Ruled Britannia (41 page)

“I'd speak with you of your latest, Master Shakespeare, whilst other business distracts the company.” Thomas Vincent nodded towards the
crowd of people still hanging on Will Kemp's every word, still sniggering at his every smirk. He had the sense not to name
Boudicca
; as usual after a performance, not all the folk in the tiring room belonged to Lord Westmorland's Men.

And, for aught I know, we have our own spying serpent amongst us, as Satan did even in Eden
, Shakespeare thought. “I attend,” he told Vincent.

“A scribe shall make your foul papers into parts the players shall use to learn their lines,” the prompter said.

“Certes.” Shakespeare nodded. “My character, I know, can be less than easy to make out.”

Thomas Vincent nodded, too, relief on his face. “I would not offend, sir, not for the world, but . . . You knowing of the trouble, I may speak freely.”

“By all means,” Shakespeare said. Vincent was more polite about it than poor Geoff Martin had been. Had Shakespeare believed all the late prompter's slanders, he would never have presumed to take pen in hand.

Even if Vincent was polite, he pressed ahead: “And, were your hand never so excellent, your latest still causeth . . . ah, difficulties in choosing a scribe.”

Every time a new pair of eyes saw
Boudicca
, the risk of betrayal grew. Vincent did his best to say that without actually saying it. Shakespeare didn't need it spelled out. He knew it all too well, as he had since Thomas Phelippes first drew him into the plot. If a scribe writing out fair copies for the players took them to the Spaniards . . . If that happened, everyone in Lord Westmorland's Men would die the death.

But the poet said, “Fear not.” Hearing those words coming from his mouth almost made him laugh out loud. Only when he was sure he wouldn't did he go on, “Haply I may name you a name anon.”

“May it be so,” Vincent said, and Shakespeare had to remember not to cross himself to echo that sentiment.

 

I
T WAS THE
middle of a fine, bright morning. When Lope de Vega walked into his rooms in the Spanish barracks, he found his servant curled into a ball under the covers, fast asleep. De Vega sighed. Diego had been almost unnaturally good and obedient these past few weeks. More surprising than his backsliding was how long it had taken.

Lope shook him, not at all gently. “Wake up! By God and St. James,
you're
not the best boy in Spain.” Diego muttered something that had no real words in it. Lope shook him again, even harder this time. “Wake up!” he repeated.

His servant yawned and rubbed his eyes. “Oh, hello,
señor
. I didn't—”

“Expect you,” de Vega finished for him, his tone sour. “You're supposed to do your job whether I'm here or not, Diego.”

“I know, I know,” Diego said sulkily. He yawned again, though he did get out of bed before Lope started screaming at him. “I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. It's only that . . . I get tired.”

He meant it. He was the picture of rumpled sincerity. That he could mean it made Lope marvel. “And the less you do, the more tired you get, too,” Lope said. “If you did nothing at all, you would sleep all day long
and all night long as well—and you would love every moment of it. Are you a man or an oyster?”

“I am a man who likes oysters,” Diego replied with dignity. “Now that you've got me up, what is it that's so important for me to do?”

“
El mejor mozo de España
,” Lope told him. “You may not be the best boy in Spain, or even England, but you're damned well in
The Best Boy in Spain
, and it's time to rehearse. Come on. Get moving. Do you want Enrique to give you the horse laugh?”

“You think I care about that
maricón
?” Diego said. “Not likely. If his arsehole isn't wider than the Thames—”

“Enough of your filth!” Lope exclaimed. “You've said it before, but you've got no proof. None. Not a farthing's worth. Not a flyspeck's worth. So keep your mouth shut and don't make trouble. It'll turn out worse for you than for the people you're trying to hurt, and you can bet on that.”

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes.” Diego struck a pose more dramatic than any he was likely to take in
The Best Boy in Spain
. “When an ordinary fellow says anything about a nobleman's servant, he's always wrong. Even when he's right, he's wrong.”

“When an ordinary fellow talks about a nobleman's servant, he'd better be right,” Lope said. “And you aren't, or you can't prove you are. So you'd better shut up about that.”

“All right,
señor
. I'll keep quiet.” Diego still sounded surly. “But you'll see whether I'm right or not. In the end, you'll see. And when you do, I'm going to say, ‘I told you so.' ”

“Don't gloat till you have the chance,” Lope said. “For that matter, remember your station in life. Whether you're right or you're wrong, you're still a servant. You're still
my
servant. So don't gloat too much even if you turn out to be right.”

