The Peacock's Eye

by Jay Lewis Taylor

  "Bess?" Philip said faintly.

  "Me old bitch here. Best sheepdog in the whole south country I allus said, but she never herded men afore now." The shepherd was an old, old man with shoulders like Samson's and a beard like a prophet's, his eyes almost lost in a mesh of wrinkles. "I be looker for the sheep all along here, west of Birling Gap. Where be ye come from, sir?"

  "I - I fell," Philip said. "Out of a wood. Then I slept, and then I walked."

  The looker came closer, and peered into Philip's face. "Proper done over you be, by the look of you. Where are your folks?"

  "I don't know." He swayed where he stood, and the looker took him by the elbow.

  "Hold up, now, sir, you be unaccountable flue on your legs. If so you're not too proud to lie hard, I can give you a place to rest."

  "Anywhere," Philip said, and resigned himself to walking again. It was not far, however, and soon he was at the door of a cottage, small and low but sturdy. Bess the sheepdog pushed past him in the doorway, her claws clattering on stone.

  "No bed," the looker said, "but there be sheepskins and a blanket. Lie down."

  He lay down, and had to shift when Bess lay down beside him. He had always liked dogs. Philip curled up with his back against her warmth, and fell into dreamless sleep.

  When he woke in the morning he was alone; the door of the hut open. He could see through it nothing but grey, and rain falling. He should have been anxious about the others, waiting for him back at Oakhanger farm; but nothing seemed to matter very much. Presently, the looker returned with bread and cheese, and with Bess, who shook herself, more rain flying from her coat. They shared the food and drank sheep's milk, and then Philip slept again.

  In the evening, he woke, and listened to the old man's slow lilting tales of how the downs had been before ever the sheep came to them. In the silence afterwards, the looker asked, "What be your name, sir?"

  After a long pause he answered, "Philip." His face was towards the small fire, where charcoal glimmered and burned.

  "And I be Simon."

  "Simon." Philip rubbed the back of one hand across his eyes. "Thank you." He looked around. "I don't know why you're taking such care of me, but thank you."

  "And for why should I not?" The old man sat silent for a moment. "Be you Spanish, Philip?"

  "Italian. Half-Italian."

  "Ah." The old man sighed. "We had a son once, my wife and me. He fell at Cadiz fighting alongside Ralegh, and my wife she helped strangers for his sake. So do I now she's gone. But no Spaniard, see?"

  "I see," Philip said.

  "And where were you going, when we met, if I may make bold to ask? Down into sea is no place for man or beast."

  "I don't know," Philip said. "I was lost." He closed his eyes. "I think I've been lost for a long time."

  "Well, no matter. You be found, now."

  For the rest of the day, Philip ate, and slept, and otherwise did nothing. The next day was the same, and so were others, how many he did not know, when the looker went out into the rain to tend to his sheep.

  "I suppose Easter is past?" Philip asked, one morning.

  "Past this fortnight or more," Simon said.

  "Did you go to church?" Philip asked, ducking his head. The last time he had been in a church was not a pleasant memory.

  "Not so's other folk would say. The downs be good enough church for me; God's glory do shine out from the land more than from men's faces." Simon looked up at the hitch in Philip's breath. "You been in trouble, friend?"

  "I was betrayed," was all Philip could bring himself to say. "Don't call me friend; I've done you no good."

  "Nor no harm, seems to me. But you hain't the air of any vagabond I ever knew, and I've seen dunnamany of them in my time." Simon waited a while, and then said gently, "Time you was home, Philip."

  Philip hunched over his knees. "I'm afraid to go home. And - I don't know where it is."

  "Don't you fear. Tell me where you come from."

  He swallowed, and clenched his fists together, but in the end said, "South by Alfriston."

  Bess came over and licked his hands; Philip buried his fingers in her warm hair.

  "Ah," Simon said. "Then by my reckoning, 'twas Hanger Wood you fell from. I know it, and 'tis an ellynge place, has led travellers astray before now. They say there's a chapel there, that some folks see and some doesn't." He rose to his feet. "We can get there today, if so be you're willing to come."

  Bess's warmth stilled the shaking in Philip's fingers. "I'll come," he said.

