Ruled Britannia (54 page)

Lope said, “This marches with that which you told unto Constable Strawberry.”

Damn Constable Strawberry for a very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow
, Shakespeare thought. “Is not the truth the truth?” he said aloud. “That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.”

“I know not whether 'tis truth or another thing,” de Vega answered. “I do know I will find where truth be hid, though it were hid indeed within the center. That a man saith twice the same thing proves not its truth, but only his constancy.”

“Are we not friends here?” Cicely Sellis asked. “Use friends each the other so?”

To Shakespeare's surprise, Lope bowed to her and said, “You are as wise as you are lovely. Let it be as you would have't, of course.”

She sketched a curtsy. She didn't bend low, to keep Mommet from either falling off or sinking in his claws. “Gramercy,” she said. “In a false quarrel there is no true valor.”

Lope nodded. “That is well said.”

“Indeed it is,” Shakespeare agreed. But he knew the Spaniard hadn't stopped digging—he'd only paused while in the cunning woman's company. Even that was a good deal more than Shakespeare had expected. He watched the way de Vega's eyes caressed her.
He'd fain be more than friend
, the poet realized.
What tangled skein have we here, and how will it unravel?
He tried to imagine Lope coming regularly to the Widow Kendall's lodging-house, walking into Cicely Sellis' room, closing the door behind him. . . .

Would Mommet watch?
he wondered.
Could a man bed a witch, her puckrel attending her? Would it not unman him?
He eyed her himself.
Would I know these things for the don's sake, or for mine own?

Haply for mine own
.

Cicely Sellis' eyes, gray as the northern seas, met his own—met them and held them. Not for the first time, he had the feeling she knew every thought in his head. Considering what some of those thoughts were . . . He feared he blushed like a schoolboy.

If the cunning woman truly could divine his mind, she gave no sign of it. She leaned towards Lope and spoke to him in a voice too low for Shakespeare to make out. The Spaniard nodded, his smile indulgent—and more than a little hungry. A moment later, he was making his goodbyes to Shakespeare and leading her out of the tiring room.

Richard Burbage came over to the poet. “The don hath
another
new woman?”

Shakespeare only shrugged. “I cannot say. That he
would
have her, though, I doubt not. She is the cunning woman, hight Cicely Sellis, of whom I may once or twice have spoke.”

Burbage's eyes got wide. “The one dwelling in your lodging-house?”

“The same.”

“I hope that damned witch, that damned sorceress, hath wrought this hellish mischief unawares,” Burbage said, his deep voice somber.

“Of . . . ?” Shakespeare let the title of the play hang unspoken in the air.

“Of that, and of other things,” the player answered.

“So I hope as well, but Cicely Sellis, methinks, is unaware of very little.”

“Will she discover to the Spaniard that which she knows?” Burbage asked nervously.

“I . . . think not.” Shakespeare wanted to shake his head and say such a thing was impossible, unimaginable. He wanted to, but knew too well he couldn't. He and Cicely Sellis had hardly spoken of things political. Few in occupied England said much about such things, except to those they knew would not betray them. Trusting the wrong man—or woman—was among the worst mistakes anyone could make.

“You think not?” Richard Burbage echoed, and Shakespeare nodded. Burbage persisted: “No more than that can you say?” Now the poet did shake his head. Burbage looked very unhappy indeed, for which Shakespeare could not blame him. He asked, “And will she too meet the smiler with the knife under the cloak?”

That made Shakespeare blink. He'd used Chaucer as a source for a couple of his plays, but hadn't known Burbage read
The Canterbury Tales
. Asking him about that, though, would wait for some other time. “Why to me put you this question?” he said, speaking in a near-whisper to make sure no one else in the tiring room heard. “I knew naught of poor Geoff's murther aforetimes, nor of Matt Quinn's, neither.”

Burbage said nothing. His silence felt more devastating than any words could have. Shakespeare grimaced and turned away. He'd told the truth. As so often happened, it did him no good at all.

