There was a long pause. Philip waited for some word of disappointment, but all Nick said was: "Oh," before drawing breath to blow dust off a battered peacock-feather fan. "What play tonight, master Massey?"
Charles sneezed, and said, "We can do The Two Wits, in which case we won't need swords; or The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth. I have playbills for both, here, but someone will have to write in the name of the inn."
"Victories, please!" Nick said. "I risked my neck, after all, taking down that scene for Kate and Alice from Will Shakespeare's play. And I don't even know whether master Henslowe added it."
"He did." Philip, looking at him, had the urge to tease. "Anything, hey, so long as you can counterfeit the princess?"
Nick glared, and then laughed, while Charles said, "We should keep the innkeeper sweet. I'll ask him what he wants." He returned presently, mopping his nose with a kerchief. "Famous Victories it is. Are you willing to play Hal, Philip? Because I have a cold coming in my head."
"God's tongue help me, for I've only learned the Herald's lines," Philip said. "Give Will Bird the Herald, and we'll see how I do."
Charles slapped him on the back. "You'll do it, or else. And you'll have to woo your own apprentice, too."
"Thank you, Charles. I am aware." Philip turned round; Nick winked at him.
Damn. I hope the boy isn't planning anything more than usual foolish.
Maybe Nick was, maybe he wasn't; certainly his playing during the rehearsal could only be described as dull, and when they were first on stage he was nothing out of the ordinary. Then Philip said, "'But tell me sweet Kate, canst thou tell how to love?'"
Nick curtsied, and replied, "'I cannot hate, my good Lord, Therefore far unfit were it for me to love.'"
And something changed.
Philip drew a short, quiet breath. "'But I'll deal as easily with thee As thy heart can imagine or tongue can require. How sayest thou, what will it be?'"
"'If I were of my own direction, I could give you answer'," Nick said, his gaze downcast. How does someone so fair have such dark lashes? Philip, helpless to do anything except continue with his lines, knew that the wooing had taken on an added intensity; nothing that could be pinned down, nothing that could be named, but something. What in the world or out of it is happening? I wish I knew …
Nick hadn't meant it to be like that; hadn't meant to think of Nicholas Skeres in the previous scene, any more than he had expected to look at Philip in royal robes, smiling at him, and think, 'I wish it had been you who kissed me, Phip.'
Philip was acting, of course he was acting, but how easy it was for Nick to see what he wanted to see, as the princess might have done. Perhaps the same was true for the audience, for when Nick at last put his hand in Philip's and smiled, a ripple of satisfaction hummed across the yard. When they drew apart from their stage kiss, Nick, heart thumping and head dizzy, could not look Philip in the eyes.
At the end of the play, Nick hardly noticed the applause and during the concluding dance - for once a galliard, not a jig, with Philip partnering him - he swayed once as he turned and Philip's grip tightened on his fingers.
"Best takings we've had all week," Charles said with some satisfaction, a little later. "Well done, you two."
"Not me; him," Philip and Nick said in unison, looked at each other, and laughed. The company dined together that evening, and slept in the largest room the innkeeper could spare.
That is, most of them slept. Nick lay awake all night.
Finally, finally, his body knew what it wanted. Philip. But it wasn't likely to get him; not given who Nick was, what he was, the age he was; and the two of them sleeping in a crowded room besides. Nick gritted his teeth, read himself a few lessons from the memory of other scoldings, and rolled over, wishing that he had asked more questions of Gabriel all those months ago.
They stopped for the Christmas season at Wilton; afterwards Nick recalled little but massive splendour, rooms larger than he had ever seen before, playing his part in one play after another. And Philip.
So, the year of Our Lord 1599 ended; the year 1600 began. Nick was sixteen now, back in London, playing in the Rose, living at Henslowe's; sleeping in the attic not far from Philip, with memories of Philip and Gabriel slipping through his dreams of nights.