That sat none too well with Diego. Lope could see as much. But the servant put on a pair of shoes and accompanied him to the courtyard where his makeshift company was rehearsing
El mejor mozo de España
. Even in Spain, it would have made a spartan rehearsal ground. Here in England, where de Vega could compare it to the luxury of the Theatre and the other halls where plays were presented, it seemed more austere yet.

Austere?
Lope laughed at himself.
What you really mean is cheap, makeshift, shabby
. He wondered what Shakespeare would think, seeing what he had to work with. Shakespeare was a gentle, courteous man. He
would, without a doubt, give what praise he could. He would also, and equally without a doubt, be appalled.

As Lope had expected, Enrique was already there. He sat on the ground, his back against a brick wall, as he solemnly studied his parts. He was to play several small roles: a Moor, a page, and one of Ferdinand's friends. When he saw Lope, he sprang to his feet and bowed. “
Buenos días, señor
.” Polite as a cat, he also bowed to Diego, though not so deeply. “
Buenos días
.”

“A good day to you as well,” Lope replied, and bowed back as superior to inferior. Diego, still grouchy, only nodded. Lope trod on his foot. Thus cued, he did bow. Lope didn't want Captain Guzmán's servant offended by anyone connected to him.

Enrique didn't seem offended. He seemed enthusiastic. He waved sheets of paper in the air. “This is an excellent play,
señor
, truly excellent. No one in Madrid will see anything better this year. I'm sure of that.”

“You are too kind,” Lope murmured. He was no more immune to flattery than anyone else—he was less immune to flattery than a lot of people. When he bowed again to show his pleasure, it was almost as equal to equal. Diego looked disgusted. De Vega debated stepping on his foot again.

Before he could, Enrique asked, “Tell me,
señor
, is it really true what the soldier over there says? A real woman, a real Spanish woman, is going to play Isabella? That will be wonderful—wonderful, I tell you. The wife of an officer who could afford to bring her here, he told me.”

De Vega shot Diego a look that said,
Would he be so happy about a woman if he didn't care for them?
His servant's sneer replied,
All he cares about is the play. If she makes it better, that's what matters to him
. With a scowl, Lope turned back to Enrique. “A woman, yes. A Spaniard, of course—could an Englishwoman play our great Queen? The wife of an officer? No. Don Alejandro brought his mistress—her name's Catalina Ibañez—to London, not his wife. And a good thing, too, for the play. A nobleman's wife could never appear on stage. That would be scandalous. But his mistress? No trouble there.”

“Ah. I see.” Enrique nodded. “I did wonder. But it is Don Alejandro de Recalde's woman, then? Corporal Fernandez had that right?”

“Yes, he did,” Lope said.

Diego guffawed. “If I had a choice between bringing my wife and my mistress to this miserable, freezing place, I'd bring the one who kept me warmer, too.”

“Be careful, or you'll be sorry,” Enrique whispered through lips that hardly moved. “Here she comes.”

Don Alejandro's mistress knew how to make an entrance. She swept into the courtyard with a couple of serving women in her wake. They were both pretty, but seemed plain beside her. She was tiny but perfect. No, not quite perfect: she had a tiny mole by the corner of her mouth.

Be careful, or you'll be sorry
. De Vega knew Enrique hadn't been talking to him, and hadn't meant
that
kind of care when he was talking to Diego. But the servant's words might have been meant for Lope. He couldn't take his eyes off Catalina Ibañez . . . and where his eyes went, he wanted his hands and his lips to follow.

He swept off his hat and bowed as low to her as if she really were Isabella of Castile, the first Queen of a united Spain. “
Buenos días, Doña
Catalina,” he said. A noble's mistress didn't really deserve to be called
doña
; out of the corner of his eye, he saw status-conscious Enrique raise an eyebrow some tiny fraction of an inch.

Catalina Ibañez accept the title as nothing less than her due. “
Buenos días
,” she replied with truly queenly condescension. Her black eyes snapped. “Is everyone ready? Is everything ready?”
Everyone and everything had better be
, her tone warned. When Lope didn't say no, she nodded grudging approval. “Let's get on with the rehearsal, then. I have plenty of other things to do once I'm finished here.” She tossed her head.

