Will Shakespeare's new play was enacted in the hall after supper, by candlelight. Once the jig was danced and the audience gone, Philip should have stayed to disrobe, but he was no further than washing his face, having removed his head-tire and his wig, when a boy handed him a note: Come to me, sweet player. All cats are Gray in the dark. He considered for a moment. Go now, go later? And in the urgency of his own lust, he broke the rule that he himself had dinned into Nick so often: stage apparel stays on stage, and if it does not there is a fine, and if it is spoiled there is a larger fine. He glanced round to see that nobody was watching, then walked to the door and through the palace. He could have found his way to Sandy's room with his eyes closed by now, but the place was lit for Twelfth Night and he need not be secret. In a few minutes, he was opening the chamber door.
"How is your ear?" Sandy asked at once. "Ah, it's red. I'm sorry."
"It's not so bad," Philip said. "Nobody has spoken of it." He was still flown from the evening's success; his cheeks were hot, and probably flushed from the scrubbing it had taken to remove his face-paint. He was breathing hard; his stomacher was laced a little tighter than usual, for Charles Massey had been adamant that Olivia should look as womanly as possible, despite Philip's age. The part should have been Jack's, but the boy was still wan and shaky from his attack of the flux. Philip, who had been Maria, took on Olivia, and Sol Jeanes played Maria as well as his usual role.
"Or what you will," Sandy mused. "Well, here is a man who can have what he will of me. What is this Shakespeare like, who wrote it?"
"Like nothing that I can describe," Philip said. "We are not so well acquainted."
"His is the loss." Sandy set his hands on Philip's shoulders and stepped back to look at him. "My, you make a bonny woman, Philip. And yet I know you are all man." His voice dropped low. "Do you ever fuck, in woman's gear? Do you play the woman's part and let the man plough you deep and hard? Do you - "
"I've let you do that once," Philip said, his own voice shaking and husky, "and once was enough. No."
Sandy's face was between where Philip's breasts would be, had he any for the stomacher to push up; Sandy's hands were on Philip's backside, pulling the two of them together; and then he stepped back, and said, "I ask your pardon, love. I know I am importunate. Forgive me."
"Anything, Sandy - but not that again." He breathed deep. "Why did you send for me? I would have come anyway."
Sandy said, "A gentleman of your Queen's court visits me in a little time. Will you play for us, perhaps? A song?"
"Gladly, but my lute is away back in the company's room, although I can sing without it."
"That will be pleasant," Sandy said. "You will not mind that my friend is masked? He should perhaps not be here - and before you become anxious, his name is not Robert. Nor James." He stroked Philip's pierced ear with one light fingertip.
"If he should not be here, then perhaps I should not?"
"On the contrary: he was taken with you, this evening," Sandy said. "He wished to spend time with you. I might be jealous."
"And are you?" Philip looked at Sandy sidelong, and had an indulgent smile in response.
"I know you too well for that, my Philip."
"For so short a time."
"Briefly, yes; but, ah … deeply," Sandy replied, low-voiced again. "Soft - I hear his step."
The door opened, and a tall man walked in. "Gray," he said, inclining his head. The hair was as smooth as the velvet mask, but not as dark. Under the mask full lips were framed by a moustache and a narrow, pointed beard.
"Sire," Sandy replied, his Scots a little broader than usual. "Pray be seated. I am fain to make you acquent with master Philip Standage, of Cecil's Men."
Philip, gaze dutifully lowered, curtsied; but when he stood again he looked the man in the eyes; dark eyes that, like the mask itself, reflected nothing. I have seen those eyes. "I am at your service this hour," he said.
"I thank you," the stranger replied, sitting in the chair. An English voice, southern, and of high degree. "Gray says you might play for us?" His hand curled in an inescapably obscene movement that Philip was meant to see.
"I have not that instrument in this garb," Philip said.
"Sing, then," Sandy said.
Philip nodded. For you.
"My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given:
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a bargain better driven."
There were ten lines more to the song, and it seemed to Philip that both words and notes came true without an effort. When he fell silent and drew breath again, he thought, I have never sung better.
Sandy, on the bench, was smiling at him. The stranger was applauding with a soft sound of glove on glove.
"Excellently well, master Standage," he said. "Pray sing again, and - will you not take off that ruff?"
"You will have to help me with the pins, Sandy."
"I am sure the gentleman will be happy to assist you," Sandy said. "You had best kneel down so that he can reach."
Sandy, this is taking courtesy too far. But Philip knelt, nonetheless.
