The Peacock's Eye

by Jay Lewis Taylor

  "You could teach Anthony, too, if you want to," Julia said hesitantly, one day when the three of them were together in the kitchen. "It will be four years or more yet before he'll be ready to learn, of course." She glanced at Nick. "You may move on before then."

  Philip shrugged. "I won't move." In the distance of the house a baby wailed, and he lifted his head. "That's Hepzibah's Lucie, isn't it? I'd better go; she seems to sleep if I play for her."

  "It might be Anthony," Nick said.

  "It's Lucie," Philip told him. "I know Anthony's squall well enough." He went out.

  Julia was smiling. "Trust a musician to tell two crying babes one from the other."

  "Or a mother," Nick said. He would have added something about, if Philip stayed he would like to stay too, but Julia stood up and said briskly, "I haven't measured out the spices for the hippocras, and we must have it ready soon. Have you something to do, Nick?"

  "There's always firewood to cut." He hesitated for a moment. "Julia - may I sleep in the kitchen until the weather warms?"

  "But yes, of course," she said at once. "Have you been cold at night? You should have said."

  "No, but - not so very warm. And it seems wrong to be in the stable for Christmas Eve."

  "I do not understand," she said, "not exactly, though I understand that you prefer to be in the house, where we all are."

  "At home in Dorset, the servants used to say that the animals in the stable kneel, at midnight on Christmas Eve," Nick told her. "I - do not know what I think. My uncle called it mere superstition, but I would rather not know, one way or another."

  "Dear Nick," Julia said. "One must have one's dreams, after all. And some things are better not known for certain."

  Nick slept in the kitchen after that. A little nearer Philip, just a little.

  Come Christmas Eve, after supper, there was dancing, and song and music. Philip stayed for the carolling, and played for the dances on the recorder that Nick had seen among his possessions; but when the games started, hot-cockles and hoodman-blind and the like, he slipped away so quietly that Nick did not see him go. John left too, for he was enough of a Puritan to think the games unseemly, though not so much of a Puritan as to stop them. Nick would have followed Philip, but was dragged into the games and dancing by Julia and the servants.

  At last, it was all over. Peter the steward helped Nick move the board to the centre of the hall again before seeking his own bed with Hepzibah. Nick stayed to snuff the candles and to make sure that the Yule log was secure in the hearth, then went to his own bed.

  When he came through the door of the kitchen, there was Philip sitting in the inglenook. For a moment his heart leapt at the thought that Philip had waited for him; but then Nick saw that he had Lucie on his lap, her head cradled on his arm.

  "Philip," he whispered.

  "Her teeth are coming through," he said. "I have been singing lullaby for her, so that Hepzibah may join in the games."

  "She's abed already," Nick began, but even as he spoke, there were footsteps on the back stairs and the door rattled open.

  "Oh sir, I am sorry. I was so tired," Hepzibah said.

  "It's of no account," Philip said. "Here, she's sleeping. Careful." He handed the babe back. "Better use the front stairs with me; you'll find it easier than carrying her up that ladder."

  Nick followed them out of the kitchen. Through the open door of the dining hall came a dim glow of embers, and over the stair foot, the holly leaves in the kissing bough gleamed in the light of the tallow candle on its pricket.

  "Thank you, master Philip. I wish you Christmas cheer, indeed," Hepzibah said and, with a bright glance upward at the holly and mistletoe, stood on tiptoe to kiss his lips. Philip stepped back abruptly, recovered himself, and bowed. "Christmas cheer with you also, Hepzibah," he said, as she climbed to the servants' rooms under the roof.

  Philip's eyes were very bright. The flickering light and shade cast by the candle masked his scar, except that now and then a line of it leapt out clear to be seen. If Nick laid his hand there … he did, and the scar was covered. Then he raised his left hand, so that his palms cupped Philip's face.

  "Philip," he said, softly.

  "When did you grow so tall?" Philip said. "You are as tall as I am, now."

