Ruled Britannia (70 page)

Jealousy wasn't what Jane Kendall felt. “So thou
art
a doxy, then,” she spat at Cicely Sellis. “Whore! Trull! Poxy callet!”

“Oh, be still, you stale, mouse-eaten cheese,” the cunning woman replied. “Your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of those French withered pears: it looks ill, it eats dryly.”

The Widow Kendall stared, popeyed with fury. Having had a husband, she surely was no virgin. And yet, after what she'd called the younger woman, the word seemed to stick to her, and in no flattering way.

Calmly, Cicely Sellis nodded to Shakespeare. “Ay, I lay with him. Both you and he had made it pikestaff plain somewhat of no small import was afoot, the which he must not let nor hinder. I lay with him, and thought of England.”

“Of England?” Lope yelped. “I on her belly fell, she on her back, and she bethought her of
England
? Marry, what a liar thou art, Mistress Sellis! 'Twas not of England, but of thy—” He seemed to have lost the English word. Shakespeare did not supply it. De Vega, miffed and more than miffed, addressed his words to him: “I do assure you, Master Will, her caterwauls were like to those coming from the throat of this accursed beast, her witchy familiar.” He jerked a thumb towards Mommet.

The cat arched its back and hissed. Cicely Sellis flushed. By that, Shakespeare judged she likely had thought of other things besides England when she bedded Lope, and taken more pleasure than she cared to admit now. But that didn't mean she
hadn't
thought of England. And if she'd kept the Spanish officer from going through the papers in Shakespeare's chest, she might have saved the uprising. Had the dons had even a few hours to make ready . . . Shakespeare didn't want to think about that.

He said, “One may do for love of country that which one would not else.” De Vega howled. The Widow Kendall sniffed. The cunning woman nodded again. Was that relief on her face? Shakespeare couldn't be sure, not least because up till now she'd always been so much in control of herself that he didn't recall her wearing such an expression before.

“I still say—” Jane Kendall began.

“Wait, an't please you,” Shakespeare said. His landlady blinked; he seldom presumed to interrupt her. He went on, “You were wise, Mistress Kendall, to say not that which may not be mended. For the times
do
change, will you or nill you, and it will go hard for those who change not with them.”

The times
would
change, if the rebellion succeeded. He didn't know it would. But the Widow Kendall didn't know it wouldn't. And, as one who'd shown herself to be a devout Catholic these past ten years, she stood to lose perhaps a great deal if people she knew denounced her. She licked her lips. Shakespeare could see that realization growing in her. She must have seen—the dons had made sure all England saw—what happened to stubborn Protestants. With a new spin of the wheel, it would be the Papists' turn. She exhaled with what might have been anger, but said not another word.

Cicely Sellis nodded towards Lope. “What would you with him, Master Will?” she asked.

“I?” Shakespeare sounded startled, even to himself. He'd never held a man's life in his hands before. If he cut de Vega's throat here in the parlor, no one would think the less of him (save possibly Jane Kendall, on account of the mess it would make). If . . . He sighed and shook his head. “I have not the murtherer's blood in me,” he said, as if someone had claimed he did. “He acted but from duty, and from loyalty to his own King. Let him be made prisoner, to be ransomed or exchanged or otherwise enlarged as fate allow.”

“Gramercy,” Lope said softly. “I am your servant.” He managed a ragged chuckle. “And, but for yon witch, I should have made a
splendid
Don Juan de Idiáquez.”

That jerked a laugh and a nod from Shakespeare. “Ay, belike,” he said, and then, “ 'Twould like me one day to see
King Philip
on the stage. An you bide yet in England, Master Lope, the part's yours.”

De Vega gave him a crooked grin. “With our Lord, I say, let this cup pass from me.”

Shakespeare had had that thought, too. “Come now,” Shakespeare
said, gesturing towards the door with his knife. “I will give you over into the charge of those whose duty is to take captives, for I know there be such men. Think not to flee, neither. You have yielded—and flight would prove the worse for you, we English holding London.”

