The Peacock's Eye

by Jay Lewis Taylor

  "Sandy? You mean Alexander Gray?" Cecil replied sharply, sitting up. "What have you to do with that bastard slip of an evil stock? I trust you never met with the Master of Gray, for all our sakes." His hands clenched, and the quill between his fingers snapped.

  "You need have no fear of that," Philip said, "but as for Sandy, bastard or no, did your spies not tell you?"

  "I know he affected your company. He is in London on the King's business, so I dare say that you will find him at your playhouse door before long. There are many of these young sprigs who fancy themselves men of the world if they may keep company with the players." Cecil looked down at his papers again. "Though why he should affect your company in particular, I do not know."

  "Robin," Philip said, completely regardless of etiquette. "Oh, Robin. Why do you think my father never speaks of me? We are more than bedfellows, Sandy and I. Did you not think of that?" His hand drifted, almost of its own accord, to cover the scar on his face. "Do you not remember Kit Marlowe, and how they killed him? You may be sure that Sir Henry Howard does."

  "That I remember," Cecil said. "But not - the other things." His mouth was wry, whether with disgust or with the realisation of his own failure it was hard to say. "But just now - when you - " His voice stopped on a noise like choking. "Tell me you that you were not - " He turned his face away.

  "No, I was not," Philip said with a sigh. "I can be a friend to a man without wanting him to bed me, difficult as that may be to believe."

  "Ah." Cecil remained turned from him for a moment, and then with a dry laugh and a shrug turned back. "So," he said. "I am not the only one of us to have led a life of deceit."

  "By no means, though I am a worse hand at it than you," Philip said. "I should not have been disinherited, otherwise."

  "Perhaps not." Cecil glanced at him. "About Howard. That time. You were telling the truth, I suppose."

  "Yes. I was." It was too late to be angry that Cecil had doubted him. Whom did Cecil not doubt, now?

  "I cannot easily cast him off, you know," Cecil mused. "He has the King's ear and, Heaven aid me, it was I that helped him to it." He made a steeple of his fingers and stared over them into the distance. "It is of no matter," he said, "but he would not have set his men on you unless he feared that you could bring him down."

  "Could I not still?"

  "Under this king and in this court?" Cecil's mouth twisted again. "To the law they pay lip-service," he said, "but they put their lips to a service which is fouler than that. As have you in your time, I dare say. No, you must leave, Philip, for Howard is subtle and full of schemes, and I trust him even less than he trusts me."

  "I shall go to Sandy," Philip said. "He will take care of me."

  Cecil gave him a dark, unfathomable look that held something unexpected. After a moment Philip recognised it: the look of a man resigned to a child's persistence. Philip said, stubbornly, "He loves me. I am sure of it."

  "You cannot go back to Henslowe's," Cecil said as if he had not spoken, "and I doubt that any of the other companies will take you on, now."

  The words were hard as knife blades against the life he had thought to have: Philip had no defence against them. He said nothing.

  "You have a sister, do you not?"

  "Yes, but since her marriage, I do not know where she is."

  Cecil nodded. "I do; your mother's maid passed a message to one of my household for you, and it came to me instead. Julia's husband is John Somner, lord of a small manor near Alfriston. She has done well for herself, I believe."

  "I don't care for that so long as she is happy," Philip said; then, catching Cecil's eye on him, added, "And what would you want for Frances? That she do well for herself, or that she be happy?"

  A breath of laughter escaped Cecil's lips. "You are right: if I could, I would give Frances happiness every time. But the world is not like that, and I fear that the dice are already loaded against her."

  "Let her make friends," Philip ventured. "Let her stay with the girls who are her cousins."

  "I suppose you are right, again." Cecil's laugh was a little more hearty. "That I should live to see the day when I take advice from a player and a gaolbird."

  "A friend," Philip said.

  "Perhaps." Cecil picked up the silver bell that always stood on his desk. "I will ensure that Frances has her playmates - if you go to Alfriston. And I will write you a letter of permit, so that you are not taken up as a rogue or a vagabond on the road."

  Philip could not keep the wryness from his own mouth. "I dare say I look sufficiently like either; my face being against me, these days."

