Nick's heart thumped. "I never knew," he said. "I've seen you both on stage together, and I never guessed.'
"Philip never guessed either, God be thanked," Thomas said, "and I have my own man now. He's at his trade in London, not being a player." He poured more wine from the jug.
"I wish," Nick said. "No - it's nothing."
"Ah." He took an errant drop off the spout of the jug with his little finger, and licked it. "If I guess right, you wish Philip was here now."
"I wouldn't mind his being in London," Nick said, took a deep breath, and went on, "if I thought he'd be glad to see me again."
Thomas looked at him hard, and said, "Tell me."
That last dialogue with Philip was seared on Nick's memory, and by the time he had done reciting it, Thomas was shaking his head. "Never," he said, "never start a fight with Philip when words are the weapon. You're bound to lose."
"So tell me what I should have done, other than stand there and take it?" Nick said, rattling his own cup on the table.
Thomas held Nick's hand and cup still, and poured wine for him. "If it had been me," he said slowly, "and if I had ever had or taken the chance, which I didn't - why, then, I would have put my arms round him and pulled his head down to my shoulder and held him until he ran out of breath. That's all."
"His face," Nick said. "I couldn't do that now even if he'd let me."
"God, no; poor Phip," Thomas said. "God." He stared into his wine. "I shouldn't have had this last cup. I can't hold my drink like I used to, in the wild days when Robert Shaw and I were buggering each other senseless."
"But," Nick said, "Robert Shaw? He's married."
Thomas shrugged. "He fell in love with Matilda. Or she fell in love first, and pulled him in after. It's a brave man would cross Mattie Phelps, as she was then." He drained his cup. "I shouldn't be talking like this to you. You'll be getting the wrong idea."
"I don't want buggery. Not with anyone who isn't Philip," Nick told him.
"Fairly said. You would share a bed, though?"
"There aren't enough to go round, it's true." Nick drank his wine. "And now I know what I know, sooner with you than any of the others; thank you."
"Welcome," he said, his smile wry. "Don't tell my man."
"There will be nothing to tell him," Nick said.
Philip had been there two weeks. He was half asleep when a rattle at the door forewarned him: he stood, and backed against the wall, braced to be taken out of the cell; his mind still shied away from anything worse. At the door, however, was nobody but the serving-man with bread, cheese and a jug of beer. He slapped the platter down on the chest, exchanged the full jug for the empty one, and withdrew, leaving the door open; not that that meant anything without a key to the fetters.
Philip wrenched off a hunk of bread, stale as usual, and chewed it. There were two meals a day in here, not large, and the time between them was long.
Footsteps; one regular tread, and an erratic one, scuffling as if someone was being dragged. In a few moments the gaoler pushed another man, not fettered, through the doorway with enough force to throw him down, and closed the door regardless of the sprawled legs. Philip swallowed his mouthful hastily and hauled the man out of harm's way, only to drop the piece of bread still in his hand when he saw who it was.
"Tom!"
Tom Dekker scrambled up on his knees. "Philip. What the - you of all people - in here? Why?"
"Heaven knows, but I don't," Philip said. Don't tell him about Scotland. "My religion may have caught up with me." He helped Dekker to his feet. "Come, sit down. I haven't much to share, but if you're hungry - "
"Fill yourself first." Dekker slumped down on the bed and snorted. "You're the world's worst papist, I know it. You! - and treason? The idea's sheer folly. If they knew anything, they'd know you're too damn idle for anything like a conspiracy."
"That never stopped a man from being arrested," Philip said. "But what about you?"
"Debt, of course," Dekker said. "Henslowe. But why I'm here and not in the Poultry, I couldn't tell you."
"Henslowe? He usually has the patience of a saint with your debts."
"Maybe. But he called in ten shillings that I borrowed," Dekker said. "If I ever get out, he can look elsewhere for a writer, that's all I can say."
