The night was heavy with cloud and, although it was dry, there was a rough, gusty wind that foreboded rain. They did not take him far; the Clink was barely a hundred yards away along Bankside. He had passed it by often enough, turning his face away, trying not to think of what it must be like to be locked between four dark walls. Soon he would know.
They banged on the door and it opened; they pushed him in front of them at the stairs and he climbed, following the gaoler. At no time did anyone speak to him, and Philip himself was too numb with terror and the dregs of sleep to ask questions.
At last the gaoler took one heavy key from the ring at his belt, unlocked a door and opened it. This cannot be happening. It cannot. Philip took one step forward; was pushed from behind, and stumbled over the threshold. One of the guards had brought a torch, which he stuck in a holder on the wall. The other, business-like, bent for something on the floor, knelt, and fumbled at Philip's ankles. Fetters; the cold weight of iron lay heavy on his feet. A chain dragged on the floor. The gaoler clicked shut the padlock that held it to the wall.
"The light," Philip said. "Please leave the light."
They took the torch down from the wall, closed the door and left him in the dark.
Philip's legs would hold him up no longer. He sank down on the floor, crouching with his fingers on straw and stone, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
In a little while, he could make out the narrow, barred rectangle that was the window. Dark as the night was, there must be a moon, for the overcast sky was blurred with light among the scudding clouds. The cell was almost bare: a bed, a jug on a shelf, a stool. Two pots in the far corner whose purpose was all too clear. This far from the ground, the walls were dry; no gleam of damp on the walls. Struggling against the weight on his ankles, Philip walked to the bed and sat down, then had to use the chain to lift his feet on to the bed before he could lie flat. He had forgotten to draw back the covers, if the bed had any covers; but, at the last minute, Agnes had fetched him one of Henslowe's gowns as well as the cloak, and both were thick and warm. He pulled the cloak over himself as best he could, and opened his mouth to pray, but could not. At last, because he could do nothing else, he slept.
He was surprised to wake of his own accord, not dragged awake by force. The light through the window was pallid, casting no real shadow; day could not be far on. There were no voices, no carts in the street, only the faintest thread of birdsong. Philip tried to sit up, but had forgotten the fetters dragging at his ankles. Cursing, he took the chain and used it to pull his feet round, then pushed himself up on one arm. The bed was covered, after all, and he could have slept warmer; but he had slept.
He sat up and looked around. A dry room, to himself; a soft bed, with covers. And yet, the bars and the fetters. He stood, shuffled across the floor, and tried the door. It was locked.
"God have mercy upon me," he whispered. "Mercy." No other words would come, and he sat down again.
Sounds of the world's waking came to him as the light grew: morning greetings, far-distant; chiming bells from St Saviour's. A dog barked, gulls above the river cried like lost souls. There was bread baking. Faint as the smell was, it made his mouth water. He had eaten hardly anything yesterday, and now he was hungry and thirsty.
Philip looked in the jug, and tilted it, disturbing a little dusty, stale liquid which he ventured, cautiously, to drink. The mouthful or so of bad ale did nothing to assuage his thirst or his hunger. He had brought Meg's satchel of food away from Henslowe's, but somewhere between there and here it had gone. His money was safe and secret in hidden pockets.
Below, a door banged shut, and another, and another, closer each time. There were footsteps too, but they came no nearer. Nor, for the rest of the day, did anyone else.
He could not think, and that meant that he could make no plans; but there were none to make. After a while, he hooked his fingertips over the edge of the stone window-sill and lifted himself up, but still he could not see out. He set the stool under the window, but the fetter-chain was too short for him to climb up. At last he sat on the bed, wrapped his arms around himself, and tried to ignore his hunger.
For Nick, the noise of the slammed door as he walked away from the argument with Philip echoed through all the nights after. There was much to keep him from brooding; being a player on tour in the wealthiest part of England, and rising higher up the list of dramatis personae, for example. But the nights were hard, even though Nick was never alone and they were never silent; not entirely.
He enjoyed working with Sir Edward Alleyn, pompous as he could be, and the others were good company. Some Nick knew from their travels to Scotland, but the others less well: Samuel Rowley, who lent a hand with writing the plays; Edward Juby, who managed the company's purse; and Robert Shaw. Though players might be stalwarts of the Admiral's Men for years, their paths did not always cross, with one group or other on the road. To Nick, these men had always seemed too high and mighty to talk with him, but this journey showed otherwise. And then, there was Thomas Downton. Thomas had played beside Robert Shaw in The Isle of Dogs, which had put Ben Jonson and Gabriel Spencer in jail, and sent Nashe railing off to Norfolk. He had known Marlowe, and Gabriel - and Philip.
