do you really not know? Am I so … difficult to read? Haven't I told you? I want you. You, Philip, and bugger forgetting myself or remembering myself or any such thing. I want you and I want to be with you. So now tell me what you want."

  This isn't happening. It's a scene in a play. Shaken with he did not know what, hardly knowing what words he spoke, Philip said, "I want you to go away. I want to be - I want to be let alone. I don't - I - leave, Nick. Go. Or I'll have you dragged out."

  Nick slammed his hands flat on the table. "Philip, don't be a fool. Christ knows how I'll forgive you for this."

  "If He knows, then let Him tell you," Philip retorted. "I need neither you nor your forgiveness. Get out."

  "I hope you - " Nick said, standing up and leaning over him. "I hope - well, I hope you come to your senses in the end. And I hope it hurts when you do. Because at this moment I don't care if I never see you again." His face was flushed scarlet, and his hands were shaking.

  "Go with the company tomorrow and you'll have your wish," Philip said, opening his mouth to add something else just as the door banged shut.

  He had meant to go upstairs, but now that Nick had stormed out he did nothing, only sat while the shadows of the lead and rippled glass swung away from his hands and across the grain of the wood, slowly, inexorable as time, until it was dark.

  November 1602

  To strengthen his legs, Philip walked farther every day and one afternoon, for the first time in his life, he lost his way in London. He found his road again, but was weary and thirsty, and Henslowe's seemed as unreachable as far Cathay. The Strand, however, was near, so he went to Cecil House to beg a drink and a seat in the kitchen. The kitchen was busy, but they let him sit outside with a cup of thin beer, in an unconsidered corner of the garden. After a while, he heard voices; two men, walking to and fro beyond the clipped hedges. One of them was Sir Robert Cecil, the other - Sir Henry Howard. Philip would have gone indoors again, but both had seen him, and there was nothing he could do. When they turned their backs, he slipped inside, and went on his way.

  Back at Henslowe's, it
was supper time and there was no way to retire unnoticed. Agnes, warm and soft in her solicitousness as a featherbed, offered him broth, conserved fruit; anything she could make him. He smiled and shook his head, but at last accepted hot posset, and sat on the stairs, hunched over with the cup cradled between his hands until the drink was cool enough to sup without burning his mouth. Afterwards he left the empty cup on the stair, got to his feet and climbed to the attic.

  The place was deserted; cold, and almost empty. Gabriel had faded to a sift of dust and a memory of something best forgotten. Nick; he must be in Aldeburgh, or thereabouts. Philip undressed, lay down and, with the sweetness of the posset still in his mouth, fell fathoms deep into dreams.

  Later, he never knew how much later, a sound like distant thunder woke him. He lifted his head from the pillow, heard the unbarring of the door below, and drowsed again.

  After a while, he thought that someone came and knelt by his bed and said, "Sweet Lord have mercy"; but this was no imagining. Agnes Henslowe was shaking him by the shoulder. "Philip," she was saying, "Philip dear, wake up, wake up." She carried a rushlight with her in a stand coiled like a serpent. "Philip," she said again, "get up, I pray you, get up."

  He rubbed his eyes, and sat up. "Why, Agnes, what is it? Is master Henslowe - ?"

  "No," she said, "no, my dear, it's neither of us, but - oh, Philip, there are men at the door, and they have the Privy Council's order that you must go with them."

  The words made no sense. They had no meaning. He stared at her as if he had not heard, and she looked back at him, a little fearfully.

  "Philip, you do understand what I'm saying?"

  "Yes, I do," he said, through lips that seemed half numb. "I am arrested. But - I owe no debts, and I have done no man any injury that I know."

  There was a shout from downstairs. Agnes said, "I told them you would be quick. They would have come for you without warning had Henslowe not told them he is a Gentleman of the Bedchamber and will have no stranger upstairs in his house. Haste, my dear, haste. Dress as warm as you can. Meg is putting some food into a bag for you. Take some money if you have any to hand."

  Numbly, without thinking too hard, Philip did as he was told. "Pray for me," he said. "Pray for me."

  "Of course. Anything." She was helping him dress as if he were a child, pulling his hose straight and lacing his points, selecting his warmest clothes. "Have you no cloak?"

  "I lent it to Tom Dekker. His was in pawn."

  "I will fetch you an old one of Henslowe's. Surely you had another when you went to Scotland?"

  "Nick has that one," he said, and then, "oh." All at once his legs shook under him so that he had to sit down.

  "Philip?" Agnes said, soft and startled. "What is it?"

  His mouth was appallingly dry, his throat clenched with fear. I cannot tell her. I should not. I must not. But at last he drew breath and said, "Scotland. It may be the reason for, for this. Sir Robert Cecil asked me to carry a letter for him, twice. I do not know what the message was, but he said that, that … " He swallowed. "That it might be construed as treasonable. Tell nobody, Agnes, please. But I must have one person know."

  "But if Sir Robert - " she said, "if he - "

  "If he," Philip told her, "who is more able to keep himself from harm's way? But I hope - I pray - that he will stand by me."

  "Amen," she said. "Only, Philip - treason, and the Privy Council - "

  He knew the fear she had, for the terror of it tore at his imagination too, but he did his best to smile. "It has not happened yet. It may not happen. But - if I do not come back - do not tell Nick everything. I would not have him torture - " quickly he changed the word - "fret himself with imaginings."

  "I don't know," Agnes said, and then, "but since you wish it, I'll not tell him."