Philip passed the jug. "I've had as much as I want. You have this." He tore at the bread again, and added some cheese this time. How much money did I bring with me? He had no idea what he might need money for. I may as well put it to good use. "Eat," he said again to Tom Dekker. "I shan't want all of this."
Later in the night, when Dekker was asleep on the floor with the bed-coverings round him, having refused to share the bed, Philip counted out his money. I will have a little, after. Maybe more, if all goes well. He put ten shillings' worth of silver into one purse, and laid that under his pillow for the night.
"I can't take that!" Dekker protested.
"You can and you will. I've no use for it in here; I've tried to pay them to take the fetters off, and they won't. The food must be of someone's charity, for that I don't buy. But once you're outside - I know you're on bad terms with him now, but ask Henslowe to send my belongings here - two chests, he knows them - and with those, then I may live as well here as I ever did, th- there," Philip said, his voice cracking as it betrayed his cheerful speech for the false thing it was. Dekker, sitting on the edge of the bed with the purse of silver in his lap, stood up, and the purse fell to the ground, disregarded. He put his arms round Philip's shoulders and pulled him close.
"I don't deserve that you should be such a friend to me," he said.
"S-stop hugging me," Philip said, swallowing back a laugh. "I might forget myself."
"No, you won't," Dekker said, but let him go all the same, before hooking a finger in the cord around Philip's neck. "No man wears something like this unless he has someone else to remember. Shall I send word to him?"
Sandy. "He's in Scotland. No. This won't last forever," Philip said. "Get yourself out first. And - that cloak I lent you. Keep it. Remember what I said."
Dekker kissed him farewell, on the side of his face that wasn't scarred. "I'll remember."
By the end of the next day, Tom Dekker was free, and Philip was alone again.
Dekker may have remembered, but nothing came from the Henslowes. Nothing came at all, and nothing happened at all, except the deepening of winter. From what money remained to him, Philip paid the serving-man to heat the evening's mug of beer. Days passed. Weeks, and more than weeks. Months. He measured the rags of time as they wove themselves through the bars on the window and into shadow on the floor. The days shortened, then lengthened. One morning there was birdsong. Another, the tolling of bells, that went on, and on, and on.
March 1603
The Admiral's Men were in Chelmsford, on their way back to London, when the news of the Queen's death came. They all stared at each other. Semper eadem, her motto had been, 'Always the same', and for all the days of Nick's life, so she had been; the old Queen, brooking no rival. And now; what would be the same?
"Three days' journey home; two if we push ourselves," Alleyn said. "God be thanked that our takings have been so good that we can pay our way; there'll be no plays, and no theatres open, until after the funeral."
"Mourning gear," Thomas Downton said. "We're not the Queen's Men, but still we should be in mourning."
Alleyn sighed. "It is no small expense. For once, let us - ah, suit ourselves, from the apparel we carry."
And so it was all in black that they trudged or rode or were carted into London; and despite the mourning, Nick's heart was high, for he was on his way to see Philip again.
Thomas Downton slipped away as they passed St Benet's. "Going home," he said to Nick. "Give my best remembrances to Philip. Keep a hold of him, lad. Don't fail him."
"I won't. I'll try not to," Nick said. "Thank you."
He nodded. "Thank you."
"Nothing to tell your man, I hope."
Nick walked on, light of heart. Not long now, not long. Only a few minutes.
The door at Henslowe's was open, and the company crowded in to take refreshment, Alleyn in the midst of them all velvet and compliments and clinking money-bags. Nick pushed into the hall and peered round. Not there. The kitchen, maybe; Philip had been shy of company while his face was healing, and maybe he still was.
But he was not in the kitchen. Nick climbed the stairs; perhaps he was in the solar.
He was not; but Agnes Henslowe was, her head bent over some mending.
"Give you good day, Agnes," he said. "Where's master Standage?"
"Why - Nick!" She fumbled with her needle, and dropped it dangling from the thread, before slipping it safely into the fabric once more. "I - I had not expected you back so soon." She tried to smile.
"Where - " he began again.
