Philip, hunched in the shelter of a wharfside revetment on the northern foreshore of the Thames, noticed the cold no more than the dampness of the baulk of timber where he sat. His elbows were on his knees and his head in his hands, the left hand cupped to cover his scar. There was noise enough, wind and water and the boatmen calling, but all he could hear were the words in his mind.
Whether Sandy had come into the ante-room intending to welcome him, Philip did not know; but he had seen, in one unguarded moment, his face reflected in the other's. Not the tiny image in the black mirror of the eye's centre, but the response, the quick aversion of Sandy's gaze, and the brief, swiftly-relaxed tension of his jaw and neck.
"Sandy. It's good to see you in London." Philip had smiled at him, and held out his hand. Although they were alone, Sandy had not taken it.
"Thank you, Philip. I wish I could say the same."
The words had struck deep, and he had not been able to say anything. Sandy had kept his face turned away. "I have to ask you not to come and see me again," he said.
"But - " Philip had much ado to stop himself stammering like a love-sick maid. "May I ask why?"
"What was I, in Scotland?" Sandy mused. "The unknown bastard brother of a man banished from court. I could do what I liked with whom I liked, and nobody to care. Now, Sir Robert Cecil has called me to England first of them all, and I am the harbinger of the King."
"Cecil," Philip said.
"Aye, Cecil." Sandy breathed deep, as if there was pleasure in the very air. "I will be in men's eyes, and if I apply myself to the work - why, I will be both higher and lower; that is all." A subtle smile curved his lips. "Do you truly see room for you at this court?"
Philip drew breath. "Sandy, love, I do not; I understand that. But I do not ask to live here, only to be with you now and again. That is all."
"No."
Philip set his teeth and went on fighting, a rearguard battle now, if he had dared admit it to himself. "Is it what has happened to my face that repels you? Did you love me for that alone? Have I not a heart and a body still?"
"Did I love you at all?" Sandy had stared straight ahead. "I have not a heart to love; none of the Grays do. We worship pleasure. What you gave me I returned in good measure, you may recall. If you chose to love me - well, that was none of my doing."
Philip had swallowed. One last throw of the dice. "I did love you. I still do. Do not cast me off altogether, Sandy."
Sandy, for a long time, had said nothing: and then, after a dry laugh, "We also worship money, but I prefer not to sell myself; so I sold you. Will that stop you loving me?"
That was the point when, ever since he had stumbled out of Whitehall, Philip had cut short the memory of the words. He had made his way to the river and sat down. Now he dragged the silenced words out and stared at them in the bleak light of day.
"Sold me?" How can the memory of a whisper be so loud?
"Aye, to Henry Howard. I put poppy-juice in your cordial, that you might not remember."
"But I remember," Philip had said, "and he knows I do, and he fears the consequences. Why else do you think he did this?" Gesturing at his face, in a move which produced a single quick glance as Sandy looked towards him.
"That was him, was it? Well, he has my curse for that much. You were beautiful." And then Sandy had laughed, a little. "I enjoyed watching him at it with you. To begin with."
"No." He had tried to fend off the knowledge of the truth, but even as he fought, the memories had returned.
Still not watching him, Sandy had nodded. "I was there, yes." And then, "So you remembered about Howard, but not about me. Have you told Cecil anything of this, in all your spying?"
Philip shook his head. Once upon a time he might have warned Sandy. Beware of Cecil. He will make what use of you he can, and keep you sweet with a golden chain. But not now.
"Tell me the truth, mind," Sandy said.
"Why should I?" Philip said hoarsely. "Now that you have no more use for me?"
The long, pale fingers pulled at the cord round Philip's neck. "This. Did you never wonder about this?"
"No. You gave it to me. That was enough, then." Philip took the cord in his own fingers. "Do you want it back?"
"Oh no," Sandy said. "Shall I tell you what went to the making of it?"
Mutely Philip shook his head; but Sandy had already turned away.
"The eye of a peacock," he murmured. "A lock of hair; a lace; and a drop of your blood."
"Sandy."
"It binds you to me. You are mine."
For a moment Philip's throat was too tight for speech. Breathe in. And again. "I will throw it away," he said. "Be bound to the filth in the gutter, for all I care."
"Not so easy." Sandy set his thumb precisely as he had set it on Philip's throat, once before, but not with the other hand beside it. "Throw it away and I will haunt your dreams. Give it away and worse will happen. There is no escape."
"But why?" was all he could think of to say. His lips shaped the words soundlessly.
Sandy smiled, as he had always smiled. "Because you were fool enough to love me, and walked into the cage when I opened the door. I am a Gray, and we worship three things: pleasure, money, power. You brought me all three." He bowed, courtly as if Philip were king. "I thank you, Philip Standage."
After that there was no hiding the truth, not even from himself. No more words. Philip had watched, silently, as Sandy left the room, and waited unmoving until the messenger came to take him outside again, where the day was growing dark.
So, he had given his heart again, and had his heart's desire ripped away from him again, and lost more than that besides. But I will not weep. Unlike Kit and Gabriel, Sandy had not been taken; he had chosen to go. He deceived me through and through, tempted me like the devil with lust and pretty words - Philip opened his eyes.
