"You still want me to go to the Swan?" Philip asked master Henslowe, early afternoon on the Tuesday. "I have the play, more or less."
"Make it more," Henslowe grumbled, rummaging in his chest of papers. "It's poor stuff in some ways, but there are good conceits in it. I wish a better poet had taken it on. Kit Marlowe, now; he could have done wonders with it."
Philip ducked his head a little, as he often did when Kit's name was mentioned: but he said, calmly enough, half-smiling, "Not Will?"
"And lose it to the Lord Chamberlain's Men? I thank you, no." Henslowe snorted. "You might go over it for me, Philip. You have an ear for what will please."
"Perhaps so, sir, but only once the word is written. I couldn't write it to save my life." He rolled a corner of the paper between his fingers. "You might ask Tom Nashe, perhaps?"
Henslowe snorted. "He's busy with something for Langley. Anyone else?"
"Dekker?"
Another snort. "Your drinking-partner? Oh well, if you must. But as I said, make it more: go to the Swan, if you will. I shall be grateful." Henslowe pulled out a book, spread it on his desk, and opened his ink-well. "Thank you, Philip."
Philip nodded, and hitched his satchel up on his shoulder. It held both rolls of paper, and in his purse was enough money to buy food and drink for two if need be. After all, he owed some apology to the boy, whoever he was - and wherever he came from. His voice had a southern accent, or maybe west country, and certainly he was a stranger; surely that cap of fair hair and the level, dark brows would be noticed, even in a crowd?
"Sir," he said, "there was a boy in the Swan, copying. He may have been to the Rose, perhaps?"
"I hope not! Describe him." But when Henslowe had heard the description, he shrugged. "How many boys look like that? A hundred or more. For all that, I'll ask the men to keep watch. Did you speak to him?"
"A little. He has a good voice and writes a good hand, too."
Henslowe looked up from trimming his pen. "So, a school boy, and at the play. One of Paul's, maybe, and if that's so he'll be pining for a little freedom." The faded grey eyes creased into lines of amusement. "We need another boy."
"You have two apprenticed to you already, sir," Philip pointed out. "Who would take on this one?"
"Cross that bridge when we come to it," Henslowe said. "Be off with you, Philip, and catch both your play and your boy if you can. I'll see you later."
Talking with Henslowe had taken more time than he had intended; the shadow of the gable was pointing along the street already as Philip set out with a long, swinging stride, weaving round people and beasts, and turning aside from piles of refuse that had not yet been cleared. The breeze was hot in the chasm between the tall houses, the air dusty with the smell of wood and plaster and things fouler, relieved sometimes by a draught of fresher air, or a scent of herbs. The Swan's gable, bare of flag or banner, came into view above the crowding rooftops, and Philip slowed his pace, looking not only for the boy but for Gabriel and Michael too.
Gabriel Spencer saw him first; indeed, startled him from his place in the gallery by whispering, all unexpected, in his ear. "Glutton for punishment, Philip?"
Philip clutched at the rail, every muscle in his back and arms taut. Gabriel, you - bastard. With a deep breath he loosed his grip and turned his head, smiling. "Come to hear the play, Spence. A man may do that now and then, I hope?"
"You've heard it before, and it's not a good play. That's what I meant." Gabriel propped his elbows on the rail like a farm boy leaning on a gate. "It's dark here, in the angle of the stairs. You've not come here to be seen, and you won't see much with this post in front of you."
"I came to hear. I'll see enough," he answered, warily.
"Come, tell truth. You're copying it, aren't you?"
"Well - yes." Philip waited, his heart thumping. There was no movement beside him, no demand, no nothing. "You're not throwing me out, then?"
Gabriel laughed. "I have this minute climbed all the way to the top and back to hoist the flag. I haven't the strength. And you've paid your pennies. Besides - Langley deserves anything you can take off him." He kicked the baluster with a vehemence that made it creak. "I'd leave, if it wouldn't break my contract."
"Mm." After a moment, Philip said, "Leave him anyway. Henslowe would pay your fine, or I will. We need another boy, in truth, but you know your way around the stage."
