The Peacock's Eye

by Jay Lewis Taylor

  The funeral filled London with an ocean of faces, a river of black. Henslowe, as a Gentleman of the Bedchamber, walked behind - a long way behind - the coffin. Nick as his one remaining apprentice, was with him.

  He had seen the Queen, from a distance, long ago in St Paul's when he was still a scholar; she had been a dazzle of pearls and diamonds around something that must be a woman, because he had been told so. Hard to think that she was ahead of him now, quietly encased in coffin and pall, dead.

  The next day he crossed the river and made his way to Cecil House.

  The great doors of silvery oak, weathered by wind and rain, were daunting; but the wicket gate opened, and a messenger stepped out. He straightened himself and his cap, and set off wherever he was bound. Nick made sure he looked as respectable as a player might, set his shoulders, and went in.

  The porter may have recalled the young player who visited Philip Standage last autumn; or he may have been impressed by the Admiral's badge on his shoulder; or maybe he was simply too idle to throw Nick out on the street. At any rate, after Nick sat down and said that he was prepared to wait all night if necessary, the porter sent word to Cecil himself.

  And word came back that Nick was to be admitted.

  He looked into the pale green eyes and saw nothing in them except, small and seeming-distant, his own image reflected, while Cecil regarded him with an air of mild enquiry that was more unnerving than outright anger would have been.

  "Nicholas Hanham," he said. "Friend of Philip Standage. What is it that you want to know?"

  "I want to know, so please you, sir, what has become of Philip."

  His lips tightened a little. "I am sorry."

  Panic rose in Nick's throat, but he swallowed it, and forced out a reply through stiff lips. "Are you trying to tell me that Philip is dead? Because I don't believe you."

  There was a long pause. Cecil turned his head to watch as something, a brief shadow printed on the air, passed outside the casement. "Most men believe what I tell them," he said.

  "Most men are fools."

  "You may be right; but what makes you think yourself any different?" He looked at Nick again, his eyes moving slowly from side to side as if he were literally reading his face.

  "I can give you good reasons for my disbelief." Nick stared back into his cool gaze.

  The air of mild enquiry was stronger than ever. "Oh?"

  "One: you have shown me no proof. Two: we are still debating the matter."

  At that a smile curved Cecil's lips, and for once it held real amusement. "Proof," he said. "Ah. I can give you no proof, for the very good reason that I have not yet fabricated it. I shall need to, and that soon; but you are right. Philip is not dead."

  Nick had never known before, how like relief was to fear; he knew now. It made his skin prickle and his heart thump and his breath come fast. It was no time to ask Cecil why he had done this, still less why he had done it to Philip. "Where is he? What can I do to help?"

  "For your first question, I know no more than you do. For your second, you can return his effects to his family. His sister, that is."

  "But you said - "

  "I repeat. Philip is not dead. But he is in danger while he lives. I had his things fetched from Henslowe's; there they are."

  In the corner where he pointed were the two chests, covered by a small Turkey carpet that was certainly not Philip's. Nick knelt, turned back the carpet, and opened the lid of each chest in turn. The first held Philip's lute in its case, resting on top of his clothes; they were clean, but still smelt indefinably of him in a way that made Nick's throat tighten at once. In the second chest were all the other things that Philip owned: books large and small; copies of play parts; a recorder that Nick had never known he had, let alone heard him play; his writing-case. Two pairs of gloves, tucked into the corner, and another, heavier, pair for riding. Spare lute-strings. In a box lined with satin, two glass phials, one holding oil and the other perfume. The scent of it Nick knew well, and as for the other … he swallowed.

  "The chests have a false panel in side and lid," Cecil remarked. "I assure you that the money is still where it was hidden."

  "Philip liked - likes - to save his earnings." Nick picked up one of the books: The Affectionate Shepherd, by Richard Barnfield, and let it fall open in his hand. 'If it be sin to love a lovely lad, Oh then sin I … ' A flash of colour caught his eye; a piece of ribbon, used as a bookmark. It marked a page with a line in the margin against 'To think on him whom my soul loveth best.' The ribbon itself was the colour of sunset, tied in a loop that might slip over a man's wrist, if the wrist were slim enough. On it was written, in ink that had dyed the fabric, 'Php - Cant:Sal: viii.6 - Kit'. Nick looked at Cecil. "The song of Solomon, chapter 8, verse 6, sir?"