  "I may come back safe before he does," Philip said. "And if not - " He had to force the words through his lips. "If not, then lie and truth will come to the same, whatever happens. His indentures - find me his piece, I pray, Henslowe keeps it." He opened his writing case. "Here is the piece I hold. Cancel them. Tell me you'll cancel them."

  "I will, Philip." Agnes hugged him. "We will look after Nick for you, I promise."

  I wish I could say goodbye to him. I wish - but what use is wishing?

  Another shout sounded from below. "They are losing patience," Agnes said.

  "I'm coming," Philip answered and, holding himself as straight as he could, shivering a little, he walked downstairs behind her.

  Chapter 23

  November 1602

  The night was heavy with cloud and, although it was dry, there was a rough, gusty wind that foreboded rain. They did not take him far; the Clink was barely a hundred yards away along Bankside. He had passed it by often enough, turning his face away, trying not to think of what it must be like to be locked between four dark walls. Soon he would know.

  They banged on the door and it opened; they pushed him in front of them at the stairs and he climbed, following the gaoler. At no time did anyone speak to him, and Philip himself was too numb with terror and the dregs of sleep to ask questions.

  At last the gaoler took one heavy key from the ring at his belt, unlocked a door and opened it. This cannot be happening. It cannot. Philip took one step forward; was pushed from behind, and stumbled over the threshold. One of the guards had brought a torch, which he stuck in a holder on the wall. The other, business-like, bent for something on the floor, knelt, and fumbled at Philip's ankles. Fetters; the cold weight of iron lay heavy on his feet. A chain dragged on the floor. The gaoler clicked shut the padlock that held it to the wall.

  "The light," Philip said. "Please leave the light."

  They took the torch down from the wall, closed the door and left him in the dark.

  Philip's legs would hold him up no longer. He sank down on the floor, crouching with his fingers on straw and stone, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

  In a little while, he could make out the narrow, barred rectangle that was the window. Dark as the night was, there must be a moon, for the overcast sky was blurred with light among the scudding clouds. The cell was almost bare: a bed, a jug on a shelf, a stool. Two pots in the far corner whose purpose was all too clear. This far from the ground, the walls were dry; no gleam of damp on the walls. Struggling against the weight on his ankles, Philip walked to the bed and sat down, then had to use the chain to lift his feet on to the bed before he could lie flat. He had forgotten to draw back the covers, if the bed had any covers; but, at the last minute, Agnes had fetched him one of Henslowe's gowns as well as the cloak, and both were thick and warm. He pulled the cloak over himself as best he could, and opened his mouth to pray, but could not. At last, because he could do nothing else, he slept.

  He was surprised to wake of his own accord, not dragged awake by force. The light through the window was pallid, casting no real shadow; day could not be far on. There were no voices, no carts in the street, only the faintest thread of birdsong. Philip tried to sit up, but had forgotten the fetters dragging at his ankles. Cursing, he took the chain and used it to pull his feet round, then pushed himself up on one arm. The bed was covered, after all, and he could have slept warmer; but he had slept.

  He sat up and looked around. A dry room, to himself; a soft bed, with covers. And yet, the bars and the fetters. He stood, shuffled across the floor, and tried the door. It was locked.

  "God have mercy upon me," he whispered. "Mercy." No other words would come, and he sat down again.

  Sounds of the world's waking came to him as the light grew: morning greetings, far-distant; chiming bells from St Saviour's. A dog barked, gulls above the river cried like lost souls. There was bread baking. Faint as the smell was, it made his mouth water. He had eaten hardly anything yesterday, and now he was hungry and thirsty.

  Philip looked in the jug, and tilted it, disturbing a little dusty, stale liquid which he ventured, cautiously, to drink. The mouthful or so of bad ale did nothing to assua
ge his thirst or his hunger. He had brought Meg's satchel of food away from Henslowe's, but somewhere between there and here it had gone. His money was safe and secret in hidden pockets.

  Below, a door banged shut, and another, and another, closer each time. There were footsteps too, but they came no nearer. Nor, for the rest of the day, did anyone else.

  He could not think, and that meant that he could make no plans; but there were none to make. After a while, he hooked his fingertips over the edge of the stone window-sill and lifted himself up, but still he could not see out. He set the stool under the window, but the fetter-chain was too short for him to climb up. At last he sat on the bed, wrapped his arms around himself, and tried to ignore his hunger.

  For Nick, the noise of the slammed door as he walked away from the argument with Philip echoed through all the nights after. There was much to keep him from brooding; being a player on tour in the wealthiest part of England, and rising higher up the list of dramatis personae, for example. But the nights were hard, even though Nick was never alone and they were never silent; not entirely.

  He enjoyed working with Sir Edward Alleyn, pompous as he could be, and the others were good company. Some Nick knew from their travels to Scotland, but the others less well: Samuel Rowley, who lent a hand with writing the plays; Edward Juby, who managed the company's purse; and Robert Shaw. Though players might be stalwarts of the Admiral's Men for years, their paths did not always cross, with one group or other on the road. To Nick, these men had always seemed too high and mighty to talk with him, but this journey showed otherwise. And then, there was Thomas Downton. Thomas had played beside Robert Shaw in The Isle of Dogs, which had put Ben Jonson and Gabriel Spencer in jail, and sent Nashe railing off to Norfolk. He had known Marlowe, and Gabriel - and Philip.

  "Yes," he said when Nick asked for more. "I remember Philip the day he first walked into the Theatre. Whey-faced and black-haired and eyes dark as pitch." He laughed, and drained his cup. "I didn't move fast enough. Kit Marlowe got to him first."