“Before God, I shall not flee.” As Lope got to his feet, he put a hand to his bruised head. “Before God, I
cannot
flee far. But I would not, even if I could. I have seen your London wolves stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining at the start, and would not have them dog my heels.”

“Let's away, then,” Shakespeare said. “By my troth, I'll give you into the hands of none others but them that will hold you safe until you may once more be set at liberty.” De Vega nodded. Even that small motion must have pained him, for he hissed and gingerly touched his head again. Shakespeare made a leg at Jane Kendall and Cicely Sellis. “Farewell, ladies.”

His landlady dropped him an awkward curtsy by way of reply. Cicely Sellis dipped her head, murmuring, “I stand much in your debt, Master Will.”

And how would I have that debt repaid?
he wondered.
In the same coin she gave the Spaniard?
He shoved Lope. “Let's away,” he said again, sounding rough as a soldier.

He didn't have to take de Vega far. They'd just come out into Bishopsgate Street when a fresh column of captives shambled down from the north. “Move along, you poor cuckoldy knaves; you louts; you remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villains,” shouted the Englishman at their head. “Ay, move along, or 'twill be the worse for you, you blackguards, you virgin-violators, you inexcrable dogs.” Most of the Spaniards couldn't have understood a word of the abuse he showered on them, but they did understand they had to keep moving.

Shakespeare waved to that loud Englishman, calling, “Bide a moment! I've another don here, for to add to your party.”

“Well, bring him on, then, the damned murtherous fat-kidneyed rascal,” the fellow replied.

Careless of whatever anguish it might have cost, Lope gave him a courtier's bow. “I am thy servant, thou proud disdainful haggard,” he said.

It must have sounded like praise to the Englishman. “You're a sweet-tongued losel, eh?” he said. “Belike the lickerish ladies think the same?” De Vega nodded, which the man didn't seem to expect. He jerked a thumb towards the captives. “Get in amongst 'em. No trouble, or you'll be sorry for it.”

“I am already sorry for it,” Lope replied, but he took his place with the rest of the Spaniards. Away they went, down deeper into London.

As Shakespeare turned back towards his lodging-house, a brisk spatter of gunfire rang out not too far away: close enough, at any rate, for him to hear the cries of wounded men immediately afterwards. The fight for London hadn't quite finished. He couldn't tell whether the cries were in English or Spanish. Men in torment sounded much the same in either language.

The sun was sinking fast, though clouds and smoke—more of the former and less of the latter than he'd seen the day before. Most of the time, he would have gone to the Widow Kendall's and then to his ordinary for supper. He'd already been to the lodging-house. The excitement with de Vega had chased sleep from him—and there stood the ordinary, its door open and inviting.

When he walked in, Kate was setting candles on the tables and lighting them with a burning splinter. One man had already taken his place near the hearth. He was cutting up the beefsteak that sat on a wooden trencher in front of him. “Will!” Kate exclaimed, and dropped the candles she was holding. She ran to him, took him in her arms, squeezed the breath out of him, and kissed him. “Sweet Will! God be praised I see thee whole and hale!” She kissed him again.

“A right friendly dive, this,” said the man with the beefsteak, a grin on his greasy face.

Shakespeare ignored him. Holding Kate, kissing her, he forgot about Cicely Sellis. No, that went too far. He didn't forget about her, but did put her in perspective. She was a temptation: a sweet one, but no more. Kate . . . Were he not tied to Anne back in Stratford, he would gladly have made her his wife.

He pushed that thought aside, as he had to. “As you see me,” he said, “and passing glad to see thee.” Now he kissed her. The fellow by the hearth whooped. Neither of them paid him the least attention.

At last the kiss ended, but they still clung to each other. Kate asked, “What wouldst thou, my darling?”