Over in St Giles Cripplegate, on land beside Alleyn's house, the new theatre was marked out, but there was neither permission to build nor to play. In April, Henslowe, raging and clutching at straws, sent Philip, with Nick as his apprentice in tow, to Cecil House in the Strand, to ask Sir Robert Cecil for his patronage; but still no word from the Mayor. Alleyn worked harder than any ploughman ever did in the field to gain the nod of Charles Howard, the Lord High Admiral himself whose men they were. From this resulted a new livery, a white lion with a blue shoulder-crescent, but nothing else. In May, Henslowe made a long ride to Windsor and back that he said emptied both his purse and his mind of anything useful.
Then, something happened; there were rumours of a request - which is to say an order - from the Queen herself. Whatever it was, Alleyn agreed to come out of retirement, and within a few months the new theatre out-topped the Globe. By September, Philip and Nick were Admiral's Men at the Fortune theatre. They kept their lodgings at Henslowe's and crossed the city twice daily, eastward and westward ho on the river boats according to the time and tide. The river crossing ate into Philip's share, but it was quicker than crossing by the bridge, and besides, they heard all the news from the watermen.
Whether they wanted to or not, they could scarcely avoid hearing of the trouble that the earl of Essex was brewing in the city since his return from Ireland. In Nick's days at Paul's, seeming so far away now, he had heard nothing but the faintest of rumours of Essex's pride, his angling for the Queen's favour, his successes - and failures - as a general; so he asked Philip to tell him more.
Philip shook his head. "Don't seek to know, Nick. Keep your head down. When there's trouble, we poor players are the first target, and we mustn't step out of line."
"The earl of Essex is stepping out of line all he can," Nick said.
"I know that well enough; and I'm keeping quiet," Philip said. "You do the same."
And another year ended; and another year began.
Candlemas was marked by a violent storm; but four days later came a crisp morning bleached by frost and sunshine, good enough for a rehearsal and a play in the afternoon. Philip, chiefly by thinking of his purse, had trained himself to rise an hour earlier so that he could walk to the Fortune. He and Nick always walked together; with the city as restless as it had been these past weeks they felt safer so. For once the streets were clear and they made good speed. Then, as they neared Golding lane, Nick drew a little closer. "Sir - master Standage. Is that not - ? See, there. Waiting at the corner."
"Nicholas Skeres," Philip said. "Yes. Say nothing, Nick. We'll pass him by."
But, as they drew up with the man, he stepped forward and bowed. His face was paler than when they had last seen him, the rubicund cheeks mottled and a little hollow. "Master Standage," he said. "I have word for you from the earl of Essex."
The surprise was enough to bring Philip to a halt. "What word can such as he have, to such as I?"
"Oh - a mere request. A small one, which may bring you good fortune. Indeed, he offers gold if you will take a certain matter on you."
Philip looked at him for a very long moment. "And for yourself?"
"I have been Essex's servant this long time, in the Low Countries and in other places. He pays me well. I earn nothing from this but a messenger's fee." His eyes, unwavering, were on Philip's face; he paid no attention to Nick whatsoever.
"What is this request?" Philip found himself saying.
"A play," Skeres said. "That the Admiral's Men put a certain play on their bill, and play it, two days from now."
"The play being?"
"The Life and Death of Richard the Second."
For a moment, Philip did not move. Then he said, "It is one of Will Shakespeare's. You had better ask at the Globe. We do not have it in our stock."
"Are you sure?" Skeres' smile was back, quicker and more hesitant. "It seems to me that you have a good likeness to the king. You would be a fine player of that part."
Philip smiled. "I take it you have not seen the image of him in the abbey at Westminster. There is not the least resemblance."
"Surely - " Skeres went on, and then, "The Earl promises much silver."
"I rather think," Philip said, "that you ask me because, if I resemble anyone in this sorry broil, I resemble my lord Essex. And I had rather not carry the resemblance too far. No. Go ask them at the Globe. Master Shakespeare is of good merchant stock and Essex is his patron, besides. He will appreciate the offer of much silver, I am sure."