  Cecil nodded. "You should have the wound seen to." After a moment he said, "Frances asked whether we could hire a physician or a surgeon to help you. She was much concerned."

  "She is all kindness." She is like her mother. "Give her my best duty, I pray you. And give her leave to make friends, although I do not go to Alfriston. I thank you for your offer, Robin, but - I love Sandy, you see. I must go to him."

  "Then I will say nothing more. But when you need me, come back. I will give you one more chance." Cecil shook the bell. "Howard is in the country, for a few days only, or I should by no means let you go," he said. "You will find Alexander Gray in Whitehall. Write him a message, now, that I can put my seal to, and so pass you through doors that would otherwise be locked."

  "Thank you," Philip said. "Thank you."

  "And have something to eat downstairs, before you go." In Cecil's eyes was still the exasperation of a man with a child; but he pushed paper and pen and ink to the edge of the table. "Write," he said, and Philip wrote.

  They fed him well in the kitchen, and he would have eaten more if he had not been so eager to go. Out in the Strand once more, he passed Northumberland Palace and so reached Whitehall, where the warren of buildings sprawled either side of the thoroughfare. Despite Cecil's seal, it was a long and weary trail that led to an anteroom in the palace, and it cost what little money he still had on him. When Sandy and I are met again, all will be well.

  Philip watched the man carry away his message, sat down on a joint-stool against the wall, and waited. Nearby was a new clock, an imposing structure like a tower, hung with many bells. As Philip watched, part of the mechanism whirred into action and sounded a melody, bright and light like spring sunshine.

  Time passed. The clock played three more melodies, and after the third a quick, clear stroke of a single bell. One o'clock? Philip stood up to look closer. Yes, one o'clock. But there was another hand on the face, and another mechanism, the clicking swing of the pendulum; soon the longer hand clicked along a little. He went to sit down again, but almost at once the door opened. "Philip Standage? Come this way."

  Sandy. Soon I shall see him. Soon. With a lift of his heart Philip fell into step behind the messenger.

  Chapter 25

  Early April 1603

  Philip, hunched in the shelter of a wharfside revetment on the northern foreshore of the Thames, noticed the cold no more than the dampness of the baulk of timber where he sat. His elbows were on his knees and his head in his hands, the left hand cupped to cover his scar. There was noise enough, wind and water and the boatmen calling, but all he could hear were the words in his mind.

  Whether Sandy had come into the ante-room intending to welcome him, Philip did not know; but he had seen, in one unguarded moment, his face reflected in the other's. Not the tiny image in the black mirror of the eye's centre, but the response, the quick aversion of Sandy's gaze, and the brief, swiftly-relaxed tension of his jaw and neck.

  "Sandy. It's good to see you in London." Philip had smiled at him, and held out his hand. Although they were alone, Sandy had not taken it.

  "Thank you, Philip. I wish I could say the same."

  The words had struck deep, and he had not been able to say anything. Sandy had kept his face turned away. "I have to ask you not to come and see me again," he said.

  "But - " Philip had much ado to stop himself stammering like a lo
ve-sick maid. "May I ask why?"

  "What was I, in Scotland?" Sandy mused. "The unknown bastard brother of a man banished from court. I could do what I liked with whom I liked, and nobody to care. Now, Sir Robert Cecil has called me to England first of them all, and I am the harbinger of the King."

  "Cecil," Philip said.

  "Aye, Cecil." Sandy breathed deep, as if there was pleasure in the very air. "I will be in men's eyes, and if I apply myself to the work - why, I will be both higher and lower; that is all." A subtle smile curved his lips. "Do you truly see room for you at this court?"

  Philip drew breath. "Sandy, love, I do not; I understand that. But I do not ask to live here, only to be with you now and again. That is all."

  "No."

  Philip set his teeth and went on fighting, a rearguard battle now, if he had dared admit it to himself. "Is it what has happened to my face that repels you? Did you love me for that alone? Have I not a heart and a body still?"

