Ruled Britannia (31 page)

Vanity had something to do with the question, but only so much; he wasn't Richard Burbage. But he might learn something useful, something that would help keep him alive. The more he knew, the better his chances. He was sure of that. He was also sure—unpleasantly sure—they weren't very good no matter how much he knew.

“From whose lips?” Cicely Sellis pursed her own before answering, “I'll not tell you that, not straight out. Many who come to me would liefer not be known to resort to a cunning woman. There
are
those who'd call me witch.”

“I believe it,” Shakespeare said.
What's in a name?
he wondered. The English Inquisition could, no doubt, give him a detailed answer.

“Well you might,” she said. “But believe also no day goes by when I hear not some phrase of yours, repeated by one who likes the sound, likes the sense, and knows not, nor cares, whence it cometh. ‘Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?' or—”

Shakespeare laughed. “Your pardon, I pray you, but that is not mine, and Kit Marlowe would wax wroth did I claim it.”

“Oh.” She laughed, too. “It's I who must cry pardon, for speaking of your words and speaking forth another's. What am I then but a curst unfaithful jade, like unto mine own cat? I speak sooth even so.”

“You do me too much honor,” Shakespeare said.

“I do you honor, certes, but too much? Give me leave to doubt it. Why, I should not be surprised to hear the dons admiring your plays.”

He looked down at what he'd just written. Queen Boudicca, who had been flogged by the Roman occupiers of Britannia, and whose daughters had been violated, was urging the Iceni to revolt, saying,

 

“But mercy and love are sins in Rome and hell.

If Rome be earthly, why should any knee

With bending adoration worship her?

She's vicious; and, your partial selves confess,

Aspires to the height of all impiety;

Therefore 'tis fitter I should reverence

The thatched houses where the Britons dwell

In careless mirth; where the blest household gods

See nought but chaste and simple purity.

'Tis not high power that makes a place divine,

Nor that men from gods derive their line;

But sacred thoughts, in holy bosoms stor'd,

Make people noble, and the place ador'd.”

 

What would the dons say if they heard those lines?
What will the dons say when they hear those lines?
He laughed. He couldn't help himself.
Give
me
leave to doubt they will admire them
.

Cicely Sellis misunderstood the reason for his mirth, if mirth it was. She sounded angry as she said, “If you credit yourself not, who will credit you in your despite?”

“Not the dons, methinks,” he answered.

“But have I not seen 'em 'mongst the groundlings?” she returned. “And have I not seen you yourself in converse earnest with 'em? Come they to the Theatre for that they may dispraise you?”

Damn you, Lieutenant de Vega
, Shakespeare thought, not for the first time. Not only did the man threaten to discover his treason whenever he appeared, but now he'd just cost him an argument. Shakespeare's fury at the Spaniard was all the greater for being so completely irrational.

When he did not respond, the cunning woman smiled a smile that told him she knew she'd won. She said, “When the dons and their women come to see me, shall I ask 'em how they think on you?”

“The dons . . . come to see you, Mistress Sellis?” Shakespeare said slowly.

“In good sooth, they do,” she answered. “Why should they not? Be they not men like other men? Have they not fears like other men? Sicknesses like other men? Fear not their doxies they are with child, or poxed, or both at once? Ay, they see me. Some o' the dons'd liefer go to the swarthy wandering Egyptians, whom in their own land they have also, but they see me.”

“Very well. I believe't. An it please you, though, I would not have my name in your mouth, no, nor in the Spaniards' ears neither.”

Shakespeare thought he spoke quietly, calmly. But Mommet's fur puffed up along his back. The cat's eyes, reflecting the firelight, flared like torches as it hissed and spat. By the way it stood between Shakespeare and its mistress, it might have been a watchdog defending its home.

“Easy, my poppet, my chick, easy.” Cicely Sellis bent and stroked the
cat. Little by little, its fur settled. Once it began to purr once more, she looked up at Shakespeare. “Fear not. It shall be as you desire.”

“For which I thank you.”

“I'll leave you to't, then,” she said, scooping Mommet up into her arms. “Good night and good fortune.”

She spoke as if she could bestow the latter. Shakespeare wished someone could. He would gladly take it wherever it came from.

 

L
OPE DE
V
EGA
looked up from the paper. “I pray you, forgive me, Master Shakespeare,” he said, “but your character is not easy for one unaccustomed to it.”

“You are not the first to tell me so,” the English poet answered, “and I thus conclude the stricture holds some truth.”

They sat on the edge of the stage in the Theatre, legs dangling down towards the dirt where the groundlings would stand. Behind them, swords clashed as players practiced their moves for the afternoon's show. Looking over his shoulder, Lope could tell at a glance which of them had used a blade in earnest and which only strutted on the stage.