  He had thought that Cecil would direct him to a book on the shelves, but there was a Bible already on the desk. Cecil opened it, found the place and read. "'Set me as a seal on thine heart, and as a signet upon thine arm: for love is strong as death: jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are fiery coals, and a vehement flame.'"

  Nick's hands shook. The loop of ribbon dangled from his fingers, quivering like a flame itself. He set it back in place, closed the book, and searched through the remainder of the chest.

  "There is something missing?" Cecil asked.

  There was: the sheets of William Byrd's music. Nick opened his mouth to tell him, and then remembered. "No. I thought there was, but there is not."

  "What did you think was missing?"

  "This." Nick held up another book at random. "It is so small that I had not seen it." It was his copy of The Passionate Pilgrim, which somehow had stayed in Philip's possession after their meeting with master Shakespeare.

  "Ah. Yes, I can see that might be so." Cecil waited another moment, and said, "So, will you take these to Philip's sister? I will give you the keys, that you may lock them."

  "Why not simply pay one of your men to take them?"

  "Indeed," he replied. "That man is you."

  Chapter 26

  May 1603

  Philip drank down the last dose of his daily tonic: the squeezed juice of half a Seville orange, diluted with brandy and sweetened with honey. He did not know why he was to take it; Peter Chamberlen had talked at length of Lancaster's voyages and of Sir John Hawkins, but most of it had gone straight over Philip's head. Whether it was the tonic or no, the old wound on his face had healed, and in body at least he felt more whole.

  Sickness of the mind was not so easily cured, and Philip had lain wakeful many a night in the garret that served him for a bedchamber, before falling asleep from sheer exhaustion. Sandy had cast him off. He himself had sent Nick away, anger still festering between them. Only the stars shared the night with him, through the slats in the window.

  This was a large household; as well as the Chamberlens and their servants, there were Delaunes and Argents and other kin by marriage. They were Huguenots all, originally from France, dealing in medicine or surgery or suchlike. The plague was in the city, but had passed them all by, so far. Whether they could thank the wind for this, because it generally blew from a certain direction, as Chamberlen claimed, or whether because of some skill of Chamberlen's, or for some other reason, there was no knowing. Philip was glad; they were friendly, if not friends, and if they knew that he came of Italian stock and claimed Catholicism as his religion; why then, they said and did nothing about it, and he could live with that.

  He paid his way as he could, copying old Peter Chamberlen's receipts and prescriptions out of the crabbed hand to something that was easier to read, and making clear notes of the younger Peter's accounts in the ledger book. It was the younger Peter who had treated his knife-wounds before, and Peter's wife Sara who had welcomed him in, and brought Philip clothes, once made for her husband but too small since increasing wealth and girth had come to him. Carefully, Philip had taken from them what was above his station, such as lace and ribbons, and returned those to Sara for the fur
bishing of her own gowns. The clothes themselves were warm and comfortable, and he could not complain that they were not altogether to his taste.

  Philip sighed, set down the small cup that had held his tonic, and pulled a ledger towards him. No poet ever wrote a part for a man who copies accounts. The Rose and the Fortune seemed as far away as Scotland and as long ago as his childhood, before the shadow of Theobalds ever lengthened on the grass. He was mindful of Cecil's warning, and rarely went beyond the long narrow garden of this house in Blackfriars, where the Chamberlens grew herbs and simples. However, he had gone by night, a few weeks ago, to a house that Chamberlen knew to be on the funeral route, and the next day had seen the purple velvet pall beneath him, that lay over the lead coffin and the wood and the dead queen. He never saw the effigy that lay on top, for there was a canopy over it, but he heard the susurration of indrawn breath from the crowd flowing up the street towards him and away, as the coffin passed.

  The door opened behind him. The waft of scent, and the click of heels as she came closer, told him Sara Chamberlen was there. "Philip, I am in a quandary."