  Simon smiled, slowly, tightening the mesh of wrinkles. "It's raining still, but maybe you'll not mind that."

  "No," Philip said, and before long they were walking through the spring rain and the unquenchable birdsong, over green-grey cropped grass, away from the sea. "Heel, Bess," the looker called, and she came not to his heel but to Philip's. Simon merely smiled. "She knows when a man needs company, does Bess."

  They walked for a few hours; the rain quietened into the interminable fog. Philip thought how much he had listened, over the lost days, and how little he had said.

  "I'm very grateful."

  "Aye." And there was silence.

  They reached the top of Hanger Wood, coming at it from a green slope like a wave that rose to the eastern side of the wood shore. Philip said, "Those stones. I crawled across them. I remember." They were not much more than two lines of grey stone. "The chapel?" he asked.

  "Seems so." There were two square spaces that might have been anything; all that could be said was that they were not there by chance. Behind them, a spring bubbled out of the rock and fell into a carved basin before spilling away down the hillside. Simon knelt down and bowed his head; after a moment, so did Philip, Bess warm at his side. There were no words, no bells, no music; even the birds had fallen silent.

  Philip never knew how long they stayed there, but when he was aware of the world again, the rain had stopped and the place was hung with sparks of light where the sun shone through beads of water. Down in the valley, the fog still lay thick. In front of him, on a fallen piece of stone, was carved a spray of roses that bore both bud and blossom. Philip traced the line of the flower with one finger-tip. "Oakhanger farm," he said.

  "Your folks?"

  "Yes, but - " He stopped, thought, and said again, "Yes."

  "I'll tell them," Simon said. "You stay here, now."

  Philip nodded. "I will."

  "Glad to hear it." Simon smiled at him. "You'll be home 'fore evening, I warrant. God with you, Philip. Come, Bess." And he strode uphill, away, out of sight.

  Chapter 31

  April 1604

  "A man might walk miles in the time that Philip has been gone," John Somner said to Nick. "And he might have gone in any direction; including - if you will forgive my saying it - into the depths of the sea."

  "Not Philip," Nick said, resisting the impulse to say 'my' Philip. "I know he has not been himself; I fear he has not been in his right mind. But for Julia's sake, I must try. It is so cruel for her to have had Philip come back again, and now to be faced with losing him once more."

  John looked at him kindly. "And also for you, who have been his friend, I think," he said. "Well - if you will, Nicholas, keep searching, then."

  Nick sighed. "I cannot understand why nobody has seen him."

  "Easy enough, if he walked away from the village. The downs are wide, and few live on the heights of them." John patted his shoulder. "It's early in the day; go now, and you'll get a good day's searching done. Borrow one of the ponies, by all means."

  "Thank you, sir," Nick said. "I'll fetch my boots, in that case." And then he craned to see out of the window. "There's someone coming along by the wall. Look."

  John opened the door. "Why, it's old Simon Holter from Birling Gap way," he said. "Go you and see what he wants, Nicholas."

  Where Philip knelt, the ground was damp; it was soaking through his clothes, but he stayed where he was. A glint of light blinked across his face; sunlight t
hrough the leaves glancing off the water. He lifted his head, and found himself staring at a patch of colour. A butterfly clung to a spray of blossom, disturbed perhaps from its rest in a crevice of the stones, or warmed to hatching in the sunshine. Its wings, all four, bore the peacock's eye: blue-black against a red like drying blood.

  On a broken branch by the spray of blossom, there hung a cord, and from the cord hung a small brown cylinder that glinted with gold like letters, but not letters. Hand shaking, Philip reached for it. The cord swung in a sudden breeze; he caught it firmly and pulled. It gave way, and the twist of leather fell open on his hand.

  Inside it was nothing but a black dust, like the ash of feathers.

  Philip stared at it, his chest clenching into an ache as if a stone was forming where his heart should be. The sound of water filled his ears.

  The breeze strengthened, and the black dust blew to nothing. For a moment, his heart ached sharper, deeper. The butterfly closed itself, revealing underwings dark as the dust, then opened to the sun again and, like a leaf but rising instead of falling, flew away.