She stepped forward, and took both Nick's hands in hers. "Nick, you must be brave. I have bad news. I'm sorry."
Chapter 24
Early April 1603
Philip, cold and stiff and half-asleep, did not fully rouse even when the door opened and crashed against the wall. It was a moment before he could open his eyes; and there was Tom Dekker, kneeling beside him, fumbling with a key, cursing softly. "Come, let's have you out of here. Can you stand? Walk?" He slung one of Philip's arms across his shoulder and stood up, so that Philip perforce stood too.
"I can." His head reeled, and his mouth was dry, but he managed to put one foot in front of another and again and again, until the bright light of day battered his eyes, making him blink and gasp.
Dekker slung the key at the gaoler and caught Philip as he stumbled on the threshold. "Did they tell you," he said, "that the Queen died?"
"No!" Philip, held upright, stopped still. Elizabeth had been on the throne for a dozen years before ever he was born. He had come to London in the year before the Armada. And now she was gone. "The bells. That was who they were tolling for. I wondered. I lost count of the strokes that told the age." He rubbed his free hand across his eyes. "Did you go to the Henslowes'? I never - "
"I did." Tom tried to move him on. "Didn't they visit you? Agnes said they would."
Philip stepped forward. "They did not. So why are you here now?"
"Cecil sent me. With a letter for the gaoler." Dekker's arm was round his waist, holding him up as he walked.
"Cecil?" Philip tried to stop again, but almost fell over from Dekker's urgency to be gone.
"He had you arrested. I'm to take you to Cecil House."
"No."
Dekker's grip tightened. "Philip, where else? I'm not to take you to Henslowe's. Cecil wants you safe out of someone's way until after the funeral. So he says."
"Cecil House. In all my filth." It was not a question. Philip's joints ached, and his eyes stung in the light.
"There's a well, and a scullery. I'll help you clean yourself."
Philip stopped again as a lurch of sickness clawed at his stomach. "But - Tom, no. I can't let you do that."
"Nonsense." Tom shook him. "Philip. I want to help. Don't turn away from me."
"But I - you - " And then sickness took full hold of him. Philip dropped to his knees and crouched over the gutter, retching. He had eaten so little lately that nothing came up except a mouthful of hot bile. The cord round his neck dragged as if the talisman that hung from it were weighted with lead.
Tom waited until he was done, and then pulled him to his feet again. "Can you walk? Only, Cecil gave me money for a horse if we need one."
Philip's stomach heaved again at the thought of jogging on a horse. He swallowed, and said, hoarsely, "I can walk."
Dekker took him through Cecil House and left him in the garden. The sky was dark with cloud, the air overpoweringly warm; there was no freshness anywhere, not even outside. The grass was a strange, lambent green, as if a light were shining through from beyond the world. Philip, his face sore and stinging from the sweat that trickled down his forehead, was glad at last to be called for, and told that Cecil would see him.
Cecil's room was the same as ever, down to the cobweb in the window; but this time there was no butterfly to struggle in the web. Only himself.
"Ah, Philip," Cecil said, not looking up. "I am glad to see you safe."
He could not find it in himself to be politic. "That is no thanks to you."
"I would not be so sure of that," Cecil murmured, picking up a scrap of paper.
A pulse beat in Philip's forehead, making it ache where it was not already sore. "You had me imprisoned!"
"True. But that kept you from Howard's informers. He thinks you dead, you will be glad to know; he will not pursue you again. Not unless you are foolish enough to advertise your presence."
"Was there no other way?" Philip asked. "Some way where I did not have to spend the winter fettered to the wall of a prison?"
"It was the most expedient," Cecil said.
"Expedient?" But he was too tired to say any more, for all the rage that simmered in him.
"Expedient. I have bribed Dekker with the promise of paying his debts for a while; he will spread the story of your death. The men who took a knife to you last year; they are already - seen to."
Put to silence. Philip's rage lost its heat in uncontrollable shivering.
Cecil said, "I made sure you had food and drink enough; remember that, when you blame me."