"Yes," he said when Nick asked for more. "I remember Philip the day he first walked into the Theatre. Whey-faced and black-haired and eyes dark as pitch." He laughed, and drained his cup. "I didn't move fast enough. Kit Marlowe got to him first."
Nick's heart thumped. "I never knew," he said. "I've seen you both on stage together, and I never guessed.'
"Philip never guessed either, God be thanked," Thomas said, "and I have my own man now. He's at his trade in London, not being a player." He poured more wine from the jug.
"I wish," Nick said. "No - it's nothing."
"Ah." He took an errant drop off the spout of the jug with his little finger, and licked it. "If I guess right, you wish Philip was here now."
"I wouldn't mind his being in London," Nick said, took a deep breath, and went on, "if I thought he'd be glad to see me again."
Thomas looked at him hard, and said, "Tell me."
That last dialogue with Philip was seared on Nick's memory, and by the time he had done reciting it, Thomas was shaking his head. "Never," he said, "never start a fight with Philip when words are the weapon. You're bound to lose."
"So tell me what I should have done, other than stand there and take it?" Nick said, rattling his own cup on the table.
Thomas held Nick's hand and cup still, and poured wine for him. "If it had been me," he said slowly, "and if I had ever had or taken the chance, which I didn't - why, then, I would have put my arms round him and pulled his head down to my shoulder and held him until he ran out of breath. That's all."
"His face," Nick said. "I couldn't do that now even if he'd let me."
"God, no; poor Phip," Thomas said. "God." He stared into his wine. "I shouldn't have had this last cup. I can't hold my drink like I used to, in the wild days when Robert Shaw and I were buggering each other senseless."
"But," Nick said, "Robert Shaw? He's married."
Thomas shrugged. "He fell in love with Matilda. Or she fell in love first, and pulled him in after. It's a brave man would cross Mattie Phelps, as she was then." He drained his cup. "I shouldn't be talking like this to you. You'll be getting the wrong idea."
"I don't want buggery. Not with anyone who isn't Philip," Nick told him.
"Fairly said. You would share a bed, though?"
"There aren't enough to go round, it's true." Nick drank his wine. "And now I know what I know, sooner with you than any of the others; thank you."
"Welcome," he said, his smile wry. "Don't tell my man."
"There will be nothing to tell him," Nick said.
Philip had been there two weeks. He was half asleep when a rattle at the door forewarned him: he stood, and backed against the wall, braced to be taken out of the cell; his mind still shied away from anything worse. At the door, however, was nobody but the serving-man with bread, cheese and a jug of beer. He slapped the platter down on the chest, exchanged the full jug for the empty one, and withdrew, leaving the door open; not that that meant anything without a key to the fetters.
Philip wrenched off a hunk of bread, stale as usual, and chewed it. There were two meals a day in here, not large, and the time between them was long.
Footsteps; one regular tread, and an erratic one, scuffling as if someone was being dragged. In a few moments the gaoler pushed another man, not fettered, through the doorway with enough force to throw him down, and closed the door regardless of the sprawled legs. Philip swallowed his mouthful hastily and hauled the man out of harm's way, only to drop the piece of bread still in his hand when he saw who it was.
"Tom!"
Tom Dekker scrambled up on his knees. "Philip. What the - you of all people - in here? Why?"
"Heaven knows, but I don't," Philip said. Don't tell him about Scotland. "My religion may have caught up with me." He helped Dekker to his feet. "Come, sit down. I haven't much to share, but if you're hungry - "
"Fill yourself first." Dekker slumped down on the bed and snorted. "You're the world's worst papist, I know it. You! - and treason? The idea's sheer folly. If they knew anything, they'd know you're too damn idle for anything like a conspiracy."
"That never stopped a man from being arrested," Philip said. "But what about you?"
"Debt, of course," Dekker said. "Henslowe. But why I'm here and not in the Poultry, I couldn't tell you."
"Henslowe? He usually has the patience of a saint with your debts."