  "Aye. I don't have to stand on tiptoe to kiss you," Nick said, and leaned forward. Philip turned his face away, but otherwise he did not move. Nick put one arm round him and laid his other hand on the curve between shoulder and neck, before sliding it upward. "Philip," he said, "oh, Philip … "

  Philip trembled, very slightly.

  "Why have I never touched your hair like this before? I thought it would be rough like horse hair, but it's soft … so soft, love. Philip … dearest man … " Nick murmured to him, crooning sheer nonsense in his ear, although there was so much else that he wanted to say. It did not seem the time for anything else. Philip, very slowly, leaned down so that his forehead rested on Nick's shoulder, and Nick could stroke his hair more easily, winding his fingers in the dark, silky strands of it.

  They stood there together for a long while. Nick was as nearly completely happy as he had ever been; and then, all of a sudden, Philip let out a stifled noise like a sob, turned, and ran upstairs.

  January-April 1604

  I can't. I can't let Nick know how much I want him. He needs better than me. He needs freedom.

  Philip talked and smiled, even laughed sometimes, although at night when he went to bed he could not remember what had been worth the laughter. The grey cloud had grown larger; everything seemed to take place behind a hedge of fog. Only music connected him to the real world; only when he was singing, or concentrating on the subtle music of his lute, could he play the part of happiness.

  But he could not always be singing, nor was there always time for music. As the days lengthened and the cold strengthened, the cloud grew thicker in his mind. His time with Sandy - no, don't think of that - had been like falling into glory; this was a slow spiral into wanhope and down. He began to write out all the parts he had ever played, as a distraction, but always the cord about his neck reminded him of Holyroodhouse and Faustus must be damn'd … and of Sandy. 'It binds you to me. You are mine.' The gold on the pillow had turned to withered leaves after all.

  He did not fail in his work at the farm, but he began to keep away from Julia and the children, fearful for their safety with this shadow on him. He bolted the door at night; Nick had never come to him anyway, and now he need not even fear that. The days were worse than the nights; the darkness was, after all, familiar, but the sunlight mocked him. As spring gathered, every room in the house seemed to have a dead butterfly on the window-sill. Shrove Tuesday came and passed, and so did Lent. The cloud remained.

  Another morning. Philip walked down the stairs with his eyes closed, not to see the bright dead wings caught in the window hasp; and was brought up short by Nick's hand set firmly against his breastbone. "Philip, what are you doing?"

  "It doesn't matter," he said, dodged aside, and left the house through the second door at the back, that led to the still-room and the walled garden.

  Nick came running after him. "Philip, love - "

  "Don't call me that." He lengthened his stride, reached the gate in the far wall first, and took the key with him, locking Nick in and throwing the key aside. The boy would go back indoors and come after him all the same, he supposed, but a minute more would take him down the pasture and into the wood-eaves, out of sight.

  He's not a boy any more.

  You're thirty-three.

  That makes him twenty.

  Philip blundered into the wood knowing that, whatever age either of them was, there was nothing to be done, because all he had was the cloud and the darkness. You are thirty-three and it's Good Friday and -

  "That is blasphemy," he said aloud. "Damn me now and be done with it."

  Your choice.

  He pushed deeper into the wood, past thorns that caught at his sleeves, slipping on
last year's leaves and yesterday's rain, the quality of mercy is not strained, it falleth as the gentle rain from heaven … "I played Antonio," he said, aloud again, and with that his foot slipped and he rolled down a slope and into a deeper brake of thorns. Struggling out, he crawled onward, across an unexpected glade of long grass, across two lines of stones. Something caught around his neck; he fought forward, choking, struggling, until suddenly there was no more ground beneath his hands. For a moment, the pressure round his neck was beyond bearing; then nothing, and he fell.

  Chapter 30

  Nick would have broken the door clean down and run after Philip, if only he could. As it was, he turned back for the house, but before he could leave, Julia stopped him. "Nick, it's Good Friday and we must go to church. Come on."