Be careful, or you'll be sorry
. Lope hadn't lived his life being careful. He found it wildly unlikely he'd start now. Yes, Catalina Ibañez was a nobleman's plaything. Yes, she was trouble in a beautiful wrapping. Yes, she had no more pity and no more regard for anyone else than a cat did. Lope knew all that. Every bit of it was obvious at first glance. None of it stopped him from falling in love. Nothing had ever stopped him from falling in love.

He hadn't fallen out of love with Lucy Watkins. He didn't fall out of love with one woman when he fell in love with another. No, his way was to pile one love on another, adding delight to delight . . . till the whole rickety structure came crashing down on top of him, as it had outside the bear-baiting arena down in Southwark.

He gazed at Catalina Ibañez—and found her looking back, those midnight eyes full of old, cold wisdom. She knew. Oh yes, she knew. He hadn't said a word yet, but she knew everything there was to know. He didn't think she could read or write, but some things, plainly, she'd been born knowing.

Be careful, or you'll be sorry
. Lope sighed. He saw no way this could possibly end well. He intended to go on with it, go through with it, anyhow.

Later. Not yet.
El mejor mozo de España
came first. Even set beside his love affairs, the words, the rhymes, the verses in his head counted for more. What had Shakespeare said in
Prince of Denmark
?
The play's the thing
—that was the line. “Take your places, then, ladies and gentlemen,” Lope said. “First act, first scene. We'll start from where Rodrigo the page enters with his guitar and speaks to Isabella.”

Rodrigo was played by the strapping Spanish corporal named Joaquin Fernandez. He was tall as a tree, blond as an Englishman, handsome as an angel—and wooden as a block. He stumbled through his lines. Catalina Ibañez replied,

 

“Tres cosas parecen bien:

el religioso rezando,

el gallardo caballero

ejercitando el acero,

y la dama honesta silando.”

 

She wasn't just pretty. She could act. Unlike poor Fernandez (whose good looks still worried Lope), when she spoke, you believed three things seemed good to her—a monk praying, a gallant knight going to war sword in hand, and an honest woman spinning.

That had to be acting. De Vega couldn't imagine Catalina Ibañez caring about monks or honest women spinning—gallant knights were liable to be a different story. But, listening to her, you
believed
she cared, and that was the mystery of acting. If the audience believed, nothing else mattered.

On they went. Joaquin Fernandez had at least learned his lines. He might get better—a little. Catalina sparkled without much help. Lope knew how hard that was. No matter who surrounded her, this play would work as long as she was in it. De Vega felt that in his bones.

I wish Shakespeare had Spanish enough to follow this
, he thought as the scene ended.
I wish he could see the difference using actresses makes, too
. He shrugged. The Englishman would just have to bumble along in his own little arena with its own foolish conventions. If that meant his work never got the attention it deserved in the wider world, well, such was life.

“Bravo, Corporal Fernandez!” Lope said. Fernandez blinked. He wasn't used to getting praise from the playwright. Lope went on, “And brava,
Doña
Catalina, your Majesty! Truly Spain will come into its own with you on the throne.”

“Thank you, Senior Lieutenant,” Catalina Ibañez purred. She dropped him a curtsy. Their eyes locked. Oh, yes, she'd noticed him watching her. Or rather, she'd noticed the way he watched her—not just as an author and director watched an actress, which he had every right to do, but as a man watched a woman he desired. If she wanted him, too, then in some sense he had every right to do that as well—though Don Alejandro de Recalde, her keeper, would have a different opinion.

“All right,” Lope said. “Let's go on.” He might have been speaking to the assembled players. People shifted, getting ready for the next scene.

Or he might have been speaking to Catalina Ibañez alone, all the rest of them forgotten. By the way her red, full lips curved into the smallest of smiles, she thought he was. Her eyes met his again, just for a moment.
Yes, let's
, they said.

 

K
ATE POURED BEER
into Shakespeare's mug. “I thank you,” he said absently. He'd eaten more than half of his kidney pie before noticing how good it was—or, indeed, paying much attention to what it was. Most of him focused on
King Philip
. He'd stormed ahead the night before, and he couldn't wait to get to work tonight. The candle at his table was tall and thick and bright. It would surely burn till curfew, or maybe even a little longer.