“Thou knowest full well what I would,” Shakespeare answered. “What I will, what I can, what I may . . .” He shrugged. “Thou knowest likewise the difficulties, the impediments, the obstacles before me. I have not lied to thee.” He took a certain forlorn pride in that. Kate nodded. He went on, “An I be able them to thrust aside, I'll do't in a heartbeat.”

“May it be so. Oh, may it be so! With all in flux, who can say this or that shall not come to pass? If Elizabeth be free o' the Tower—”

“She is,” Shakespeare said. “With mine own eyne I saw her leave it, borne on Sir Robert Devereux his shoulders.”

“Well, then,” Kate said, as if that proved something. Maybe, to her, it did. “Who could have dreamt such a thing, e'en a week gone by? So great a miracle being worked for England, why not a smaller one, for us twain alone?”

“Ay, why not?” Shakespeare agreed, and kissed her once more. That he remained alive and free to do it struck him as more than miracle enough right now.

 

W
HEN ONE OF
Lope de Vega's lovers caught him with another outside the bear-baiting arena in Southwark, he'd thought the round wooden building, so like a theatre in construction, would remain forever the scene of his worst humiliation. Now here he was back at the arena, and humiliated again: the English were using it to house the Spanish prisoners they'd taken. He squatted glumly on the sand-strewn dirt floor where so many bears and hounds had died.

The beasts were gone, taken away to another pit. Their stenches lingered: the sharp stink of the dogs and the bears' ranker, muskier reek. With so many captives packed into the place, the commonplace smells of unwashed men and their wastes were crowding out the animal odors.

Gray clouds gathered overhead. If it rained, the arena floor would turn to mud. Lope knew he would have to find himself a place in one of the galleries.
I should have done that sooner
, he thought. But he hadn't had the energy. He'd been sunk in lethargy since taking the blow that almost broke his skull, and especially since failing to avenge himself on Cicely Sellis. After that failure, nothing seemed to matter.

Not far away, one of his countrymen asked another, “In the name of God, why does no one rescue us?”

“Those who win, rescue,” the other Spaniard said. “If we are not rescued, it is because we do not win.”

That made much more sense than Lope wished it did. The first Spaniard said, “But how can we lose to this English rabble? We beat them before—beat them with ease. Are they such giants now? Have we turned into dwarfs these past ten years?”

“Our army is scattered over the country now,” the other man
answered. “English soldiers were supposed to do much of the job for us, so a lot of our men could go back to the Netherlands and put down the rebels there.”

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes!” the first captive said. “The English did a wonderful job of holding down the countryside—till they turned on us like so many rabid dogs.”

Lope said, “And the Netherlands have risen in revolt again, too, or so the English say. Just when we thought we had them quiet at last . . .” He wanted to shake his head, but didn't. Even now, more than a week after he'd been struck down, such motion could bring on blinding headaches. After a moment, he continued, “And who knows what Philip III will do once word of this finally reaches him?”

Neither of the other men answered for a little while. At last, one of them murmured, “Ah, if only his father were still alive.” His friend nodded. So did Lope, cautiously. Philip II would have had the determination to fight hard against an uprising like this. That, of course, was not the smallest reason the English had waited till he was dead to rebel. And everyone knew all too well that Philip III was not the man, not half the man, his father had been.

That night, cannon fire off to the east interrupted Lope's rest. He wondered what it meant, but no one inside the bear-baiting arena could see out. He'd just dozed off in spite of the distant booms when an enormous explosion, much larger than a mere cannon blast, jerked him upright and make him wonder if his head would burst as well. After that, the gunfire quickly diminished. An almost aching silence returned. Having nothing else he could do, he lay down and went back to sleep.

When the sun rose, the Englishmen who came in to feed their captives were jubilant. “Some of your galleons essayed sailing up the Thames,” said the fellow who handed Lope a bowl of sour-smelling porridge, “but we sent 'em back, by God, tails 'twixt their legs.”

“How, I pray you?” Lope asked. He shoveled the porridge into his mouth with his fingers, for he had not even a horn spoon to call his own.