  "I can't, Philip walked out - "

  "You can," she said, "and you will. None of my household misses church on Good Friday."

  "But Philip - "

  She seemed to falter briefly, then held herself straight again. "I do not know what has happened to Philip. He has not been my Philip, the Philip I remember, not since he came here. You can help him best by coming to church and praying for him."

  "But I don't believe - "

  "But I do," she said. "Besides, you will do more harm than good by going after him, I can tell you that." Her face and voice softened. "Nick, I remember my brother when he was young. He would walk out in a rage, and return an hour later as if nothing had happened."

  "He wasn't in a rage," Nick said. "He isn't my Philip either; not the man I first met, nor even the one I knew two years ago."

  "Then all we can do is pray," she said, "and that as soon as we are in church. Come."

  So Nick went, and knelt, and prayed desperately to a God of whose existence he was no longer entirely sure. The church was stripped bare of everything but the cross. There was no glass in the windows, and the sunlight came in with the cold, sharp air and scoured through the box of stone, emptying it of everything except the fact that there were people there, believing or not. And somewhere, there was Philip, and Nick had to find him.

  Caring nothing that to ask the saints to intercede was mere superstition, he prayed to any of Philip's saints that he could recall. St Philip, of course, because of his name. The saint of his birthday Nick could not remember, but the saints for the day before were easy enough, so he prayed to Crispin and Crispian, and then to St Antony of Padua, patron of the lost. And, finally, to Christopher, patron of travellers. Also, because of Christopher Marlowe. Kit. Atheist though he was, he had been Philip's lover, and a small confused part of Nick's mind hoped that even he might be able to help.

  The vigil lasted all afternoon, and if Nick stood and knelt and spoke at the right times, it was not because he knew what he was doing. At the end of it all he knelt there still, until Julia roused him with a light touch.

  "Nick, come."

  "I must look for Philip," he said.

  "Yes, but you must eat first."

  "It's - "

  "I know it is a fast-day, but there will be two of you lost if you do not eat before you go out," she said.

  So John went to his room to read scripture, and Julia and Nick to the kitchen. There Emilia had laid out some smoked mackerel with bread, which Nick ate while she mixed the dough for spiced buns and told the children stories of la Pascha long ago in Italy.

  After a while, she took the children away, and Julia and Nick were alone, except for the tabby cat in a patch of sunlight on the tiled floor. "Nick, the currants, please. Thank you. Now perhaps you will tell me one thing."

  "If I can," Nick said.

  "You and Philip."

  They looked at each other.

  "Only if you want to tell me," Julia said. "I do know why he was disinherited."

  "That's more than I do," Nick said. "Last time we were at Theobalds, Philip knelt at his feet, but your father would not acknowledge him."

  "No," said Julia. "That would take a miracle, I think." She was silent for a while, kneading the currants into the dough, pushing her knuckles into it, pulling and folding and pounding. "Enough; I will leave it to prove now. Open that door in the inglenook, of your courtesy."

  The dough once shut away, she brushed the flour from her hands and said, "Well, I can tell you, I think. We had a neighbour, Fuller was his name, and he had a son called William, who was a bully. A big boy, and unkind. He used to threaten to, to - " her hands moved, as if she wanted both to sign her meaning and to cover her mouth - "to hurt, the boys who would not prove themselves brave. To steal fruit for him, or sweetmeats, and such things. And so he always had what he wanted, until the day when Philip said, 'Do what you threaten; I dare you. I'm not afraid of you, and I won't steal.'"

  Julia paused again, not looking at Nick. "Will - William made to ignore what Philip said, but the other boys made the insult - the figo, you understand? - at him, and at last he - he did it." Her hands moved again in that odd, confused gesture, half-expressive, half-stifled. "My father walked into the barn and found Will s- - I cannot say the word. It was the sin of - of Sodom, and Will was doing it to Philip. My father has never spoken of Philip since the day he left home."

  "And what became of Will?" I asked. "Philip always said he disliked the name, but I thought it was nothing but a jest."