On the mud in front of him was a pair of heavy boots. A man had been waiting, for how long Philip did not know; he looked up.
"Standage," Ben Jonson said.
"Come to mock me?" The sound of his own voice terrified him, and Jonson flinched.
"No. Cecil sent me to find you, if I could. They told me at Whitehall that you had come this way."
"Trust Cecil." Philip laughed. "You hate sodomites, and I hate you, so he sends you to find me. He is a man who will make the demons dance to his tune in Hell."
Jonson hunkered down, balancing precariously in the mud. "I turned Catholic, you know, Standage," he said. "While I was in gaol."
Philip stared at him. "Why tell me that?"
"In case it will help you trust me." Jonson held one hand out, as if Philip were a dog that might bite. "However much you hate me, or I hate sodomites - which is still true, incidentally - I can't refuse to help a fellow-Catholic."
"And if I said, 'I am not sure that I am enough of a Catholic for you to want to help me'?"
Jonson shrugged. "No matter. I gave my word to Cecil, and he's a harder task-master than God or the Church ever will be. I have told him that I will take you somewhere safe, and help you leave London. I know you are supposed to be dead; he wants me in his toils, I believe, for he will pay me not to tell the truth."
"I see." Philip looked down again. The tide was coming in: the wavelets were lapping within a yard of Jonson's heels. "Very well," he said. "I accept your help."
"Thank you," Jonson said, and then, "About Gabriel Spencer."
"Don't, please."
"But I must tell you. It is true, I promise, that he drew on me first. It was in your defence, you see. I had miscalled you."
"Oh." I wish he hadn't told me that.
"I am sorry," Jonson said. "Truly sorry. I repent, if you can believe that."
For a long moment Philip said and did nothing. Then he let out a long, uneven breath. "I will try."
"Thank you," Jonson said again. "Take my arm; it's a rough road back."
"I accept your help," Philip said. "But I'm not leaving London."
"Stubborn as a mule," Jonson said with an exasperated sigh, letting his arm fall. "Look, man, see sense. You cannot hide, even in London, for the rest of your life." He bent down. "That scar on your face is open again; did you know?"
"I wondered. It hurts." Philip touched his face carefully. "I will go to St Bartholomew's, and ask them to tend to it of their charity."
"That is one plan," Jonson said, "but may I suggest another? A certain Peter Chamberlen lives near here, in Blackfriars. He is a Huguenot, worse luck to him, but accounted a good surgeon, and I believe takes in lodgers."
"I know him. It was he who dressed this, first time."
Jonson nodded. "I heard you had been in a fight."
"I was set upon by two men; in Sir Henry Howard's livery, or so Cecil says. It may have been true, but they are dead." Philip sighed. "Again; so Cecil says. If you ever meet Henry Howard, keep out of his reach."
"Aye." Jonson paused, made as if to say something, and stopped. "No matter. Now, Standage, pray come with me. If you have not wherewithal to pay Chamberlen, then I will stand surety for you until some other arrangement can be made."
How? They stripped you of your goods when you murdered Gabriel. Philip still hated Jonson. And yet, and yet: there was something about the man that drew him to his feet, and made him take the offered arm at last. "I am in your hands," he said. "Take me to this master Chamberlen. Don't tell Cecil."
"Understood. Hold firm," Ben Jonson said, and led him along the river-bank, past the Temple and towards the Fleet. "If you can put one foot before the other a little faster, we shall be safe within walls before curfew."
Philip surprised himself by laughing. "At the moment I am not entirely sure which foot is which, let alone how fast I can move them. But I will try."
"Good. I had as soon not carry you, lightweight though you be."
"My thoughts are heavier than my body, so forgive me if I go slowly," Philip said. The grip of Jonson's hand on his arm tightened for a brief moment; they moved through the twilight together, and presently the place where Philip had sat was lost in the dark.
Once Nick had from Agnes Henslowe the truth of what had happened on that dark night last year, so soon after his departure, he would have come and battered down Cecil's door at once if he had been allowed; but Henslowe brandished the two pieces of his indentures, and claimed the mastery of him. Agnes told Nick the truth about that too, but he could not well oppose her husband without being thrown into gaol himself. It would not be until after the Queen's funeral that he had any time to call his own.
"Thank you, Agnes," he said. "You tried your best, I know. But there is no moving master Henslowe, at times, though it is not for me to say so."
"He is as hard to move as a Sussex stot," Agnes said, "and you may say what you like, Nick, I am that angered with him. But what can I do, after all?"
"You did what you could," Nick said again.
Agnes shrugged. "Which is nothing. Now, Nick, the black cloth is come in, or so the tailor tells us, and you must go to be measured for the funeral wear."
Nick sighed. "I know this should be an honour. But I wish it was over and done with."
The funeral filled London with an ocean of faces, a river of black. Henslowe, as a Gentleman of the Bedchamber, walked behind - a long way behind - the coffin. Nick as his one remaining apprentice, was with him.