"Henslowe?" Gabriel spat. "He'd sell his own grandmother at whatever price she fetched - and then buy her back for less."
"He and Agnes have been kind to me," Philip said.
"Oh." Gabriel held on to the rail, and swung from side to side, slowly. "In that case, I apologise." And then, "You'd really pay my fees?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
Do I dare tell him? Philip stared into the swirling crowd with its constant movement of hands and feet and heads, the exchange of money and beer and signals and maybe more. "Something Michael Drayton told me once." It was dark in that corner; there was barely room for one, let alone two, and the noise rising from the yard ensured that his voice would not be heard except by someone nearby.
Gabriel stopped short. "About - what?"
"You. And him. And - a cup of wine."
"Oh, indeed." There was still no movement from beside him; and then Gabriel said, "He had no business to be telling you that."
"I thought not, at the time." Philip turned, very close to Gabriel, facing him, and set his hands on the other's shoulders. "But that is why I'd pay your fees. Or lend you the money, if you'd rather not be beholden."
Gabriel shrugged himself out of the light grip. "I'll remember, but this isn't the time." He pointed, cautiously, wrist against his doublet. "You said you were needing another boy? I bet that's one of Giles' pupils, along there."
Philip craned forward, but this boy was not fair; instead, he was dark and smaller than the other, perhaps younger. "The day you last saw me," he said. "There was another boy. Fair-haired." He remembered something. "He told me his ankle was broken, and that was why he was sitting down."
"Oh, I remember him. Someone came for him when we were on the point of locking up." Gabriel cocked an eyebrow at Philip. "I remember him indeed, because I could have sworn he was copying Anthony's play as well, but he had nothing on him. You two weren't far apart, were you?"
"Not far," Philip agreed blandly.
"Well?" Above them, the stairs quivered as someone headed for the roof; there would be a descent from the heavens soon. "Well?" Gabriel said again.
Philip said nothing.
Gabriel shrugged. "I'll leave you to it, then. But - did you mean it, about wanting me to join you at Henslowe's?"
"Yes," Philip said. "Yes, I did, as it happens."
"Prove it," Gabriel retorted, watching him with an alert, bright gaze that was a challenge in itself.
Any moment now the play would start. The house was nearly full, but in that dark corner - Philip stepped closer still, cupped one hand round the back of Gabriel's head and pulled him forward into a kiss, long and deep and as seductive as he knew how. He broke away when the trumpet sounded, and smiled into Gabriel's face. "Proof?"
"Proof," the other whispered.
"I'm not talking of love, you realise."
Gabriel didn't step back; he too was smiling. "Lust will suit me very well indeed, believe me."
"Henslowe's, then?" He was listening with half an ear to the first scene, alert for words and movement.
"I'll let you know." Gabriel, still pressed close to him, made a suggestive movement of his hips, followed it by putting his hand firmly between Philip's thighs, and turned away, laughing. You … Half-laughing himself, Philip took his mind firmly off the sudden aching heat in his loins, and applied it to what was passing on the stage.
Martin said, not so much to Nick as to the class in general, "If one more of you slaps me on the back, I'll have my knife out. That's all." They were at their desks, translating, but taking advantage of master Giles' temporary absence to talk in English instead of Latin. Martin winced every time he moved his shoulders, much as Nick had done a few days back.
"What line are you on, Nick?" he asked.
"Bottom of the page," Nick answered. "Senex, his last entrance."
"Oh." Martin paused. "I don't know who is the patron saint of scholars, but he certainly takes care of you. My mother says mine should be St Jude, I'm such a lost cause."
"You're no lost cause," Nick said. "And - at least you have a mother and a father."
"Oh - I know." For a few minutes Martin wrote on. "Your uncle treats you well, though, doesn't he?"
"Oh yes, he's good to me. When he sees me. I don't even think he helps himself to my inheritance apart from paying the fees here. But he has his own family to look after."
Martin grunted. "Giles here says he's in loco parentis. Suppose that's why he beat me today."
"But what for?" Nick asked.
"Because of the playhouse," Martin said. "I may as well tell you. Wish I'd never gone near the place for you."