And, when he got back to his lodging-house, he found Jane Kendall in a swivet. “A Spaniard!” the widow hissed at him as soon as he walked through the door. “She came hither with a
Spaniard
!” She crossed herself. Being sincerely Catholic, she preferred Isabella and Albert on the throne to Elizabeth, but had no great love for the stern soldiers who'd set them there. Such contradictions were anything but rare these days.

“Rest you easy, Mistress Kendall,” Shakespeare said; another upset was the last thing he needed. “The don is known to me: a sweet-faced man; a proper man.”

“But he is a don,” the Widow Kendall said. “Be he never so sweet-faced, he is a don, a busy meddling fiend.” She paused, then made the sign of the cross again. “And I dare not even rate her for't, lest she do me a mischief with her foul witchery.” Her voice fell to a barely audible whisper: “Is he her sweetheart?”

“I know not, not to a surety,” Shakespeare answered. “He'd have it so, meseems, but oft yawns a gulf 'twixt what a man would and what a woman will.”

Jane Kendall sniffed. “Saith she, I am a widow. And how many queans and callets and low harlots say the same?”

Shakespeare thought Cicely Sellis might be a great many things. A whore? Never. He didn't argue with the Widow Kendall, though. He'd long since seen there was no point to that. He simply headed for his bedchamber, saying, “I needs must take pen and paper, and then I'm for the ordinary and supper and, God grant it, some tolerable verses.”

His landlady couldn't complain so loudly as was her custom, not when she feared the cunning woman and so also feared being overheard. That let him get out of the house and off to the ordinary. By the time he came back, Jane Kendall had gone to bed. So did he, not much later.

He was on his way up to the Theatre the next morning when Nicholas Skeres slid out of a side street and fell into step with him. “Aroint thee!” Shakespeare exclaimed. “I'd liefer see a black cat cross my path than thee. I am suspect for that we are acquainted, and known to be acquainted.”

Skeres didn't get angry, which disappointed Shakespeare—he longed for a quarrel, even a fight. “I'll begone anon,” the clever but ill-favored man said. “First, though, you must know at once: Lord Burghley is no more. He died yesternight, in's sleep.”

“God save us,” Shakespeare whispered. He'd expected the news since the last time he saw Nick Skeres. Hearing it jolted him even so.

“God save us indeed,” Skeres answered now. “God and good St. George save England—God and St. George and you, Master Shakespeare.”

“I am sure as need be this cloth hath more threads than mine own,” Shakespeare said, and Nicholas Skeres did not contradict him. He went on, “God grant Robert Cecil hath hold of them all.” Skeres nodded, then slipped away. Shakespeare trudged on towards the Theatre, alone with his thoughts.

 

L
OPE DE
V
EGA
and Catalina Ibañez sat in a tavern in Westminster, drinking sweet Rhenish wine and glaring at each other across the table. “You never take me anywhere,” Catalina complained. “I might as well be in a convent, for all the fun I have with you.”

“That is not so,” Lope said indignantly. “Did we not go to the bear-baiting only two nights ago? Was it not a fine spectacle?” Going back to Southwark gave him a twinge, but he'd done it for Catalina. Since she was, at the moment, his only lover, he'd feared no disaster. Nor had he suffered one. He'd had a good time, and thought she had, too.

Maybe she had, but she didn't show it now. “Bear-baiting!” She laced the words with scorn. “Where are the balls, where are the feasts, where are the masques Don Alejandro used to take me to? I ask you that—where are they? You'd better have a good answer for me, too.” Her eyes flashed dangerously.

With such patience as he could muster, de Vega answered, “My dear, Don Alejandro was a nobleman, and a man newly come from Spain. Of course he got invited to these things. I am only a senior lieutenant. I wish I were in great demand. Unfortunately, though . . .”