  Philip's hand shook. The curl of leather fell into the water and disappeared.

  Sandy. But now he felt nothing except, inexplicably, a slow lifting of the weight on his heart and the fog in his mind. He got up from his knees and reached out blindly. For a moment, he clutched only air, until warm fingers laced in his.

  "Nico," he said. "Take me home."

  "Take me home," he said.

  Nick held his hand tighter. "Philip. I'm so glad I've found you. I'm so glad you've come back to me."

  Philip turned his head to look at him, the dark hair sliding across his forehead, almost falling in his eyes as ever. "I - I'm glad to be … on my way back." The dark eyes, lids creased with weariness, still smiling.

  Nick's throat ached with fear of getting this wrong; with the months of not speaking his own desires. "My love. Philip."

  His hand jumped in Nick's, the narrow fingers tense as lute-strings. His mouth was taut, maybe with surprise, but at least not with disgust. Nick turned towards him and took his free hand, wet as it was with cold spring-water. "Philip. I love you. Don't tell me not to."

  "I can't," he said in a voice half between a murmur and a whisper. "But I am afraid."

  "So am I. Afraid you will leave me." Nick kissed him, a brief touch of lips on lips.

  Philip's eyes were a little dazed, the way they had been the night when he had found his way to the farm. Without speaking, he let go of Nick's hands, turned away and began walking through the wood. Nick followed him.

  Outside the garden wall of the farm, Philip stopped. "Can we sit down?" he asked. "Here?"

  "Of course." Nick let his cloak fall from his shoulders and spread it out. They sat down side by side; Nick would have taken Philip's hand, but he snatched it away. Nick let his own hand fall. "Sorry."

  "It wasn't anything that you did." Philip was staring at a black smudge on his palm.

  "You should have washed that off in the spring," Nick told him. "Here - let me." He wrenched up a fistful of grass and scrubbed at the mark; soon it was gone. For a moment Philip sat still; then sighed, and folded his hands in his lap.

  They stayed there until the sun had gone round, and their shadows on the grass were overtaken by the shadow of the wall. "Come inside, Philip," Nick said. "Julia is so worried for you."

  "No, I - " he said, and then, "Yes, I will, but - what shall I do?"

  "We know what you will do," Nick said. "Live here and be happy. Help on the farm, along with me, and teach the children. Whatever your danger is, it cannot last for long. Even enemies die, in the end. And then we will go back to London, you and I, and be players again, or sharers in a playhouse, and dine with our friends, with Thomas Downton and his man - you remember Thomas? Whatever you want I will try to help you get, Philip, believe me, because I shall be content so long as you are."

  "Nico," he said, "are you sure?"

  "I am as sure as I have ever been of anything," Nick said. "I want us to be together."

  Philip said, "I wish you didn't. How can it end well? I loved Kit, I wanted him, and he was killed. Gabriel too. And then - Sandy. God, I wanted Sandy. I loved him so much that I was blind and unthinking. I wanted him to love me, for us to be together to the end of the world and beyond." He swallowed painfully. "I was a fool. He never loved me."

  "No," Nick said. "Nor did Gabriel."

  "I know that. We both knew that; but it didn't save him."

  "And Kit Marlowe?" Nick asked. "Did he ever say he loved you?"

  Philip winced. "No. I can't remember that he did." He was silent for a while. "Kit said to me, the first time he - " His voice cracked. "The first time that he sodomised me, 'Promise me you'll never let anyone else do this.' But - "

  "But?" Nick asked him, gently.

  "I never promised. Although I knew that he wanted me to."

  Nick stroked his hand. "Then?"

  "One day … if you ask - " He hunched up where he sat. Nick did nothing, only waited; and then, at long last, Philip leaned against him of his own accord. "I won't say no," he said. "If you ask again."

  "When," Nick said.

  April-May 1604

  Taking Philip home from there was no more than stepping through the door in the wall; and if John didn't exactly kill the fatted calf, there was an air of rejoicing all through the house. Julia never asked Philip what had been wrong, simply accepted that it was as near righted as it could be, now, and showed her delight by cooking his favourite dishes for a week.

