The Peacock's Eye

by Jay Lewis Taylor

  "Best, I think, for you to set out early next day after Hastings," Shaw said. "Matilda can hire a guide and nobody any the wiser."

  "Thank you, Rob. Thank you indeed."

  He shrugged, and would say nothing more.

  Rob's kindness made the night's bed softer, and Nick slept better than he had for a long while. He woke early, all the same, and lay staring into the darkness. He had tried not to think of Philip, but now Philip was all he could think of: the way he moved; the turn of his head as he looked up and smiled; the frown of concentration as he bent over his lute and picked out a difficult piece of fingering. Thinking of the lute brought to mind Philip's hands: thin, angular, supple as his every movement. Nick saw every vein and tendon so clearly that he could have drawn them if he had pen and ink, or a silverpoint such as Philip himself used for his notes.

  He ached, ached, to hurl himself backwards through time to their last parting and unsay it all, to tell Philip that he had been miserable, not angry, and hadn't meant those bitter retorts; but it was too late now. He put his hands to his eyes and tried to pray. Trying, he fell asleep again, and woke in broad daylight.

  Alleyn had let him sleep on, and the rest of the company had cleared the room round him. He scrambled to his feet in a hurry, and pulled on what clothes he had taken off. Robert Shaw, passing by, said, "Mattie saved you something to break your fast on; ride with her in the cart, and you will be able to eat it the better."

  "Thank you," Nick said, flattening down his hair with both hands and straightening his jerkin. "No rehearsal this morning?"

  "Sir Edward would rather travel while the weather is fine," he said, "and rehearse once we are come to our night's lodging." He thought for a moment. "Whose part are you learning?"

  "Alfonso."

  "Well enough - there are not enough boys to go round, if you were playing Joanna." He grinned. "I might take Alfonso's part as well as Ferdinand's, if there is apparel to fit me."

  They reached Hastings, and rehearsed. Afterwards, Nick wrote out on a scroll of parchment one long speech that was supposed to be a proclamation read by Alfonso, and was putting in the last stop when Matilda Shaw sidled up to him and said, "I have found us a guide for tomorrow." Nick looked up quickly; she had spoken low, for her, but they were all so crammed together … but if anyone heard, nobody gave any sign of it, and luckily Alleyn was too high and mighty tonight to be downstairs with them.

  Nick handed her the parchment. "This is for master Shaw. He'll know why. And - thank you so much, mistress."

  She shrugged. "You're a good boy, and what happened to Philip was no justice. If God sends that someone helps Robert and me when we have need, as we have helped you, I shall think myself well repaid."

  Nick nodded; but he could not say 'Amen'.

  The evening dragged to an end. Alleyn came down from his fine chamber to read a prayer, and they went to bed in the last of the twilight; there was no money to spare for candles, even if the pallets had not consisted of fresh straw enough to roast everyone in their beds, once alight. Nick tried to judge the time by the slant of moonlight, or by what he could see of the slow wheeling of the stars, speck by speck of light across the slats of the shutters; and at last, while he was waiting for time to pass, sleep caught him unawares.

  Chapter 27

  Late May 1603

  It was time for another sitting at master Hilliard's house. Philip prowled the room while Sara settled herself. It was a glorious cabinet of curiosities; here a necklace of coral beads, there a single Venetian glass, poised on its stem like a flower, but with a triangular shard knocked out of its rim; a silk rose with crystal beads along one petal edge, like frozen dew. He reached forward to lift a mirror, all worn silver and wooden carving, from its precarious balance on the corner of a Flemish table, and - "Oh."

  The shape under the table was familiar, even if the tracery of the carven rose was not; but the neck was the same, and the curve and dapple of the wood.

  "What is it, Philip?" Sara asked.

  "A lute, mistress Chamberlen. Do you suppose … " He reached for the neck of it, then held back. "I should not. It is not mine."

  "You have not stolen it so long as it remains within these four walls," Sara remarked. "I am sure master Hilliard will have no objection. I did not know you played."

  "I have not had my own lute for a long while." He hoped that his yearning did not sound too strong. "This may not be in tune."

