The Peacock's Eye

by Jay Lewis Taylor

  Sandy. That did hurt; he blinked at the ceiling, and tears ran out of the corners of his eyes.

  My face. That was no great loss, after all; he had never been vain of his looks, and whatever his face looked like now he was not the one who had to see it.

  Music. That was something. He had the lute, which Alice Hilliard had insisted on giving him, together with a case for it.

  Julia. He wondered about her husband. The child she had been expecting must have been born by now; he could not recall whether there were others. Emilia was there, of course, she had said so; a world with Emilia in it would be comfortable, if a little stifling. Has Julia told her man about me and what I am? Perhaps it would be for him - what was his name? - to say whether or not Philip could stay.

  I am alive. Anything was better than the Clink.

  I must try to forget - too many things. From all the deceits of the world, the flesh, and the devil, Good Lord, deliver us. Especially of the flesh. Oh God, especially of the flesh.

  He lay awake, wrestling with demons, all night.

  Chapter 28

  October 1603

  In the morning, it was colder and raining. Philip had counted his silver before he left, and there was not enough for him to hire a horse every day; best save it in case the worst need came. Some he hid in the lining of the lute's case. In a dark corner, after he had paid his reckoning, he slipped the cord that bore Sandy's talisman from round his neck and considered it. He even went so far as to begin unknotting the cord to slide the thing from it, but an unreasoning fear seized him, and he tied the knot again. He did not want to keep it in his wallet, not so close to the ring that Frances had given him; in the end he left it where it was, round his neck. Then he pulled on his cloak and set out into the rain.

  As far as the first town, he travelled easily and met no trouble. There, without a qualm, he sold the garnet that Sandy had given him, and divided what it brought him; a little in his purse, most in the lute-case. In the second town, he thought he had taken care as he walked through the jostling market crowds, but when he reached the inn that evening the purse had been cut from his belt. The rest was safe, and so were his wallet and Cecil's pass, which he kept in his doublet. He showed the pass and was allowed to make music for the guests, which earned him a little, enough to buy a meal and a pallet on the floor.

  He had delayed too long before leaving London; the winter was drawing in apace, the rain turning the roads to that Sussex mud which could draw the shoes from horses' hooves. Philip husbanded his resources and his strength as much as he could, but sometimes travelled no more than five miles in a day. There were fewer and fewer other people on the road, and only the pass saved him from being taken up as a vagabond. He grudged every penny spent hiring a guide, but when he tried to find his own way, he lost himself among a tangle of roads and woodland, and reached a village where nobody would take him in, Cecil's seal or no. He passed a cold and uncomfortable night in the church porch, making sure to be up and gone before mattins.

  That day was long, and he struggled through it under persistent rain that chilled him to the bone, meeting a kinder welcome when a farmer's wife took him in and dried his clothes, and fed him for two nights in return for some letter-writing and a few songs. On the third morning her husband, the farmer, set Philip on a better road to Alfriston.

  Altogether it was a fortnight or more after he left London that the spire of St Andrew's Alfriston rose above the stark branches of oak trees in the dusk. The church was beyond the town, and his road took him first to the market square and an inn where candle-light gleamed pale in windows still unshuttered.

  It was not raining, exactly, but a thin drizzle was falling in a small, cold, wind, and he was bone-weary. A holly tree stood on the small plat of green before the inn, and for a while he waited under it to keep dry. He was chilled as well as tired, though, and how far it might be to Oakhanger farm he did not know. It cannot be far now. Although whether that was reason to hasten or to tarry, he did not know. You cannot stay here all night. Which was true enough.

  There was light, and probably warmth, at the Market inn. He hesitated to open the door and bring the cold and wet in with him, but at last he arrayed his cloak around himself as neatly as he could, and stepped forward. He had gone unshaven for days now, and could only hope not to look too disreputable.

  Although a few heads turned to look at him, there was no real break in the talk when he entered. He eased himself down on to a bench in one corner and tipped his head back against the wall, eyes closed. The chatter blurred to a soothing murmur of voices, and he drowsed where he sat until the pot-boy, passing with a tray of empty mugs, asked, "Beer, master?"