Skeres shrugged, flung his arms wide as if in wonder or desperation, and said, "Well - if you will have it so - I had hoped to make amends." Then he walked away.
"Do you really think he wished to make amends?" Nick asked.
"Who can tell?" Philip's mouth twisted. "Everything is held to account for master Skeres, and it is a fine balance."
"The scales will tip against him, some time or another," Nick said.
"Yes," Philip said. "Yes … " and fell silent. All through the afternoon's play, he spoke his words as if some power beyond himself put them into his mouth, for he made no conscious effort to remember them, and instead was thinking, over and over, of tipping the scales and tripping up Skeres, of kings and death and dethronement and the white, gentlemanly hands of Will Shakespeare as they held open a book on the pages of which were written the words that Kit Marlowe in a dream had carved into Philip's skin.
Philip entered Cecil House through the scullery door, as he had done now and again in the summer months since Cecil had made him free of the kitchens, should he be in need of a drink. They knew him there, and let him sit at a corner of the great wooden board while they looked for the scrap of parchment that he asked for. When it came, on its surface danced a ghost of music. Once upon a time it had been a missal, but now it was scraped down and used to line pie-dishes. Praying for the soul of the monk or nun who had once written it or sung from it, Philip wrote to Cecil, begging a few minutes of his time, telling him why. Then he rolled it tight, tied it with a stray thread, and handed it to a serving-boy, who returned in a while with the message that he was to go upstairs.
"Philip," Cecil said pleasantly, in answer to his knock. "Come in. So you - you of all people - have 'news of a certain kind' for me."
"There is a man called Nicholas Skeres," Philip said.
"I know him. Be brief and to the point, I pray you."
"He is the earl of Essex's man."
"I know that also. Have you more?"
"Before the play at the Fortune this afternoon, Skeres came to me and offered - much silver, on the earl of Essex's behalf - if I would arrange for the Admiral's Men to enact The Life and Death of Richard the Second."
"Ah," Cecil said. "Aha. Thirty pieces of silver, no doubt."
"He did not say."
"Indeed. And what did you say?"
"I said no. I fobbed him off on the Lord Chamberlain's Company. Because - "
"You need not explain. I know Essex and his patronages." Cecil folded his hands in front of him on the desk. "Excellent, Philip. You have given me the rope I needed to hang Essex - or the whetstone to sharpen the axe, shall we say? He has been rash, and foolish, and above all he has insulted her Majesty; but none of these constitutes treason. Discussing the … deposition … of a reigning monarch, at such a time; that most certainly does."
Neither of them said aloud, 'In the play, the king dies.' Because that a king might be dethroned, and killed; that was beyond imagining, except in times past.
"And - Skeres?" Philip said.
"What of Skeres? He has his uses, troublesome though he is."
"I want him gone."
Cecil blinked, twice, slowly. "Indeed. A personal matter, perhaps."
"That is out of the reckoning."
A spark of interest gleamed in Cecil's eyes. "I had not thought you … well, no matter. I cannot guarantee to remove him. But if a man goes through Newgate, or some such, he may need no man's hand to help him into another place." Cecil nodded. "I thank you for your good service, Philip. I suppose you want payment."
"I … that is as suits yourself, sir."
Cecil laughed. "A twinge of conscience? Do not let yourself be troubled; the account will be balanced, I assure you. Although you may have to wait."
Shakespeare, like the merchant that Philip had called him, took Essex's money and put on The Life and Death of Richard the Second.
Essex had gambled; and he lost. He was beheaded on the twenty-fifth of February.
And still the account was not balanced. From Cecil, there came nothing.
Not until six weeks later, in early April, when there was a message, and Philip set out, uneasily, for the house in the Strand.
Upstairs, in the same room as ever, Cecil wrote on, calmly and steadily as if nobody waited there before him.
"It was enough to sharpen the axe, then," Philip said, when the scratching pen fell silent.