But that was not his worry. The nearly illegible words on the sheet in his left hand were. He pointed to one passage that had, once he'd deciphered it, particularly pleased him. “This is your heretic Queen Elizabeth, speaking to his Most Catholic Majesty's commander as she goes to the Tower?”

Shakespeare nodded. “Just so.”

“It hath the ring of truth,” Lope said, and began to read:

 

“ ‘Stay, Spanish brethren! Gracious conqueror,

Victorious Parma, rue the tears I shed,

A mother's tears in passion for her land:

And if thy Spain were ever dear to thee,

O! think England to be as dear to me.

Sufficeth not that I am brought hither

To beautify thy triumphs and thy might,

Captive to thee and to thy Spanish yoke,

But must my folk be slaughter'd in the streets,

For valiant doings in their country's cause?

O! if to fight for lord and commonweal

Were piety in thine, it is in these.' ”

 

“Will it serve?” Shakespeare asked anxiously.

“Most excellent well,” Lope replied at once. “It is, in sooth, a fine touch, her pleading for mercy thus. How came you to shape it so?”

“I bethought me of what she might tell King Philip himself, did he come to London, then made her speak to his general those same words,” Shakespeare said.

“Ah.” Sitting, Lope couldn't bow, but did take off his hat and incline his head to show how much the answer pleased him. “Most clever. And then the Duke of Parma's reply is perfect—perfect, I tell you.” He read again:

 

“ ‘At mine uncle's bidding, I spare your life,

For mercy is above this sceptr'd sway:

'Tis mighty in the mightiest; it becomes

The throned monarch better than his crown;

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

And blesseth him that gives and him that takes.' ”

 

“If it please you, I am content,” the Englishman murmured.

“Please me? You are too modest, sir!” Lope cried. While Shakespeare—modestly—shook his head, the Spaniard went on, “Would King Philip might read these wondrous words you write in his behalf. As I live, he'd praise 'em. Know you the Escorial, outside Madrid?”

“I have heard of't,” Shakespeare said.

“ 'Twill be his Most Catholic Majesty's monument forevermore,” Lope said. “And your
King Philip
, meseems, will live as long.”

“May he have many years,” Shakespeare said in a low voice. “May this play remain for years unstaged.”

Lope crossed himself. “Yes, may it be so, though I fear me the day will come sooner than that.” He tapped the sheet of paper with a fingernail. “I shall take back to my superiors a report most excellent of this.”

“Gramercy,” the Englishman told him.

“No, no, no.” De Vega wagged a hand back and forth. “ 'Tis I should thank you,
señor
. Again, you prove yourself the poet Don Diego knew you to be.”

Will Kemp sidled up to them. “What business have you put in for a clown?” he asked in a squeaky whine.

“It is a play on the death of a great king,” Lope said coldly; he did not like Kemp.

“All the more reason for japes and jests,” the clown said.

“You are mistaken,” de Vega said, more coldly still.

To his surprise, Shakespeare stirred beside him. “No, Lieutenant, haply not,” he said, and Lope felt betrayed. Shakespeare went on, “Sweeten the posset with some honey, and down it goes, and sinks deep. Without the same . . .” He shook his head.

“I have trouble believing this,” Lope said.

“Then who's the fool?” Will Kemp said. He went on, “ ‘'A was the first that ever bore arms.' ” A sudden shift of voice for, “ ‘Why, he had none.' ” Back to the original: “ ‘What? art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says, Adam digged; could he dig without arms? I'll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not, confess thyself—' ”

“Confess thyself a blockhead,” Lope broke in. “What is this nonsense?”

Quietly, Shakespeare said, “It is from my
Prince of Denmark
, sir, the which you were kind enough to praise not long since.”

Kemp bent and took Lope's head in both hands. The Spaniard tried to twist away, but could not; the clown was stronger than he looked. Solemnly—and, Lope realized after a moment, doing an excellent imitation of Richard Burbage—Kemp intoned, “ ‘Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him.' ”—as if Lope's head were the skull of the dead clown in the play. “ ‘I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.' ” He kissed Lope de Vega on the mouth and let him go.

Furious, Lope sprang to his feet. His rapier hissed free. “Whoreson knave! Thou diest!” he roared.

“Hold!” Shakespeare said. “Give over! He made his point with words.”

Kemp seemed too stupid to care whether he lived or died. Pointing to Lope, he jeered, “He hath no words, and so needs must make his with the sword.” With a mocking bow, he added, “Fear no more kisses. I'm not so salt a rogue that you shall make a Bacon of me.”

“All the contagions of the south light on you!” Lope said. But he did not thrust at the hateful clown.

He regretted his restraint a moment later, for Kemp bowed once more, and answered, “Why, here you are.”

“Go to, both of you!” Shakespeare said. “Give over! Master de Vega, this once I will pray pardon in the clown's name, for—”

“I want no pardon, not from the likes of him,” Kemp broke in, which almost got him spitted yet again.