"Maybe. But he called in ten shillings that I borrowed," Dekker said. "If I ever get out, he can look elsewhere for a writer, that's all I can say."
Philip passed the jug. "I've had as much as I want. You have this." He tore at the bread again, and added some cheese this time. How much money did I bring with me? He had no idea what he might need money for. I may as well put it to good use. "Eat," he said again to Tom Dekker. "I shan't want all of this."
Later in the night, when Dekker was asleep on the floor with the bed-coverings round him, having refused to share the bed, Philip counted out his money. I will have a little, after. Maybe more, if all goes well. He put ten shillings' worth of silver into one purse, and laid that under his pillow for the night.
"I can't take that!" Dekker protested.
"You can and you will. I've no use for it in here; I've tried to pay them to take the fetters off, and they won't. The food must be of someone's charity, for that I don't buy. But once you're outside - I know you're on bad terms with him now, but ask Henslowe to send my belongings here - two chests, he knows them - and with those, then I may live as well here as I ever did, th- there," Philip said, his voice cracking as it betrayed his cheerful speech for the false thing it was. Dekker, sitting on the edge of the bed with the purse of silver in his lap, stood up, and the purse fell to the ground, disregarded. He put his arms round Philip's shoulders and pulled him close.
"I don't deserve that you should be such a friend to me," he said.
"S-stop hugging me," Philip said, swallowing back a laugh. "I might forget myself."
"No, you won't," Dekker said, but let him go all the same, before hooking a finger in the cord around Philip's neck. "No man wears something like this unless he has someone else to remember. Shall I send word to him?"
Sandy. "He's in Scotland. No. This won't last forever," Philip said. "Get yourself out first. And - that cloak I lent you. Keep it. Remember what I said."
Dekker kissed him farewell, on the side of his face that wasn't scarred. "I'll remember."
By the end of the next day, Tom Dekker was free, and Philip was alone again.
Dekker may have remembered, but nothing came from the Henslowes. Nothing came at all, and nothing happened at all, except the deepening of winter. From what money remained to him, Philip paid the serving-man to heat the evening's mug of beer. Days passed. Weeks, and more than weeks. Months. He measured the rags of time as they wove themselves through the bars on the window and into shadow on the floor. The days shortened, then lengthened. One morning there was birdsong. Another, the tolling of bells, that went on, and on, and on.
The Admiral's Men were in Chelmsford, on their way back to London, when the news of the Queen's death came. They all stared at each other. Semper eadem, her motto had been, 'Always the same', and for all the days of Nick's life, so she had been; the old Queen, brooking no rival. And now; what would be the same?
"Three days' journey home; two if we push ourselves," Alleyn said. "God be thanked that our takings have been so good that we can pay our way; there'll be no plays, and no theatres open, until after the funeral."
"Mourning gear," Thomas Downton said. "We're not the Queen's Men, but still we should be in mourning."
Alleyn sighed. "It is no small expense. For once, let us - ah, suit ourselves, from the apparel we carry."
And so it was all in black that they trudged or rode or were carted into London; and despite the mourning, Nick's heart was high, for he was on his way to see Philip again.
Thomas Downton slipped away as they passed St Benet's. "Going home," he said to Nick. "Give my best remembrances to Philip. Keep a hold of him, lad. Don't fail him."
"I won't. I'll try not to," Nick said. "Thank you."
He nodded. "Thank you."
"Nothing to tell your man, I hope."
"No, nothing." His face broke into a grin. "His name is Humphrey. You and Philip must come dine with us, some time."
Nick walked on, light of heart. Not long now, not long. Only a few minutes.
The door at Henslowe's was open, and the company crowded in to take refreshment, Alleyn in the midst of them all velvet and compliments and clinking money-bags. Nick pushed into the hall and peered round. Not there. The kitchen, maybe; Philip had been shy of company while his face was healing, and maybe he still was.
But he was not in the kitchen. Nick climbed the stairs; perhaps he was in the solar.
He was not; but Agnes Henslowe was, her head bent over some mending.
"Give you good day, Agnes," he said. "Where's master Standage?"
"Why - Nick!" She fumbled with her needle, and dropped it dangling from the thread, before slipping it safely into the fabric once more. "I - I had not expected you back so soon." She tried to smile.
"Where - " he began again.
She stepped forward, and took both Nick's hands in hers. "Nick, you must be brave. I have bad news. I'm sorry."