  "Will owns Fuller's farm now. He wanted to marry Cecily, who is the youngest of us, but luckily his father did not think her dowry sufficient. She is to be married to my John's brother, which is much better."

  "And Will Fuller has not been disinherited? That's not fair," Nick said.

  Julia was blushing. "It is so unseemly of me to speak of these things … yes, Will got off lightly, but you see - " the blush deepened - "Philip was naked when they were discovered, and they are much of an age, and Will said that Philip offered himself to him. So the blame fell on Philip. And - Philip told me, the last time we spoke before he went away, that Will was not lying. It was not that he wanted Will. It was - he said it was the lust that came on him. To know what it would be like, to be taken - so. And because there was the danger, that they might be discovered. He said that was another kind of lust."

  "I think I see."

  "So," she said, her colour still coming and going, "I ask you again: you and Philip?"

  "I have loved him these four years or more," Nick said, "but at first I was too young, and then he loved another man. He knows I love him, but whether he loves me, or would if he could but is afraid to, or - something else," he finished lamely, "I don't know."

  Julia made no sign or look to say what she thought.

  "If - when - Philip comes back," Nick said, "will you ask him to leave? Because - "

  "No fear of that," she said. "I am not my father."

  "And - also if, when, he comes back," Nick went on, "how will you feel about us both? Because, if he will come to my bed, then - I will not turn him away, and you will have two of us sinning with each other. That is all."

  "And maybe you will be damned for it," she said, "but to speak frankly, and between you and me alone, because John will certainly not approve, I do not care if only you will bring Philip back to me here and now." She wiped her eyes, leaving a smudge of flour behind.

  Nick brushed it away, and kissed her. "I will do what I can, Julia. Now I must go."

  The sun was still bright. He started from outside the garden gate, and before long found the key in the grass northward along the wall. The line between gate and key gave him a direction, and he set off eastward, his shadow stretching long before him, and Hanger Wood like a dark cloud at his back.

  Philip landed with a jolt that shook the breath out of him. He had fallen the height of a chalk face, maybe a quarry; not very far, but too steep to climb back. All around him was a tumble of thorns and rubble and boulders, but he had rolled off the overhang on to short, cropped grass. Under the afternoon sun it smelled of crushed thyme and, less pleasantly, but only faintly, of sheep droppings. The slope spread out green below him, its edge abut
ting directly on blue. It was warm here, and the grass was soft. He lay curled on his right side as he had fallen, and fell asleep.

  When he woke it was twilight, but whether the last light of that day or the first light of the next he could not tell, nor whether the fog around him was real. He was stiff now, and the fingers that had been broken in the attack in London were aching. Slowly he rolled on to his front, struggled to his feet and walked on: he did not know where. There's something missing. His mind felt empty. Why had he - where had he - what - ? The last thing he remembered was the inn at Alfriston, and the smell of blackcurrants. He put his hand up to his neck, but his fingers caught in nothing. The talisman that Sandy had given him was gone. He felt in all his clothes, looked at the grass around his feet, but it was gone. It might have been gone for moments or for hours; but it was gone.

  To keep you safe.

  It binds you to me.

  Because.

  Sandy had both cast him off and bound him tight; but although the bond was gone, Philip was not free. He stood there, one hand at his throat. Oakhanger farm. Julia. Nick. Memory trickled into the blank of his mind, but everyone and everything seemed far distant, lost in somewhere dim and grey. He walked forward.

  Hours later. Warmth at his left hand, and round his shins. Philip stumbled to a halt, stopped in his tracks by a large and hairy sheepdog. He saved himself from falling with a hand on its broad back, and when he stood up straight again his hand was thoroughly licked. It was all so completely unexpected that he could do nothing but stare at the dog, which stared back at him through a curtain of grey hair, panting slightly.

  A voice behind him said, "Hem glad I be that Bess stopped 'ee when she did, sir. You be walking straight for cliff edge."