  "Almost certainly not," Sara said. "You will be doing it a favour." After a moment she added, "Pray, Philip, do. I should like to hear you."

  He smiled. "I, mistress, am most certainly out of tune. But I will see what the lute can do for me."

  At first it seemed that one of the keys was loose, but with a little work and pressure it was fitted again; steadily, concentrating, Philip adjusted the strings one by one. He was unaware of the stillness that came over his face as he worked, unaware how closely Sara was watching him, unaware of anything except note and note and the subtle ringing in the air that told him whether or not the strings were in tune. The instrument was light as a cockleshell on his knees, so tautly strung for its weight that the thin strips of wood seemed ready to snap at each turn of the key; but they did not. He began to pick out a tune, and plucking at the strings plucked up his own courage, so that very softly he began to sing.

  "I saw my lady weep," he began, and so through the first verse of the song and into the second. "Sorrow was there made fair, And passion wise, tears a delightful thing," and with those words his voice died in his throat. He sat, breathing heavily, head bowed over the pale, shining curves of beechwood. After a moment he noticed a light, tapping sound; applause.

  "Well done," a woman's voice said; a pleasant voice, but not Sara's. Philip looked up. She had two wings of fair hair, greying to silver, parted under her cap and coif, and a ruff like a flower behind her head, with a rose pinned to it. "The age of miracles is come again: I had not thought there was a man alive who could make that old instrument sing."

  "Madame, thank you." He rose and bowed. "Would that my voice did your lute justice."

  "It was well enough," she said briskly. "You have sung in your day, I don't doubt, and will again. I am Alice Hilliard, come to greet mistress Chamberlen," she turned to Sara and curtsied, "and to convey my good man's regrets for having delayed in coming to you. Mistress, will you take somewhat to eat or drink? I can have the girl bring cordial and sweetmeats."

  Sara smiled and bowed her head where she sat. "With those, and with Philip's singing to charm me, I can hardly complain of the delay. Indeed, in my condition - " her hands fluttered towards her belly - "I am glad of the leisure."

  And so the brief misery that had gripped Philip as he sang, and which both women must have noticed, dissolved like fog into the light conversation. He was neither servant nor guest, and their talk was no business of his; but they were courteous enough to include him, and for that he was grateful. He was stepping into another world now, and must make the most of it.

  "There," the guide said. Matilda reined in the pony. The house was of warm red brick, the tiles green with moss, the roof on one side reaching almost to the ground. There was an orchard beyond it, flowers in a trim garden at the side, and the sound of birdsong. Nick had been perched on the chests in the back of the cart, rather than squashing between the guide and Matilda; now he jumped out, and said to Matilda, "Do I look respectable?"

  "Passably so," she said. "I would go to the side door, if I were you; they will most likely not open at the front."

  So he braced his shoulders and walked along the side of the house. There was no door there. At the back, the south-facing side, in the sunshine, a woman was sitting shelling peas, humming a lullaby with her foot on the rocker of a cradle as she worked.

  Nick doffed his cap, and bowed. "God give you good day, mistress."

  "Oh!" A few peas bounced on the stone flag, and she made as if to stand, holding her apron full of pea-pods.

  "Please, do
n't stand up." He knelt down, retrieved the scattered peas, and dropped them in the bowl at her side. "Are you … are you Philip's sister, Julia?" he asked, forgetting her husband's surname, if indeed he had ever known it.

  "What is it to you if I am?" She looked at him stony-eyed, suspicious. "Who are you? What are you here for?"

  Nick opened his mouth, and could not speak. Her eyes were not like Philip's; they were grey-blue instead of brown, but her brows were fine and dark like his, and the laughter-lines in the corners of her eyes and mouth and nose were the same.

  A name came back into his memory. "Emilia," he said. "I have met Emilia, she will recognise me. I am Philip's apprentice, Nicholas Hanham. Sir Robert Cecil sent me."

  "Sir Robert Cecil?" she said. For a moment her hands twisted in her lap. "Oh. Then you had better come in. Emilia is indoors at the baking."

  Nick looked back over his shoulder. "I have come here with a friend. We - we have some things of Philip's."

  At that Julia dropped the pea-pods onto the shelled peas, stood up, and said, "If you have bad news about my brother, tell me now. Now!"