  "Did I love you at all?" Sandy had stared straight ahead. "I have not a heart to love; none of the Grays do. We worship pleasure. What you gave me I returned in good measure, you may recall. If you chose to love me - well, that was none of my doing."

  Philip had swallowed. One last throw of the dice. "I did love you. I still do. Do not cast me off altogether, Sandy."

  Sandy, for a long time, had said nothing: and then, after a dry laugh, "We also worship money, but I prefer not to sell myself; so I sold you. Will that stop you loving me?"

  That was the point when, ever since he had stumbled out of Whitehall, Philip had cut short the memory of the words. He had made his way to the river and sat down. Now he dragged the silenced words out and stared at them in the bleak light of day.

  "Sold me?" How can the memory of a whisper be so loud?

  "Aye, to Henry Howard. I put poppy-juice in your cordial, that you might not remember."

  "But I remember," Philip had said, "and he knows I do, and he fears the consequences. Why else do you think he did this?" Gesturing at his face, in a move which produced a single quick glance as Sandy looked towards him.

  "That was him, was it? Well, he has my curse for that much. You were beautiful." And then Sandy had laughed, a little. "I enjoyed watching him at it with you. To begin with."

  "No." He had tried to fend off the knowledge of the truth, but even as he fought, the memories had returned.

  Still not watching him, Sandy had nodded. "I was there, yes." And then, "So you remembered about Howard, but not about me. Have you told Cecil anything of this, in all your spying?"

  Philip shook his head. Once upon a time he might have warned Sandy. Beware of Cecil. He will make what use of you he can, and keep you sweet with a golden chain. But not now.

  "Tell me the truth, mind," Sandy said.

  "Why should I?" Philip said hoarsely. "Now that you have no more use for me?"

  The long, pale fingers pulled at the cord round Philip's neck. "This. Did you never wonder about this?"

  "No. You gave it to me. That was enough, then." Philip took the cord in his own fingers. "Do you want it back?"

  "Oh no," Sandy said. "Shall I tell you what went to the making of it?"

  Mutely Philip shook his head; but Sandy had already turned away.

  "The eye of a peacock," he murmured. "A lock of hair; a lace; and a drop of your blood."

  "Sandy."

  "It binds you to me. You are mine."

  For a moment Philip's throat was too tight for speech. Breathe in. And again. "I will throw it away," he said. "Be bound to the filth in the gutter, for all I care."

  "Not so easy." Sandy set his thumb precisely as he had set it on Philip's throat, once before, but not with the other hand beside it. "Throw it away and I will haunt your dreams. Give it away and worse will happen. There is no escape."

  "But why?" was all he could think of to say. His lips shaped the words soundlessly.

  Sandy smiled, as he had always smiled. "Because you were fool enough to love me, and walked into the cage when I opened the door. I am a Gray, and we worship three things: pleasure, money, power. You brought me all three." He bowed, courtly as if Philip were king. "I thank you, Philip Standage."

  After that there was no hiding the truth, not even from himself. No more words. Philip had watched, silently, as Sandy left the room, and waited unmoving until the messenger came to take him outside again, where the day was growing dark.

  So, he had given his heart again, and had his heart's desire ripped away from him again, and lost more than that besides. But I will not weep. Unlike Kit and Gabriel, Sandy had not been taken; he had chosen to go. He deceived me through and through, tempted me like the devil with lust and pretty words - Philip opened his eyes.

  On the mud in front of him was a pair of heavy boots. A man had been waiting, for how long Philip did not know; he looked up.

  "Standage," Ben Jonson said.

  "Come to mock me?" The sound of his own voice terrified him, and Jonson flinched.

  "No. Cecil sent me to find you, if I could. They told me at Whitehall that you had come this way."

  "Trust Cecil." Philip laughed. "You hate sodomites, and I hate you, so he sends you to find me. He is a man who will make the demons dance to his tune in Hell."

  Jonson hunkered down, balancing precariously in the mud. "I turned Catholic, you know, Standage," he said. "While I was in gaol."

  Philip stared at him. "Why tell me that?"

  "In case it will help you trust me." Jonson held one hand out, as if Philip were a dog that might bite. "However much you hate me, or I hate sodomites - which is still true, incidentally - I can't refuse to help a fellow-Catholic."