"I was afraid! I have never been so afraid in my life." Philip swayed a little, and leaned on the table.
"Do you think I do not know that?" Cecil said. "You needed to learn, Philip. You cannot go through life unafraid, pretending that nothing will go wrong, leaving other people to bear your burdens."
"You think I bear none?" Philip asked.
"Would you care to carry mine?" Cecil retorted. "Philip, listen to me."
"I will listen," Philip said, "but of your kindness - may I sit down?"
"There is the floor," Cecil said.
After a moment Philip let himself fold at the knees, and sat back on his heels. "I am listening."
"I took some care of you," Cecil said. "Food and drink you had; I dare say it was not good, but without me there would have been none. And you were alone in your cell most of the time. That at least may have saved you from fever, or worse."
"They would not take the fetters off me even when I offered my own money," Philip said.
"I am sorry about that. It was not something I thought of. I was most concerned that you should not move about the place freely, and that nobody should know where you were. If news of you had spread beyond the walls, it would have reached Henry Howard soon enough."
Philip shuddered at the name; he could not help it.
"I see you take my point," Cecil said. "And, after all, fetters were not so dangerous to you as thirst or cold or starvation."
"And fear?"
"Armed with fear, you may take more care of yourself in future. For now, you are alive and Howard thinks you are dead; therefore you are safe from him."
Philip shuddered again, lifted his head, and said, "I suppose you have not so many friends that you can afford to lose even the semblance of one."
Cecil flinched; his fingers, which had been slowly, ceaselessly, rolling and unrolling the scrap of paper, stilled. Then he said, "Since the twenty-fourth day of January, six years ago, I have had no friend in whom I could trust. These last two weeks, I have been without the other woman who filled my life. Faults she had, and not few, but she was queen for all that; she lifted me up and kept me there, and she trusted me. And I that have been raised up so high may yet fall low, and if I do, men will trample me and cast me off, as they cast out the runt in a litter of hounds."
He looked at Philip with eyes behind whose coldness lurked a world of some other feeling. "Do you wonder that I have shielded myself with deceit all my life? The first and greatest decei
t being to pretend that it is nothing to me when men call me cripple or hunchback, when kings call me dwarf or puppet … " The level, quiet voice broke. "Do you wonder that I trust so few people? That I cannot remember an embrace since my wife died that was not a sham, a Judas kiss?" He rose to his feet with an effort and went to the window. "You are lucky that I took what trouble I did for you."
Which was little enough. Philip stood up slowly, followed him, and looked out from behind Cecil's shoulder. The sky was heavier than ever, the air still, not a leaf nor a wing nor a feather moving.
"It is all grey," Cecil said. "There are no flowers on the lavender, neither blue nor green."
"There will be," Philip said.
"Bess planted the lavender," Cecil said, all at once. "I remember it well. She knelt on the bare earth, gown and all with a trowel in her hand, laughing." He stopped short and turned away from the window. There were tears on his face. "Out of the way, Philip."
Instead, Philip put his hands on the crooked shoulders. Cecil drew in a huge, sobbing gasp of breath. Then he said, "Let go of me, Philip."
Philip did not move.
Cecil said, "Philip, let go of me. If you do not let go of me I shall call for help, and there will be - trouble, if nothing more."
Philip stepped back, and let his hands fall. "I am sorry. Just remember that there is nothing sham in me beyond my player's apparel, and nothing of the Judas kiss at any time."
"I - will try to remember. I think you meant well." Cecil sat down again, and picked up a quill. "Once I saw you, with your hands on Bess's shoulders, the same way. If it were not that I would have trusted Bess with my life and more, I might have thought the worse of you for it."
"She was afraid," Philip said softly. "It was when she was ill, and she could not bear to tell you how afraid she was."
"Oh." The sound was almost inaudible. Cecil bowed his head over his papers. Philip, looking down at him, had his eye caught by a written name.
"Why," he said, "I hope Sandy has not got into your bad books?"
The Peacock's Eye Page 20