“Silence! One word more shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee,” the English poet told him. Shakespeare turned back to Lope. “I
will
pray pardon in's name, sir, for how else but by clowning shall a clown answer?”

Breathing heavily, de Vega sheathed his blade. “For your sake, Master Shakespeare, I will put by my quarrel.”

But it was not for Shakespeare's sake, or not altogether, that he took it no further. Shakespeare gave him an honorable excuse, yes, and he seized on it. But Will Kemp—
demons of hell torment him
, Lope thought—had been right, and had proved himself right, no matter how offensively he'd done it. Lope wouldn't admit that to the clown, but couldn't help admitting it to himself.

“I thank you,” Shakespeare said.

“Not I.” Kemp minced away, sticking out his backside at every step.

Through clenched teeth, Lope said, “Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in his own house.”

“In sooth, he's wise enough to play the role,” Shakespeare answered with a sigh, “and to do that well craves a kind of wit.”

“He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit—but not much like it,” de Vega said. “And what passes for his wit likes me not much.”

With another sigh, Shakespeare said, “Have you not betimes seen it with players, that differences 'twixt whom they play and who they are smudge even in their own minds?”

“I have.” But Lope would not leave it alone. “If this be so with Kemp, send him to . . . How is the place whither you send distraught and lunatic people called?”

“To Bethlem, within Bishopsgate,” Shakespeare replied at once.

“To Bethlem,
sí. Gracias,
” Lope said. “Let him live there when not upon the stage, and make a spectacle for the general even when he plays not.” The English poet only spread his hands, as if to ask,
What can you do?
And, since Kemp's foibles truly weren't Shakespeare's fault, de Vega spread his hand, too, silently answering,
Nothing at all
. Aloud, he went on, “I shall take my superior, as I say, a good report of your progress, which will also, I doubt not, shortly reach Don Diego's ear.”

“I am glad it pleases you,” Shakespeare said. “And, I warrant you, once Master Kemp hath the lines wherewith to work his foolery, he'll make a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day; a most lovely, gentleman-like man.”

“God grant it be so.” Lope knew he didn't sound convinced. He bowed. “I go.”

When he got back to the Spanish barracks, Enrique wouldn't let him in to see Captain Guzmán till he'd recited and translated Shakespeare's lines for Elizabeth and the Duke of Parma. When he'd finished, Guzmán's servant kissed his bunched fingertips like a lovesick youth. “Again, Senior Lieutenant, I envy you your fluency in English. If only I spoke better, I would be with you at the Theatre every moment until my principal beat me with sticks to hold me to his service.”

Lope believed him. “His Excellency would beat you to get you
not
to do something,” he observed. “With Diego . . .” He didn't go on. Enrique was clever enough—more than clever enough—to draw his own pictures. “And now that I have sung for the privilege, be so kind as to take me to your principal.”

“Of course. If you will do me the favor of accompanying me . . .”

Baltasar Guzmán listened attentively to Lope. When de Vega started to quote the English, though, his superior held up a hand. “Spare me that. I don't know enough of the language to follow. Give me the gist,
en español
.”

“Certainly, your Excellency,” Lope said, and obeyed.

When he'd finished, Guzmán nodded. “This all sounds well enough, Lieutenant. I have one question, though.” Lope nodded, too, looking as if he awaited nothing more eagerly. Captain Guzmán asked, “Can you
be sure no treason lurks here, that an Englishman would hear but you do not? You have harped on Shakespeare's subtlety before.”

The question was better, more serious, more important, than Lope had looked for. “I—” he began, and then shook his head. “No, sir, I cannot be sure of that. I am fluent in English, but not perfect. Still, the Master of the Revels will pass on the play before it appears. I may miss this or that. He will not.”

“Yes. That is so.” Captain Guzmán nodded and looked relieved. “And Sir Edmund is most reliable.” He clicked his tongue between his teeth. “I have to make sure he stays reliable, eh?”

“
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
” de Vega remarked.

“Just so—who watches the watchmen?” Guzmán turned Latin into Spanish. He eyed Lope, who felt a sudden horrible fear the little nobleman might decide he ought to do that job. But Guzmán shook his head, reading de Vega's thought. “You'll stay where you are. You're doing well there, and I have no one else who could take your place. So your precious Shakespeare really is writing this play, eh?”

“He really is, your Excellency,” Lope answered.

“Good. Very good,” Captain Guzmán said. “One more English whore—pay him, and he does what you want.”

 

S
HAKESPEARE WAS TIRED
of cheese and stockfish and even of fresh fish. What he wanted was a beefsteak, hot and sizzling and full of juice. When he grumbled to Kate in the ordinary, she leaned toward him and spoke in a low voice. “You can have what you crave, though not for the threepence of a common supper.”