“Oh, why did I ever take up with you?” Catalina seemed more likely to be asking God than Lope.

Lope answered nonetheless: “For love?”

“Love?” She waved away the very idea. “When Queen Isabella tossed you that purse after we put on
El mejor mozo de España
, I thought you were going places. But the only place you want to go is the English theatre.”

“I wish you spoke the language,” Lope said. “There's so much to see, so much to admire, so much to learn.”

Catalina Ibañez yawned in his face. “So much to be bored by. I've been bored every single minute since we started seeing each other.”

“
Every
minute?” Lope said. “I think not, my dear.” If she'd faked her pleasure, she was a far better actress even than she'd shown on stage.

She didn't deign to respond to the sly dig. Instead, she said, “I never should have told anyone you killed poor Don Alejandro in a fair fight. If you don't start treating me better, I'll tell people what
really
happened, there in that yard.”

“What
really
happened?” Lope didn't spring from his stool. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't so much as lean forward. Menace filled his words and manner even so. “What do you mean? Tell me most precisely.”

Intent on herself, Catalina Ibañez didn't notice the menace, not at first. “Why, how you lay in wait for him and . . . and . . .” Her voice trailed away.

Too late. Too slow. Lope said, “You will not do that.” He spoke as
calmly as if he were telling her,
The sun will come up tomorrow
. “If you think you can blackmail me, my sweet, you had better think again. Do you remember what Don Alejandro's body looked like? That could be you.”

“You wouldn't d . . .” But Catalina once more failed to finish her sentence. Lope might. What would stop him? He'd already done it to Don Alejandro de Recalde.

“Do you want to try me? Do you want to find out what I would or wouldn't do?” Lope asked. “Go right ahead, my love. You'll learn everything you ever wanted to know, I promise you that.”

“You are a monster! An animal!” Catalina said shrilly.

De Vega inclined his head. “At your service,
señorita
. Always at your service.”

“My service!” she said. “The best service you could give me would be never to see me again.”

“If that's how you would have it, so shall it be.” Lope got to his feet. He swept off his hat and bowed low. “Pity a man died over so small and passing a thing as your affection, but such is life. But even if we are quits, do bear in mind that I shall know if you go telling lies about me to those in authority. You may think you can ruin me. You may even be right. But I promise you, I will have my revenge. Do you doubt it?”

Catalina Ibañez looked as if she would have liked nothing better than to do exactly that. But all she said was, “N-n-n-no”—as frightened a stammer as he'd ever heard.

He had no idea whether to believe her. He refused to worry about it either way. If she did go to the authorities with her lies, they might or might not take her seriously. Whether they did or not, honor demanded that he avenge the slight. He would do it, too, at whatever cost to himself. She had to know that. She wasn't wise in the ways of book learning, but she was shrewd.

With another bow, Lope said, “Farewell, my former dear. I shall remember you in my dreams—and, if God is kind, nowhere else.” He strode out of the wineshop. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him Catalina staring after him, her eyes enormous in a face gone pale and yellow as goat's-milk cheese.

He went out into the street just in time to see Sir William Cecil's funeral procession pass by, carrying deposed Elizabeth's great counselor from Westminster to his final resting place in St. Paul's
cathedral in London. De Vega hadn't thought any Englishman, especially one of such dubious loyalty, could be buried with so much pomp. But, when he saw how many people lined the street for a last glimpse of Lord Burghley's earthly remains even here in Westminster, a stronghold of Isabella and Albert and the Spaniards, he realized the powers that be hadn't dared say no to this procession, for fear of riots or worse.

Four white horses draped in black velvet decorated with Sir William's coat of arms drew the bier through the streets. More velvet, this of a deep purple hue, covered the coffin that held Cecil's corpse. Above the coffin was an effigy of the dead English nobleman, his arms folded over this chest in the shape of the cross. A canopy of black velvet, again picked out with the Cecil coat of arms, shielded the effigy from the August sun.