  "Yes," Philip said. "And if you can tell me the way to Oakhanger farm I shall be grateful."

  "John Somner's place? 'Tis a mile or so from here, down towards Litlington, but be certain sure to keep west of the river. No missing it."

  His journey had taught Philip that when there was no missing a place, he was most likely to lose his way; but he hid his smile in the mug of beer when it came, handed over the cost, and drank slowly.

  He was near the kitchen, and as the door swung open he caught sight of a maid tipping a jar of bottled fruit into a pot where something was already steaming. The draught that had opened the door blew towards him, and with it came the sweet-sharp tang of blackcurrants. Blackcurrant cordial. Where - ? and then the smell caught at the back of his throat, and with it memory swamped him, so that for a moment he felt the numb, dazed darkness that the opium had brought down on him, that night in Holyroodhouse; even the pain in his throat seemed to return. He retched; could not bear even the thought of drinking the rest of his beer, and left the mug on the floor. He slung his lute over his shoulder, fastened his cloak and walked outside, uncomfortably aware that he was swaying on his feet and that men were staring at him.

  For a moment, the holly tree sheltered him again from the drizzle, but not from the wind that had now risen. He walked away again, hoping, praying, that he was taking the right road. It was wide enough for farm carts, or indeed for two carts to pass each other, and there was a wide grass verge above the muddy road. For comfort's sake, he walked on that.

  It had never occurred to him before to wonder how long it took to walk a mile. Soon it was all he could do to keep going; chilled, damp and still fighting the remembered fear and revulsion that had gripped him at the smell of blackcurrants cooking. Will that happen whenever I smell them? He twisted his fingers in the cord at his neck, fidgeting with the talisman. I could throw it away. But Sandy had said, 'Throw it away and I will haunt your dreams. Give it away and worse will happen. There is no escape.'

  But why, Sandy?

  'You are mine … Because you were fool enough to love me.'

  I am nobody's.

  You are his. He said so.

  Philip's knees folded under him. Curled protectively over the lute in its case, he knelt on the wet grass sobbing, unable to pray, unable to curse, under the pouring dark. Oh God, help me. His mind skittered into memories. Kit. But Kit was dead, had been dead for ten years now.

  Enough. Philip gritted his teeth, stopped weeping and looked up, blinking through the water that dripped into his eyes from his hair. In the distance was a glimmer of light, dimming and brightening. It had to mark a building of some kind, even if not Oakhanger farm. He got to his feet and walked onward, the lute-case banging against his knees. Keep going.

  The light, when he reached it, shone from a candle in an upper window where a spray of ivy blew in the wind, masking the flame briefly each time it swung. He wondered whether all in the household were already abed, but there was light in a lower room too. There was a fine big door at the front, and no path elsewhere that he could see. Surely Julia, or the householder, would open that door, even so late at night, even to someone so unkempt as himself? Surely?

  He leant on the wall, raised his arm, and beat on the door; then again. And again. Three times for the spell, and if nobody came
then he would lie down somewhere sheltered and try again in the morning.

  Somebody came. He heard the bolt ease back, then the latch move, and the slow creak of the door on its hinges. He turned to face the doorway, words forming on his lips. Julia, it's me. Julia, I need a place to stay. Julia.

  But it was not Julia's face that he looked at, and the shock brought his mind to a bewildered stop. No, he had time to think, no, that's not right, before he pitched forward.

  Nick's hands were on Philip's shoulders. Philip himself was on hands and knees, dripping wet, dishevelled, eyes blank with incomprehension, the scar on his face looking as if it had been open again since Nick last saw him; but - Philip. So Nick's eyes told him, but his mind would not. And neither would his voice. He took a deep breath, and the word that came out of his mouth was, "Julia!"