"Closer, I pray you," the Englishman said. "I am short of sight."
A glance at Sandy; Go on, love, Sandy mouthed at him. An infinitesimally small shake of his head. For me, Sandy's lips said; and, perforce, Philip gathered his skirts a little and shifted backwards, finding himself kneeling between the Englishman's legs.
Nothing happened. Nothing, that is, beyond the unpinning of his ruff, although he knew from the cool touch on his neck that the stranger had removed his gloves. Sandy stood up, took the ruff with the line of pins stuck in its inner edge and said, "There. Now we can see you better."
Philip stood and turned round, finding himself still the object of the dark gaze. "What would you have me sing now, sir?"
"Why: perhaps Alexander Gray will choose," the Englishman said, at which Sandy laughed and shrugged. "I know none of your English songs. Sing of - why, sing of being abed, love. Sit next to me."
Philip sat close, and Sandy put an arm around his waist.
Behind the velvet mouth the eyes glinted a little, and the full lips parted. The Englishman's hands, still ungloved, were folded in his lap.
So my mouth is a mere conduit for his lust? I think not. Philip drew breath to sing. "Care-charmer Sleep," he began and, turning his head, glimpsed a wry smile on Sandy's face.
"Cease dreams, th' imagery of our day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow.
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain;
And never wake to feel the day's disdain."
There was soft applause again, and a sardonic English drawl. "So I am the day, maybe, that you think I disdain you? Well … we shall see. I wish you joy of your clouds, though they may be greyer than you think."
"It is nothing to me if you disdain me," Philip said. "I sing as I was asked."
"Yes, and your singing has been my pleasure indeed." The stranger rose to his feet and looked down at the two of them. "I would pay for … other things, let me tell you."
"I regret, sir," Philip said, knowing it to be clear from his voice that he regretted nothing, "that I have room for one account only, in both heart and body. I thank you indeed for your proffer - " and that is the greatest lie I have told this year - "but, no."
A smile, and a nod. "A man of honour - which is a strange thing to find in any court these days. Gray, I thank you for your hospitality, and for making me - acquent - with master Standage. We shall speak again, I hope." And with that, he departed.
There was silence.
"You are not angry with me, Sandy?" Philip asked, after a while.
"Lord, no; I am, indeed, in great admiration. Not every man would behave as you do, my love. However, I think the gentleman may be angry with me, so I shall follow after him soon."
"I am sorry if he is."
Sandy shrugged. "He may not be, but I will let him cool himself a little, for all that." The smile was back on his face. "Before I forget - I have another gift for you. Nothing, maybe, but as you once told me, there are gifts and gifts." He fished in the purse at his waist, and held out what seemed to be a skein of cord. "Here. Take it."
From Philip's hand swung, small and oddly light, a cylinder of chased leather. It was perhaps two inches long, glinting with flecks of gold leaf which at first sight showed like letters, but seen more closely were only lines and curves that had no discernible meaning.
"What is it?"
"A small thing," Sandy said. "A charm to keep you safe, since I can't watch over you myself."
"Witchcraft?" His heart thumped, part-fear, part-delight. He loves me that much?
"Indeed no - a better magic by far; stronger than witches or demons. Wear it for me, love?" Sandy whispered in his ear, pressing against him.
"Of course." He handed it over, and bent his head; Sandy's hands brushed his hair before withdrawing. The thing was hardly to be felt against his skin.
"There," Sandy said. His fingers were around Philip's neck still, the tips pressing, the smallest of warm weights, just below the Adam's apple. "They say, you know, that being hanged or strangled makes a man's yard to stand. Perhaps we might … try the game?"
"I've no desire to put that one to the test," Philip said, although he quivered at the thought, and between his legs his rebellious flesh said otherwise. "Besides, you wanted to go after - "
"Ah, that can wait. We will be over and done within a few minutes."
"And yet - " But Philip did not resist as Sandy pulled his borrowed skirts up from between them.
"No?" Sandy murmured, resuming his grip on Philip's neck. "But picture it to yourself, my love - you that seek hazard and jeopardy - if you were to put myself in my hands entirely - if you were to trust me to take care of you - so that you could put it to the test?"
"No," Philip said, but uncertainly, for all the blood in his body seemed to have flowed to his thighs and what stood between them.