He had seen the Queen, from a distance, long ago in St Paul's when he was still a scholar; she had been a dazzle of pearls and diamonds around something that must be a woman, because he had been told so. Hard to think that she was ahead of him now, quietly encased in coffin and pall, dead.
The next day he crossed the river and made his way to Cecil House.
The great doors of silvery oak, weathered by wind and rain, were daunting; but the wicket gate opened, and a messenger stepped out. He straightened himself and his cap, and set off wherever he was bound. Nick made sure he looked as respectable as a player might, set his shoulders, and went in.
The porter may have recalled the young player who visited Philip Standage last autumn; or he may have been impressed by the Admiral's badge on his shoulder; or maybe he was simply too idle to throw Nick out on the street. At any rate, after Nick sat down and said that he was prepared to wait all night if necessary, the porter sent word to Cecil himself.
And word came back that Nick was to be admitted.
He looked into the pale green eyes and saw nothing in them except, small and seeming-distant, his own image reflected, while Cecil regarded him with an air of mild enquiry that was more unnerving than outright anger would have been.
"Nicholas Hanham," he said. "Friend of Philip Standage. What is it that you want to know?"
"I want to know, so please you, sir, what has become of Philip."
His lips tightened a little. "I am sorry."
Panic rose in Nick's throat, but he swallowed it, and forced out a reply through stiff lips. "Are you trying to tell me that Philip is dead? Because I don't believe you."
There was a long pause. Cecil turned his head to watch as something, a brief shadow printed on the air, passed outside the casement. "Most men believe what I tell them," he said.
"Most men are fools."
"You may be right; but what makes you think yourself any different?" He looked at Nick again, his eyes moving slowly from side to side as if he were literally reading his face.
"I can give you good reasons for my disbelief." Nick stared back into his cool gaze.
The air of mild enquiry was stronger than ever. "Oh?"
"One: you have shown me no proof. Two: we are still debating the matter."
At that a smile curved Cecil's lips, and for once it held real amusement. "Proof," he said. "Ah. I can give you no proof, for the very good reason that I have not yet fabricated it. I shall need to, and that soon; but you are right. Philip is not dead."
Nick had never known before, how like relief was to fear; he knew now. It made his skin prickle and his heart thump and his breath come fast. It was no time to ask Cecil why he had done this, still less why he had done it to Philip. "Where is he? What can I do to help?"
"For your first question, I know no more than you do. For your second, you can return his effects to his family. His sister, that is."
"But you said - "
"I repeat. Philip is not dead. But he is in danger while he lives. I had his things fetched from Henslowe's; there they are."
In the corner where he pointed were the two chests, covered by a small Turkey carpet that was certainly not Philip's. Nick knelt, turned back the carpet, and opened the lid of each chest in turn. The first held Philip's lute in its case, resting on top of his clothes; they were clean, but still smelt indefinably of him in a way that made Nick's throat tighten at once. In the second chest were all the other things that Philip owned: books large and small; copies of play parts; a recorder that Nick had never known he had, let alone heard him play; his writing-case. Two pairs of gloves, tucked into the corner, and another, heavier, pair for riding. Spare lute-strings. In a box lined with satin, two glass phials, one holding oil and the other perfume. The scent of it Nick knew well, and as for the other … he swallowed.
"The chests have a false panel in side and lid," Cecil remarked. "I assure you that the money is still where it was hidden."
"Philip liked - likes - to save his earnings." Nick picked up one of the books: The Affectionate Shepherd, by Richard Barnfield, and let it fall open in his hand. 'If it be sin to love a lovely lad, Oh then sin I … ' A flash of colour caught his eye; a piece of ribbon, used as a bookmark. It marked a page with a line in the margin against 'To think on him whom my soul loveth best.' The ribbon itself was the colour of sunset, tied in a loop that might slip over a man's wrist, if the wrist were slim enough. On it was written, in ink that had dyed the fabric, 'Php - Cant:Sal: viii.6 - Kit'. Nick looked at Cecil. "The song of Solomon, chapter 8, verse 6, sir?"
He had thought that Cecil would direct him to a book on the shelves, but there was a Bible already on the desk. Cecil opened it, found the place and read. "'Set me as a seal on thine heart, and as a signet upon thine arm: for love is strong as death: jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are fiery coals, and a vehement flame.'"
Nick's hands shook. The loop of ribbon dangled from his fingers, quivering like a flame itself. He set it back in place, closed the book, and searched through the remainder of the chest.
"There is something missing?" Cecil asked.
There was: the sheets of William Byrd's music. Nick opened his mouth to tell him, and then remembered. "No. I thought there was, but there is not."
"What did you think was missing?"
"This." Nick held up another book at random. "It is so small that I had not seen it." It was his copy of The Passionate Pilgrim, which somehow had stayed in Philip's possession after their meeting with master Shakespeare.
"Ah. Yes, I can see that might be so." Cecil waited another moment, and said, "So, will you take these to Philip's sister? I will give you the keys, that you may lock them."
"Why not simply pay one of your men to take them?"
"Indeed," he replied. "That man is you."