  "Are you, mistress? May I help, perhaps?"

  "You may recall that I am to have my portrait painted by master Hilliard, who lives near Goldsmiths' Hall? I should be there this afternoon, but there is nobody in the house to go with me. Will you? I know that you do not like to venture outside, but it is foul weather, and there are few abroad."

  Philip thought for a moment. The sparrow may hop outside the cage for a minute, a while, an hour. "I will come, mistress," he said, and went on writing. To viij drachms saffron …

  Late May 1603

  When the Admiral's Men finally went on tour again, it was chiefly because the plague was in town, and the coronation of the new King had been postponed accordingly. The morning before the Henslowes betook themselves to friends in the country, Agnes came to see Nick.

  "I want to give you these," she said, and held out a tight roll of printed pages. "When Cecil sent for Philip's things, I thought that he might be seeking evidence of Philip's papistry. So I hid these."

  Nick took the roll from her, and untied the thread. The sheets were written music, Philip's copy of the mass by William Byrd. "Oh, Agnes," he said, "bless you," and kissed her on the cheek.

  "It's nothing," she said, "at least it was a small thing to do," and went out before he could tell her otherwise.

  The players set out on the road; Charles Massey to Norwich, Sam Rowley to the West Country, and Sir Edward Alleyn and his men - and Nick - to Kent. Nick contrived to have Philip's belongings delivered to the stables near Alleyn's home in Cripplegate, and then had to take Thomas Downton into his confidence to load them on to one of the carts. Downton helped willingly, although he himself was about to set off with Rowley.

  What did not prove so easy was reaching Alfriston in accordance with the directions that Cecil gave him. Nick had hoped that the players would visit Lewes, but they stayed further east. Henslowe had kin there, and Sir Edward Alleyn had married Henslowe's daughter Joan, so could rely on them to smooth the way and reduce the local innkeepers' charges. Often and often Nick wished that Henslowe had never tempted Alleyn out of his comfortable retirement.

  Matters came to a head in Rye.

  "I have a commission from Sir Robert Cecil to do this - and I am not your apprentice!" Nick snapped at Alleyn.

  "Nor are you Sir Robert Cecil's," Alleyn retorted smoothly, "and in this company I am leader. Henslowe holds your indentures - "

  "He was told to cancel them!"

  "Master Standage was in no state of mind to make such a decision; under the circumstances, it was a kindness in master Henslowe to take your charge on himself. And he gave me charge of you so long as you are out of his household, and so long as your apprenticeship lasts, which is … let me see, another eighteen months, and the sooner the better." He shut his mouth, and looked down at Nick from that intolerable height of his. Then his expression softened. "Also, for God's sake stop standing there as if you were trying to play Harry Eight. You haven't the height - or the width."

  Nick stayed there, arms akimbo, legs apart, glaring at him.

  "Boy," he said, more gently still, "I know Philip meant a lot to you. I know you say that Cecil commissioned you to take Philip's belongings back to his sister, but if I had known they were in the cart, I would have ordered them removed before we quit London."

  "I am not lying about Cecil," Nick said.

  Alleyn considered a moment. "Very well; I believe you. But the fact remains that we are not very near to Alfriston; I am not prepared to let you abandon the company; and, moreover, I don't propose that the company should go there. Takings have been poor, and we need to stop in the larger towns, not patronise such villages."

  Still Nick didn't move, and presently Alleyn laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "Come, lad - don't let our disagreement keep us from our supper. You did well today, very well, and I'm pleased with you."

  Nick had forgotten his lines once, and trodden on William Parr's toes twice, so Alleyn could not truly have been so very pleased with him; but he took the words in the spirit in which they were offered, and smiled. 'Boy' and 'lad' he would always be to the company, he supposed, however long he was among them.

  The others had been huddled tactfully on the far side of the common room set aside for them in the Mermaid Inn, supping as they stood. Once Alleyn and Nick stopped arguing, they drifted into the middle of the room, carrying their bowls and mugs, and took their places at table.

  "You sit down," Alleyn said. "I will bring you food and drink."