Nick scratched away with his pen, but Martin said nothing. They had not seen each other all yesterday, not till after curfew when Martin had climbed straight past Nick on the stairs to the dormitory, got into bed and turned his back on him without a word.
Nick said, "I am sorry. If there's anything - "
"It's too late now! I've had the beating, haven't I?" Martin sighed. "Keep on helping me with my lessons. That would be something."
"I do mean it. I am sorry." Nick dipped his pen in the ink-well.
"I know. That won't stop you asking me to help you another time, will it? And what's more," Martin added ruefully, "it won't stop me saying yes, either. Fool that I am."
The door banged. Giles came in, and with the cat back in the room, the mice had to stop playing; they set themselves to work for the rest of the afternoon. Only when everyone else was rushing downstairs did Martin say, "I have your copy."
"Wh- " Nick, hobbling down with particular care, turned to look at him, almost lost his balance, and said, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Ask my shoulders," Martin said, and then, "I'll tell you outside. Let me carry your books."
Nick handed them over, scrambled down the rest of the stairs as fast as he could for not being able to put one foot to the ground, and sat on the nearest low wall. "I did hear you? You do have my copy?"
"I do." Martin sat next to him with a thump. "I went to the play, and you said you had the first three scenes, so I did nothing. I got the next scene, and then a man sat down beside me and said he'd throw me over the gallery if I didn't stop writing."
"So you moved to another place," Nick said.
"Of course I didn't." Martin swung his feet, scuffing the dust.
"Oh Martin."
"Don't 'Martin' me. He was frightening. Quite pleasant, smiling, but he frightened me all the same. Philip said afterwards that he's a player, his name's Gabriel Spencer. I think he was in that Italian play we saw over at Shoreditch last year."
"Philip? You spoke to Philip?"
Martin was telling his story at his own speed. "Well, when Spencer said what he did I was ready to run, but he did make me angry too, threatening me like that, so I said I wouldn't have been there if it hadn't been for someone called Philip Standage."
"And?"
"And he laughed," Martin said. "Then he asked if I had an older brother with fair hair and a broken ankle, and I said not exactly." He wriggled his shoulders. "Ouch."
"But, Standage?"
Martin glared at him. "Don't be so impatient. It's your fault, this. I might just shut my mouth and not tell you any more."
At that very moment, the calling bell began to ring. Martin leapt to his feet, said, "Holy Mother of God, five minutes to go and I have ink on my sleeves still," and rushed off.
Nick was excused singing because of the crutch and the difficulty of processing in order, but he was still supposed to attend evensong. He hobbled into the cathedral by the nearest door.
It was noisier than usual. Some great lady's lapdog had escaped into the nave and, being an Italian greyhound, it was a lot fleeter of foot than most of the virgers; to see them chasing after it was almost as good as a play. Nick reached the quire, sat with his back to the screen, and tried to listen. He couldn't concentrate on either music or salvation; he was too busy thinking about Martin's story.
After the service came supper, and there was no chance to talk to Martin, who must have done well in the service because he was dining nearer the head of the table than usual. They didn't meet again until bedtime.
"Finish the story, then," Nick said. "The last you told me, Gabriel Spencer was laughing at you. Or was he asking questions?"
"Questions," Martin said. "He went off after that, but only for a few minutes. There wasn't time to take the paper out again, and when he came back, he stood close behind me. I wouldn't have tried writing anything for any money."
Nick didn't say 'Oh Martin' again, although he came close enough, and Martin, to judge by the look on his face, knew it. "What would you have done?" he demanded. "I could feel his breath on the back of my neck as near as anything."
"You do have my papers?"
"How many times have I told you now? Yes. But I don't see why I should make it easy for you." He smiled, and punched Nick's arm. "Serve you right."
"Well - maybe it does," Nick admitted, and grinned back. "Sorry."
"Here you are." Martin handed over the familiar roll of paper. "I had them under my gown all the time. Take them now before I forget."
"Thank you." Nick remembered, in time, not to thump him across the shoulders. "So how did you do it?"
"I enjoyed the play as best I could with Spencer looming over me," Martin said, "and then when I tried to leave at the end, he said, 'No, you stay there for the moment.' So I did."