  "And if I said, 'I am not sure that I am enough of a Catholic for you to want to help me'?"

  Jonson shrugged. "No matter. I gave my word to Cecil, and he's a harder task-master than God or the Church ever will be. I have told him that I will take you somewhere safe, and help you leave London. I know you are supposed to be dead; he wants me in his toils, I believe, for he will pay me not to tell the truth."

  "I see." Philip looked down again. The tide was coming in: the wavelets were lapping within a yard of Jonson's heels. "Very well," he said. "I accept your help."

  "Thank you," Jonson said, and then, "About Gabriel Spencer."

  "Don't, please."

  "But I must tell you. It is true, I promise, that he drew on me first. It was in your defence, you see. I had miscalled you."

  "Oh." I wish he hadn't told me that.

  "I am sorry," Jonson said. "Truly sorry. I repent, if you can believe that."

  For a long moment Philip said and did nothing. Then he let out a long, uneven breath. "I will try."

  "Thank you," Jonson said again. "Take my arm; it's a rough road back."

  "I accept your help," Philip said. "But I'm not leaving London."

  "Stubborn as a mule," Jonson said with an exasperated sigh, letting his arm fall. "Look, man, see sense. You cannot hide, even in London, for the rest of your life." He bent down. "That scar on your face is open again; did you know?"

  "I wondered. It hurts." Philip touched his face carefully. "I will go to St Bartholomew's, and ask them to tend to it of their charity."

  "That is one plan," Jonson said, "but may I suggest another? A certain Peter Chamberlen lives near here, in Blackfriars. He is a Huguenot, worse luck to him, but accounted a good surgeon, and I believe takes in lodgers."

  "I know him. It was he who dressed this, first time."

  Jonson nodded. "I heard you had been in a fight."

  "I was set upon by two men; in Sir Henry Howard's livery, or so Cecil says. It may have been true, but they are dead." Philip sighed. "Again; so Cecil says. If you ever meet Henry Howard, keep out of his reach."

  "Aye." Jonson paused, made as if to say something, and stopped. "No matter. Now, Standage, pray come with me. If you have not wherewithal to pay Chamberlen, then I will stand surety for you until some other arrangement can be made."

 
How? They stripped you of your goods when you murdered Gabriel. Philip still hated Jonson. And yet, and yet: there was something about the man that drew him to his feet, and made him take the offered arm at last. "I am in your hands," he said. "Take me to this master Chamberlen. Don't tell Cecil."

  "Understood. Hold firm," Ben Jonson said, and led him along the river-bank, past the Temple and towards the Fleet. "If you can put one foot before the other a little faster, we shall be safe within walls before curfew."

  Philip surprised himself by laughing. "At the moment I am not entirely sure which foot is which, let alone how fast I can move them. But I will try."

  "Good. I had as soon not carry you, lightweight though you be."

  "My thoughts are heavier than my body, so forgive me if I go slowly," Philip said. The grip of Jonson's hand on his arm tightened for a brief moment; they moved through the twilight together, and presently the place where Philip had sat was lost in the dark.

  Late April 1603

  Once Nick had from Agnes Henslowe the truth of what had happened on that dark night last year, so soon after his departure, he would have come and battered down Cecil's door at once if he had been allowed; but Henslowe brandished the two pieces of his indentures, and claimed the mastery of him. Agnes told Nick the truth about that too, but he could not well oppose her husband without being thrown into gaol himself. It would not be until after the Queen's funeral that he had any time to call his own.

  "Thank you, Agnes," he said. "You tried your best, I know. But there is no moving master Henslowe, at times, though it is not for me to say so."

  "He is as hard to move as a Sussex stot," Agnes said, "and you may say what you like, Nick, I am that angered with him. But what can I do, after all?"

  "You did what you could," Nick said again.

  Agnes shrugged. "Which is nothing. Now, Nick, the black cloth is come in, or so the tailor tells us, and you must go to be measured for the funeral wear."

  Nick sighed. "I know this should be an honour. But I wish it was over and done with."