  Nick held out his hands. "I don't know what news there is. I wish I did. Sir Robert Cecil says he is alive, but in danger. He - Sir Robert - wanted me to come here. But we do not know where Philip is. Neither of us."

  "God have mercy," Julia said. "You had better come inside and tell me about it."

  Beyond the house, the pony neighed. "I must - you will take Philip's things?" Nick said. "They are yours if - "

  "No," she said. "He cannot be dead. I won't believe it."

  Nick closed his eyes. "God knows I hope he is still in the land of the living. I pray that Cecil will tell us, when he knows."

  "The young fox. That is what my father calls him." Julia bent down, lifted the babe from its cradle and held it to her. "Burleigh the old fox, Cecil the young. My father admires him, but I - I do not. Yes, I will look after Philip's things for him." She looked at him, the babe's head cradled to her shoulder. "Will you stay here? You - you will be most welcome, if Emilia will vouch for you. I know so little of Philip's life since he left us … I would like to know more."

  "I don't know," Nick said. "I have to decide." Between the possibility of seeing Philip again when he might be anywhere, and such certainty as there was in a player's life. Between the unknown, and the known. He walked back to Matilda and the guide where they waited for him. They had already unloaded the two chests from the cart.

  "I don't know what to do," Nick said to Matilda.

  She nodded. "Whether to go or stay, you mean? Rob said you were uncertain."

  "Yes."

  "Would you leave it to chance?" she asked.

  "I don't understand you."

  Matilda took a straw from the floor of the cart. "Turn your back."

  Obediently he turned away.

  "Now to me again." Between finger and thumb she held two pieces of straw, seeming both the same length. "As you choose," she said.

  The straws were dim gold in the shadow of the house. "Long straw stay here, short straw back with you," Nick said.

  "Very well. Now - choose."

  He took a deep breath, and picked a straw.

  October 1603

  The King had been crowned at last in July. Philip could have seen the procession from the house where he had watched the Queen's funeral, but had chosen not to. Once, he might have gone there to watch for Sandy's face among a hundred others; but not any more.

  Today he was at the Hilliards' house again. Over the summer and autumn, Sara Chamberlen and Alice Hilliard had become friends, and now visited each other when there was no question of painting. Sara's likeness had been completed weeks ago, and sent to a goldsmith for framing and adorning; it was in the house now, and would be unveiled when the last customer of the day had left. Meanwhile, the two women had eaten sweet cakes and drunk sherris-sack together, while Philip sat playing the lute for them, vaguely aware of master Hilliard making polite conversation to a customer beyond the open door of the next room. Now the two were comparing embroideries, silver hair and dark gleaming over their down-bent foreheads. Philip's hands drifted across the strings … old songs, new … a tune came of its own accord. Lavender's green, dilly, dilly, Lavender's blue …

  Alice Hilliard looked up, smiled, and sang softly. "If you love me, dilly, dilly, I will love you." Sara Chamberlen joined in. "Let the birds sing, dilly, dilly, And the lambs play; We shall be safe, dilly, dilly, Out of harm's way."

  "Charming," said a voice from the next room. Philip froze, his hands so abruptly tense that one finger plucked a string with a note that set his teeth on edge. "Are you near done with your paints, master Hilliard? I would fain greet your singing birds, if I might."

  "Almost done, Sir Henry," Nicholas Hilliard said.

  Sara and Alice were smiling, gesticulating at the door as if to say, Open it, but Philip shook his head and laid one hand across his heart. As you love me, no … please, no. He rose to his feet hurriedly and silently, blessing the softness of his shoes, and handed the lute to Sara Chamberlen. She stopped him with one hand laid on his wrist; his arm was shaking. Eyes wide, she let him go, and he went to the other door. I am a stranger in this house. Where can I be safe? He turned this way and that, and at the touch of a hand on his shoulder almost cried out. It was only Alice Hilliard. "Upstairs," she whispered, as Sara continued the tune on the lute. "Second door."