"No?" Sandy repeated, pressing closer still. "I've not begun, and you're already harder than a whore's heart, my love. Love," he whispered again next to Philip's ear. "You cannot deceive me, Philip Standage. Choose to go, if you will, choose now; or choose to stay, and you will know things you never knew before. You want to know, I think." His fingers pushed harder still into Philip's neck. "Do you not? Hm?"
Philip's whole body trembled. His legs lost all strength, and he slid from the bench. He could barely breathe, but he remembered, despite the dazzle of sensuous turmoil that blazed through him, how to nod. Sandy made a small, pleased noise of agreement and bore him to the ground, turning him as he went down so that Philip landed on his back; then thrust and thrust against him, tightening his grip with each spasmodic movement.
Somewhere in the burning dark, they came together.
"Did you enjoy the play?" Nick asked Jamy, linking an arm in his as they walked.
"I liked it fine," he said. "Your Philip must have made a bonny lass when he was your age."
"He's not so bad to look at now," Nick said.
"No." Jamy crowded him into a dark corner. "I wish I had not to go back to Isbel's. Nor you to England."
"I'll be - what is it you say? - sweir to leave you."
"Aye; and I you," Jamy said. "But I've always known ye would leave, sooner or later, though I'm glad it was later. I shall miss my English lad." He kissed Nick gently.
"We may come back," Nick said, slipping his arms around Jamy and leaning on his chest. "Players travel."
"Aye," Jamy said, "and more than I ever will, but I don't grudge ye. If it were love, now - "
"But we didn't do it for love's sake - did we?"
"Oh no. Not by any means. But it's more than when we first began, is it not?" Jamy stroked Nick's hair.
"It is, but - do you mind, Jamy?" Nick stroked his hair in return; those soft, fire-red strands. "I wouldn't like it said that I loved you and left you for my own selfish purposes - however it first began."
"I mind everything," Jamy said, "which is what you would say for I remember everything. But it doesn't hurt me. Nothing can, these days. Besides, you mis-remember. You may have been first to ask, but that would have been nothing without I told you where I lodge."
"Thank you for that," Nick said, "and for everything."
"I could say the same." Jamy held him close. "I wish we might lie together here. Is there no place?"
"The company has a chamber, but they'll be taking to their own beds. Charles will be in his room with his wife … or there's Philip's bed," Nick said. "He has his own room too, but he went off with his Scots lord, I saw him. He won't be back tonight."
"Shall we?" Jamy said. "I want to."
"So do I. Yes. Come on." Nick took him by the arm again, and they ran upstairs. Philip's room had two doors, one from the passage-way, one from the company's chamber. Nick rolled up the sheets of his part from Twelfth Night and wedged them under the chamber door, then turned to face Jamy. They had spent time enough together that Nick no longer hesitated to help him disrobe, but tonight Jamy said, "Only my girdle, Nico, I cannot wait tonight - ah, quick … "
"Oh, no," Nick said, teasing. "Everything off."
"Ach, you - English." But he was laughing.
The end of it was that they were both naked, but not so far gone as they might have been, when the door opened and Philip drew the bed-curtain back with one hand. He held a candle in the other; he was still attired as Olivia, but his ruff was gone, and his gown was half-off at the shoulders. The candle-light showed a dark smudge on his throat. He was smiling, with an odd, dazed look on his face as if he were drunk, and the pupils of his eyes were wide and dark. "Nicholas," he said, very soft and low. "And Jamy."
"I … you'll be fined for taking your gear away from stage," was all Nick could think of to say, and Philip laughed again, more heartily.
"Nicholas, brat, you'll be managing a company of your own before time's done with you, I can tell. I'll go sleep elsewhere."
It was Jamy who said, "No, don't."
Philip looked back over his right shoulder, his eyes darker still. He was swaying on his feet. "I'm tired," he said. "And I ache. I can do nothing but hold you where you lie."
"Join us and welcome," Jamy said. Nick climbed out of bed and helped Philip off with the gown and shift before folding them back into the apparel chest in the corner. By the time Nick reached the bed again Philip was in his night-shirt and under the covers, but despite what he had said, he touched neither Jamy nor Nick. It was Jamy and Nick who reached for him, Nick stroking the curve of his neck and Jamy laying one arm across his waist.
"You'll do better without me," Philip whispered.
"We will not," Jamy told him. "Lie quiet, and we'll do just fine. We're friends, are we not?" And he kissed Philip lightly, not on the lips but on the forehead. In response Philip sighed, and moved closer; but both Jamy and Nick had lost the urge to do what they intended, so that in the end all three slept, curled up in each other's arms, and did nothing else.