  Nick did as he was told, wondering, and when Alleyn came back said, "Why are you doing this?"

  Alleyn set a brimming bowl of stew before him with great care. "Because I am sorry for you," he said. "For two reasons: one, that I cannot help you now; two, because of Philip."

  Nick nodded. "Thank you." He had been trying not to think about what life would be like - without Philip. If Philip never came back. Suddenly he hardly dared open his mouth to eat, lest instead of putting food in he let noise out; a shriek, a wail, the cry of all mankind against the unfairness of the world.

  But first, he had a task to do for Philip's sake, and after that - he did not know what, after. But until then, he had to live, and to live he had to eat. He opened his mouth and spooned in food and drank beer, and it might have been wool or water for all he could taste of it. Still, he went on eating and drinking until bowl and cup were empty.

  Robert Shaw came and sat down beside him. "More beer?"

  Nick shook his head. "Thank you, but no. I need my head clear."

  Shaw moved round to face him. "We've talked so rarely," he said, but didn't go on.

  "I don't know who's to blame for that," Nick said.

  "Oh, no blame in the world, maybe," Shaw replied. "But there: I was friends with poor Tom Nashe, once, and with Gabriel Spencer, though I quarrelled with the one when his play saw me gaoled, and with the other when he wanted to join the Admiral's Men - which earned me Philip's displeasure, I may say. And now here I am, one of you myself."

  "I see, but what has this to do with anything?"

  "Ah. Yes." Shaw drained his cup, and stared into it as if he might find his answer in the dregs. Nick could have said the Paternoster over, he thought so long. "Tom Downton spoke to me. He, ah, said that he had mentioned me to you. No need to ask me why."

  "I know why," Nick said.

  "Yes. Well … I liked Philip," he said. "We all did. He was worthy of more respect than he got. And I like you too, though don't take that to mean - "

  "I do know that your wife is with us," Nick said. It was impossible not to know that Matilda Shaw was there, if she was anywhere within shouting distance. Not that she was forever angry; simply that she was louder than most.

  "Of course. Now," Shaw said, "she is not one of the company, strictly speaking, so Sir Edward has no authority over her, and she may go where she likes."

  "Oh," Nick said.


  "I see you understand me. It is a simple enough matter to hire a horse and cart, and once we are in Hastings - well, it is not so close as Lewes, but Alfriston will not be so very far off."

  "That's true," Nick said. He thought for a while. "To be honest, Rob … if I go, will Alleyn take me back? Had I better not stay, if they will have me?"

  Shaw looked at him seriously. "You will be in trouble if you break your indentures. And you are the best young player I know."

  "You think so?" It was like a small, bright flame in a dark time, to know that. "Thanks, Rob, but you see - without Philip - "

  Shaw pinched his lips close for a moment, as if thinking, then said, "Remember that Philip went on without Kit Marlowe."

  "Philip is - oh God, I hope is - stronger than I am. Indeed sometimes I think - " Nick's voice was cracking now, tears were escaping from his eyes and trickling down his face - "sometimes I think that Philip gave me what strength I have, and if I have to be without him - " He gave up, rested his head on his folded arms and sobbed, once only.

  "You do yourself an injustice," Robert said, "but enough of that. Alleyn does not have your indentures here; he cannot prove anything. Whatever you decide, Matilda and I will help you." He looked over his shoulder; servants were clearing the trestles at one end of the room, and laying out pallets.

  "One thing," Nick said. "Matilda will have to make her way back to you alone, if I do not come back. The company will have moved on, and - will she be safe?"

  Shaw laughed. "The footpad who tries to take on my Matilda will get more than he bargains for, I tell you. Alleyn will turn north for Tunbridge after Hastings, but we will have to stop somewhere; Robertsbridge, and maybe Ticehurst. Mattie will catch up with us soon enough, and we can hire a guide."

  "Then I must pay," Nick said. "It's for me that she will be doing this."

  "For you, but also for Philip," Shaw told me. "Therefore we will divide the cost, if you will not let us pay."

  They settled on a fair division, and spat hands on the bargain.