"Yes. Essex is gone, and we may breathe again," Cecil said, shaking sand on the wet ink. "I had thought master Shakespeare more careful of his skin; or at least to set it at higher worth. Forty shillings to play treason, and put his life and his company's life at risk? A small profit for a great loss."
"You have not - ?" Philip asked, the blood shaking in his veins as he spoke.
"Master Shakespeare is as hale as he ever was. Though recovering, no doubt, from a great fear. He may count himself lucky that her Majesty cherishes his work." Cecil tapped the paper on the desk to shake the sand from it. "Your Skeres is in Newgate, having been among the conspirators. There were more kings than Richard in the story, you see."
"I am not sure I understand."
"Perhaps I should have said 'there are'. There is one, at any rate; James of Scotland." Cecil folded the paper and ran one thumbnail along the crease to flatten it. "Essex was in dealings to secure the succession for him, and that was treason."
"But," Philip asked, "why are you telling me this?"
"Because," Cecil said, "I must take over where Essex failed. The succession must pass smoothly from one to the other. Which is treason for me to say, but also truth. And I tell you this, Philip Standage, because you are going to help me."
Philip stepped back, shaking his head. He knew that protest was useless, so he said only, "I am not the man you want, sir. Indeed I am not."
"Oh, but you are." Cecil's green eyes, calm as cold sea-water, watched him. "Who can move up and down the country undetected but a player? Who is so welcome to all that he will be invited to house and hall and castle - and palace? I choose you, Philip, and you will go."
"Supposing I refuse?"
Cecil leafed among the papers on his desk and pulled out one small, battered sheet. "This does not look much, does it?" he said. "It was written by Nicholas Skeres. Not exactly turning King's evidence, but maybe attempting to keep himself at liberty." He held it out to Philip. "He lists the names of London papists known to him."
Something fluttered at the base of Philip's throat. He did not take the paper. "And?"
"I think you know."
The flutter in his throat became a tight band past which it was difficult to swallow. Philip said, "You have known for years that I profess the old religion."
"Yes," Cecil answered. "But that knowledge has been no use to me before now."
There was a long silence.
"I will not act on this," Cecil said, "if you will help me."
"May I have time to think about it?"
"No. You may not." Watching him closely, Cecil said, "All I ask is that you carry a letter to Edinburgh. A message to Edward Bruce, commendator of Kinloss, and to the earl of Mar. Once, maybe twice, maybe more. You will have good money for your expenses. I will pay you wages besides; you, but not the others. If they are not sharers, Henslowe must pay their wages in the usual way. And you will have a licence; you will be Cecil's Men, though there be never a trace of you in the records afterwards."
"Nothing but a letter?" Philip asked, dry-mouthed.
"That, and to watch the man I shall send to the King. I do not trust him."
"Who?"
"Sir Henry Howard."
"Essex's man!" Philip was startled out of the calm he had forced on himself.
"Not for the last three years, despite appearances," Cecil said. "He is papist too, although I do not suggest that you cultivate his acquaintance. More importantly, he was Essex's go-between to Scotland. Watch him for me. Will you go, Philip?"
Philip sighed. "You know I will. I can do no other. But do not expect me to lead Cecil's Men; that is all."
Cecil's smile was wintry cold. "I am glad you see sense. Let Henslowe appoint what leader he likes. I am expecting - visitors from Scotland, in May, so you need not travel until then."
"Thank you," Philip said warily.
Cecil nodded. "If it will sweeten the task for you, I have a gift." He opened a drawer this time, and took out a sheaf of manuscript. "I would say that this came with master Shakespeare's compliments, except that he does not know I am giving it to you. He was glad enough to copy it, in return for his liberty. Take it."
Philip took the papers and glanced at the heading. Twelfth Night, or What You Will.
"If it is good," Cecil said, "Cecil's Men have my permission to play it at Theobald's, when you come south again. And I will make sure that you will be welcome at Stamford, too."
"You have thought of everything," Philip said.
"Of course," Cecil answered. "How else does a man survive?"