"Proper little Martin mouse you are."
He ducked his head, blushing. "Stop teasing me, Nick. Life's easy for someone tough like you. Anyway - I reckon, that short time Spencer left me alone, he must have gone to find Standage, because the next thing I know is that someone sits down and says, 'I'm Philip Standage. I gather you're looking for me.' And he handed over your papers straight off, and apologised for not coming back the first afternoon. So that's that," Martin said flatly, "and don't forget what I went through for you."
"I won't," Nick said. "And I am grateful, Martin. Thankee."
He smiled, and shrugged. "My fault for letting you persuade me."
"What about Standage?" Nick asked. "What is he? Where does he come from?"
"Philip? He's one of the Admiral's Men," Martin said. "He lodges with master Henslowe at Bankside."
"Oh," Nick said. "Oh."
Martin looked at him. "That sounds as if you're planning something."
"I do believe I am." Nick flexed his ankle. "Ouch. Not till this is better, though."
"That will be another month, didn't they say? Well - do me a favour and leave me out of it." Martin pulled the bed-covers carefully over his shoulders, and rolled on one side.
"Don't worry," Nick said. "I will."
"Charming boy," Gabriel said.
Philip looked at him. "Far too young for me. You, on the other hand - "
"Eighteen," Gabriel said. "So there."
"I had thought you older." Philip looked round. The Swan was almost deserted.
"Oh, as to that - ancient in vice," Gabriel said, winked, and put his hands on his hips. "Come and see me on stage in August."
Philip walked past him to the stairs, turning back with a smile. "Come down with me now, and I'll think about it."
Gabriel chuckled. "How far down, and before or after?" But, as Philip had both guessed and hoped, he came downstairs behind him. They wandered into the afternoon sunlight, and round into a piece of waste ground where a house had been pulled down. There was a pile of planks stacked against a wall. Philip sat on it, dug in his satchel for the pasty he had meant to share with Nick, and broke it in half. "Here you are - I can't eat it all."
"The pasty of the transubstantiation of beef - into something purporting to be venison," Gabriel said, sitting beside him, and twiddled his fingers over the handful of meat and pastry. "Tibi gratias."
"Don't, Gabriel."
Gabriel looked at him. "Why? You're not papist, are you?"
"I own the authority of the Church of Rome. So I promised my mother I would always say," Philip said, feeling the words come stiffly from his mouth.
"But do you really?" Gabriel bit the end off the pasty.
"Does it matter? I'm only a player. Who cares what I think?" Philip shrugged. "Eat it and enjoy it, that's all." He began to eat his own half, brushing the crumbs from his clothes into the dust.
"I will. Thank you."
"So what's the play?"
"Tom Nashe's latest. Isle of Dogs, it's called," Gabriel said through a mouthful of crumbs.
"Comedy?"
Gabriel swallowed. "To the utmost, believe me. I play a courtier who dresses as a woman in order to seduce the Lord Chamberlain."
Philip whistled long and low. "That I would like to see, but I hope it doesn't reach Burleigh's ear, or Cecil's."
"What of that? The old man needs shaking up, and his son will come to no harm by it." Gabriel's face was unconcerned, his hair lifting in the summer breeze, his eyes bright.
"Cecil owes a lot to his father," Philip said, "and before you laugh, I don't mean money. He won't stand by and see him mocked."
"Ah, with luck he'll never know. It's a poor man who can't take a joke." Gabriel twisted on the stack of planks, and stroked Philip's face. "Come see us, friend."
"Since when was I your friend?"
"When you offered to pay off Langley," Gabriel said, low-voiced, looking round as if someone might overhear him. "I've had to make my way alone so long, and it hasn't been easy. To have someone make such an offer as lightly as you did, it never happened before."
"Nor ever will again, I dare say," Philip answered. "And I won't say I'm not hoping for something from you, whether in return or not."
"I know that." Gabriel finished the pasty and stood up; then he looked over his shoulders again, all round where they were sitting. The streets were full and noisy, but this patch of land was deserted. "Until August, then." He leaned forward, snatched a quick kiss and walked away, swaggering.