  At once she was there, kneeling on the floor beside him, her hands on Philip's wrist. "Mio fratello, ah, Philip! Your poor face, what happened?" She cupped the place in one slim hand, and Nick had a moment of shameful, jealous rage because he wanted to be the one to do that. "Julia," Philip said in a hoarse voice, and leaned against her shoulder; and again Nick had a flash of jealousy, that it was not his name that Philip spoke nor him that Philip leant on.

  Then he said, "Help me, N-Nick."

  Nick set one arm under Philip's shoulders, heaved, then steadied him once he was up. He could not speak, his heart was beating so hard it was almost in his throat, his mouth was dry, his mind in a whirl of wonder. He would have put his arms round him, but Philip moved away. Julia fetched a branch of candles - they were still lit, for the household had been at dinner not so long ago, and she wanted to copy out a neighbour's cures for various childhood illnesses - and led them into the hall. Philip sat down on the bench at the foot of the table and said, wearily, "I have none other to turn to but you, Julia. Tell me now if you have no room, and I'll move on tomorrow."

  "How can you ask?" Julia said. "If there was no room we would make it, for you to stay, as we have for Nick. We thought - we feared for you, he and I." Her voice glowed with joy. "But you are safe and alive after all."

  "Alive, yes. I hope I am safe," he said. "But if so - even for the rest of my life?"

  "Even then, and gladly, always gladly." For a moment she hugged him, and let her head droop over his; Nick saw two tears fall. He was weeping himself, but brushed the tears away. Julia stood up, dried her eyes, and said briskly, "So tell me, are you hungry? Thirsty?"

  Philip shook his head. "All I want is sleep."

  "He can have my bed for now," Nick said.

  Philip glanced at him, then said to Julia, "Your husband. I should pay my respects."

  "Of course. I will ask him to come." She touched the side of his face briefly and went out.

  Philip's shoulders sagged a little, and he rested his forehead on one hand. "I could sleep forever." He turned his face and looked at Nick, hesitating. "You said I could have your bed, but - but Nick, I'm sorry … not - not - "

  "I can be celibate for a while, I dare say," Nick told him, grinning, meaning no harm.

  Philip sat up, his face even paler than before. "Nick," he said, "I - I don't understand. I came here to be safe and - not with you. You will hate me, but, please will you leave the room? I am sorry, but I am tired, and I think my mind is disordered, I - " His voice trailed off. "Please."

  It hurt in a way that Nick had never felt or known before, not even in the shouting midst of the argument they had had; but he said, "Of course I will. Ask Julia to explain, if you like. But - please don’t cast me off altogether."

  He had said the wrong thing again: a huge shudder racked Philip, and he let loose a small noise of pain or misery. Nick could do nothing but remain still and silent; and eventually Philip drew breath and said, "I won't. Go, Nico. I'll see you tomorrow."

  He had called Nick by the name that Jamy used; Nick wanted to weep, or kiss him, and to hold him safe from all the world's harms, but none of these things was possible. So he went to the room over the stable, where John kept a pallet for travellers, and lay down wrapped in every cloak and sheepskin that he could lay hands on. But he could not sleep. He had his heart's desire, and Philip had come back to him, but was as far away as ever.

  Lying alone, staring at the ceiling, Philip considered. Here is another new world. And …

  And Nick.

  He had half-decided, in that night of wrestling with demons, that it would be better not to think about love; that he would pay that price, any price, never to be betrayed again. But here was Nick, love and care shining from every look and movement, and Nick was no boy player any more. However long he had been working on the farm, that, or something else, had changed him from a slender young man into a broad-shouldered, compact adult, all strength and muscle, through which the player's grace still showed like gold wrapped in sacking. Love and care, Philip said to himself, knowing it was what he wanted. But with love of the heart would come love of the body, and - I can't ask for one without the other. That wouldn't be fair on Nick. One hand strayed to his face, the other to his neck. When he fell asleep at last, he dreamed of Sandy's lust over and around him in the darkness.

  After sleep came waking. Philip's eyes told him that the sun was shining, but in his mind was a small grey fog the size of a man's hand, as it were. He washed himself, and dressed in fresh clothes of John's that Julia had put in his room, and went downstairs.