  The second door had a heavy lock, and no key. It led to nowhere; a small room, whose wood-panelled walls he could touch with outstretched arms whichever way he turned, the floor covered with matting. It smelt faintly of spices, and maybe had once been a strong-room or store-room. Philip pulled the door closed behind him. There were no windows; a small lattice in the door let in light enough to see by. He sat on the floor, wrapped his arms round his knees, and waited. Oh God. I shall be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.

  Unless -

  Unless I leave London. And even then …

  "What else is there to do?" Cecil said; and, after staring at him for a long time, Philip nodded.

  "Nothing," he said.

  Cecil handed him a square of parchment signed and sealed. "You will need this."

  "You had it ready? You knew?"

  "I have had it ready these few months or more. If I know anything, it is that you are not so foolish as to turn away from your last chance." Cecil held out the pass, unwavering.

  Only you would be so certain that it is the last chance, Philip wanted to say, but did not. He took the parchment, and folded it into his wallet.

  "Six days' walking in good weather, I believe," said Cecil. "This should pay your way if it takes a fortnight." He picked up a purse from his desk; it gave out the light ring of silver coins shifting. That too Philip took, and tied it to his belt.

  "Do you need anything else?"

  "I have no boots."

  "Tell Simson to find you a pair. Shoes too, if need be." Cecil turned his head away. "No, don't go yet. You have served me well, Philip, although you think I have served you ill in return. But - if you will not admit my own safety to be a good reason for my own acts - perhaps you will allow that in keeping myself safe I do the same for Frances?"

  "Yes. Of course."

  "Good. Now … is there anyone trustworthy in London, that you would wish to let know you are safe?"

  "The Henslowes, so please you. And - master Shakespeare."

  "Yes," Cecil said. "He is a man of secrets enough. I will tell them."

  Philip peeled dry lips open. "And what of Sa- Alexander Gray? He knows."

  "Yes, he does; more fool you. Never fear; I have my own ways of keeping Gray silent - and useful. Unless perchance you would like revenge taken on him?"

  Philip shook his head quickly. "Keep your hands clean of that blood, Robin. It will poison all it touches."

  Cecil's eyebrows rose, though whether at the name or the warning it was hard to tell. He said, "Ah - go well, Philip. I do mean that." />
  "I suppose I must thank you - sir."

  "There is no need."

  Philip bowed abruptly, and left the room. He would go back to Chamberlen's for his things, and then leave. He was at the turn of the staircase when his name was called from the gallery; Frances was there. Philip climbed again until his face was on a level with hers. "My lady," he said, and smiled. He had not been able to smile at Cecil.

  "Philip - you have everything you need?" she asked. "I am so sorry that you have to leave London."

  "Everything I need," he said, "if not everything I want; but your ladyship should not trouble yourself about such as I am."

  "Nonsense," she said, sounding absurdly grown-up. "You are my friend, and I have loved your music." She looked at her hands, and seemed to come to some decision; after a moment she pulled off a turquoise ring and held it out. "Take this, Philip. Not to remember me by, for I am not worth remembering, but because I wish you well."

  He climbed the rest of the stairs, and knelt with more devotion than he would have offered to kings and princes. "Indeed I shall remember you, lady. Greater than you have done me less kindness, and my gratitude is but poor return."

  "I ask for no return," she said, dropping the ring into his hand. "God go with you, Philip."

  "Amen," he said. "Amen."

  The journey began well; the sun shone, and for the time of year it was warmer than he had expected. On the first night, in the common bed of the inn, Philip lay awake among the other sleepers, and made himself think, think deeply, about what had happened and what would happen next.

  For so long now, he had simply tried to ensure that he was alive as one day turned into another. It still seemed impossible that tomorrow would not find him waking in the loft at Henslowe's, or in some lodging with Cecil's Men. He wanted not to think about the future, but he must.

  I can no longer be a player. That did not hurt so much as he expected; what hurt was the losing of his friends. They have cut me out of the land of the living, that my name may be no more in memory. They would all forget him: Robert Shaw, Charles Massey and Alyson, Solomon Jeanes, Jack Wynter. Maybe not Ben Jonson, nor Tom Dekker. Philip's thought touched on Nick, and shied away. He did not think that Nick would forget him, but Nick was young and of a cheerful mind; he would find someone else soon enough.