  Nick was afraid of pushing Philip too hard. However much he wanted to be with him every minute of the day, he slept in the kitchen; not in the bedroom, nor even on another bed in the same room. Philip greeted him with a light kiss every morning, and bade him good night with the same, and now and then laid a hand on his shoulder; but anyone might have done that.

  And then, it was the last day of April, and Julia said, "Will you come to the May Fair at Lewes? John always takes us, to stay with his parents, while Peter and Hepzibah stay here."

  Philip said, "May not Peter and Hepzibah go to the fair as well? I can keep house."

  "You?" Julia said, laughing a little. "I should like to see you, fratello."

  "With me to help him, of course," Nick said, and Philip looked at him.

  "Yes, with Nick," he said.

  "Nick, are you - "

  "Quite sure," Nick told her. "I know what I want to do on May Day, mistress Julia, and how the house needs keeping, so take everyone with you. We won't burn the house down."

  "I should hope not," John said, coming in at that moment. "We owe Peter something for his good service, Julia my love; let him come with us, and bring Hepzibah and Lucie."

  Come May morning, the house was decked with May blossom outside every door and window. Hepzibah had come in from the milking after setting the cream to rise, and once she was ready the rest of the household had set out for Lewes. In the quiet that followed, Nick cleaned the stables and saw to the horses, while Philip fed the hens and gathered the eggs. They lunched off bread and cheese outside the back door, in the sunshine, and Philip scattered crumbs for the birds; Nick remembered how he had stood, hands full of sparrows, in a London street.

  It took him a while to screw up his courage, for the sunshine and Philip's company and the birdsong were so peaceful. Then he said, "Philip."

  "Yes?"

  "You remember you said, that if I asked again … you might say yes?"

  "I remember." Philip's voice was soft, almost beyond hearing.

  "I'm asking now."

  "Asking me," Philip said, musing. "I have nothing to offer you, Nico. No beauty, no fame, and precious little wealth; though some silver. Not even youth, the way time is flying."

  "That's what you think. Oh, Philip, love. Take a better view of yourself." Nick smiled. To him, there was nothing like Philip for beauty, nothing and nobody; never had been. Even Alexander Gray, whom Philip had thought so beautiful, seemed
milk and water beside the strong dark lines of Philip's face and the firm, lithe body that Nick had seen naked so rarely; that he wanted to see naked now.

  Philip, perhaps without realising, raised his left hand to hide the scar on his face.

  Nick pulled him to his feet. "You wouldn't, under the kissing-bough at Christmas. Will you kiss me under the May?"

  Philip nodded, and they went to stand in the doorway together. Nick leaned forward. Philip's mouth opened, and his lips, soft as his hair, touched Nick's. Nick laid his right hand palm to palm with Philip's left, and kissed the scar long and slow, tongue flicking into the lines and curves of it; then kissed him on the lips again. This time, Philip made a small sound of relief and - yes, joy, and wonder, and all at once his hands were on Nick, those strong narrow hands that Nick thought might play him as if his bones were music.

  "Upstairs," he said, breathlessly. Philip nodded; spoke not a word, but turned, one hand on Nick's wrist, almost pulling him up the stairs and into his bedchamber. It was dim: the window hasp bound with cobwebs, dust on the window-sill. Nick wrenched at the hasp and pushed both casements open, letting in the sunlight. There was fumbling with buttons, laces, points; the spring air was warm on their bodies. Soon both were naked. Philip sat down on the edge of the bed as if his knees had dissolved under him, staring. "Nico … ?"

  "Yes," Nick said, and then, "Yes?"

  He nodded. "You. Me. Now."

  They climbed onto the bed together, and Nick took Philip in his arms.

  This was not Philip as he was when Nick held him before, muscles braced and rigid with fear or misery; this was Philip as he always should have been. Laughing, thank God, and gentle, his touch soft … "Oh," Nick said, "Philip … my love. Oh God, I love you … "

  "Mm," Philip answered, pulling Nick down on top of him. "I'm not God, you know." His thighs were clenched against Nick's body, flesh against flesh.

  "I don't care," Nick told him. "If you were, I might let you rest one day in seven."