  "Philip," Julia said, "good morning, brother dear. Breakfast?"

  "Tell me how Nick came here," he said.

  Chapter 29

  If Nick had gone indoors before grooming the horses, he might have overheard their conversation. As it was, he found Philip at the kitchen board, his arms wrapped round himself, sitting very straight and still.

  "There is bread and cheese," Julia was saying. "Or would you like to be shaved, first?"

  "Food, please," he said. "And something to drink. I'll shave later."

  "Ale over here," Nick told him. "How much would you like?"

  "Not much." Nick set the ale before him and sat down, but Philip looked only at the table as he said, "Thank you," and smiled briefly. "Julia told me how you came to be here. It was very kind of you to bring everything."

  "I didn't feel kind," Nick said. "Sir Robert Cecil made me do it."

  "I know. She told me that too." He ate eagerly, as if he had been on short commons for a while, but drank little and did not refill his cup. "Julia," he asked after a while, "Can we be alone, Nick and I?"

  "I will be in the still-room as soon as today's bread is in the oven."

  While she was there, neither of them spoke. Nick wondered whether words would be any help at all, but once Julia had gone into the still-room he said, nonetheless, "Cecil told me you were in danger."

  "Unlike him to be so plain," Philip said. His lips twisted, then he drew in a breath that was almost a groan. "Why did I ever go to Scotland for him? Money or no money."

  "You weren't to know. And - at least you're safe now."

  Philip's other hand went up to cover the scar on his face. "I hope so."

  Nick got up from his side of the board and embraced him; at once Philip's muscles clenched into the stillness before flight.

  "Philip, love." Nick took a deep breath. "Sweetheart. Why are you in danger? What happened? Is it to do with this?" He touched Philip's face, as gently as he could, but Philip pulled his head away as if Nick's fingers burnt him.

  "Yes, in part," he said. "But - will you forgive me?"

  "If there's anything I need to forgive you for, consider it done."

  "Then do forgive me, because I will not tell you the whole story of why I am in danger." Philip took a huge gulp of air, then set his teeth, as if trying to keep words from pouring out of him.

  "Of course." Nick held him closer; his muscles were still braced taut. "All's well. All will be well, I promise you."

  Philip shuddered, a long convulsive shiver that shook Nick too. "Sandy," he said. "I have to tell you that
much, Nick. Don't speak of him. He betrayed me. That's over and done with."

  Nick, meaning every word, said, "If you want me to - whatever you want, I'll do it," although he had no idea how.

  "No! No, keep away from him." Philip's breath was coming hard and harsh. "I went to him. In London. I would have lain down at his feet and let him trample me. I would have come like a dog to his whistle." He pushed his hand against the scar, as if he could rub it from his face. "I was a fool. I thought he loved me, but he caught me like a caged bird, simply to show that he could." The long fingers dug into his face. "He laughed at me."

  "I'll murder him," Nick said.

  "No. Forget him, Nico. I've had enough. End it. Let the curtain fall."

  "If you want. And remember you're safe now," Nick said. "Safe. With me."

  "God have mercy," he said, "don't say that. I can't trust myself; I'm not likely to trust anyone else."

  "You can," Nick said, and held Philip still; but he would not relax, or lean into Nick's embrace.

  At last Philip said, "Please let me go." When Nick did, Philip rose to his feet, looked at him blindly for a moment, and went upstairs.

  December 1603

  As Christmas-tide drew steadily nearer, Nick hoped that Philip would become once again the man he had first known. At first his hopes were high: Philip shaved off his beard, and ate well enough for his face to lose the shadow of the bones that had shown so clearly when he stumbled into the house. He was part of the family, much as Nick had become. He worked at John's accounts for him, and at some of Julia's work for her; after a dozen years as a player, he was a deft hand with a needle on worn clothes. He wanted a task that would keep his hands strong, so Nick taught him to milk the sheep, which meant cheese-making too, although it was Emilia and the maid Hepzibah who churned the butter. At Julia's suggestion, Philip began to teach his niece and namesake, young Philippa, her letters.