Ruled Britannia (55 page)

In the wake of the bier walked Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley's son. The pale little man with his twisted back seemed out of place in that robust sun; the black velvet of mourning he wore only accented his pallor. Just for a moment, his eyes met Lope's. He nodded, as if to a friend, and kept on walking.

Behind him came several other prominent Englishmen, of his generation and his father's. Lope recognized Francis Bacon, who, being Lord Burghley's nephew, could hardly be blamed for mourning his passing. Some of the others, though, surprised de Vega. Sir William Cecil had had more friends than he'd believed among the men who ran the country for Queen Isabella and King Albert.

Many of those men, no doubt, would have been as glad to run England for Elizabeth the heretic. Lope's eyes flicked east, towards the Tower where she remained. In an odd way, killing Mary Queen of Scots might have saved Elizabeth's life. Not wanting to be a regicide himself, King Philip hadn't imitated her and had let her live.

Catalina Ibañez came out of the wineshop. Seeing Lope standing there watching the funeral procession move on towards London, she snarled something that would have made a grizzled muleteer blush, then stalked away.
I don't suppose I'll see her again
, de Vega thought with a sigh.
I don't need to waste any worries on her, though. She's bound to land on her feet or on her back or wherever will do her the most good. But even so . . .
He sighed again.

Beside him, someone spoke in English-accented Spanish: “There's a dangerous foe of Isabella and Albert dead.”

Lope started. “Oh.
Buenos días, Señor
Phelippes. My head must have been in the clouds, for I noted you not when you came up. I am most sorry.” He bowed in apology.

Thomas Phelippes politely returned the bow. “Nothing to worry about, Senior Lieutenant.” He continued to speak Spanish, where Lope had replied mostly in English.

“Tell me,” de Vega said, “what think you of Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley's son and heir?”

To answer that, Phelippes returned to English himself, as if he couldn't be scornful enough in Spanish: “Small curs are not regarded when they grin. He is as full of quarrel and offense as my young mistress' dog. An untaught puppy, by my troth: you shall see him heave up his leg, and make water against a gentlewoman's farthingale.”

Lope laughed in delight at the unexpectedness of that. “Not the man his father was, then, by your reckoning?”

“Not half the man, sir, not in any particular,” the Englishman answered. “Not in height nor in girth, not in years nor in wisdom, not in paunch nor in pizzle: a dear manikin, such a dish of skim milk as the world hath not seen the likes of since Nero's day.”

“You ease my mind,” Lope said. “I shall take your opinion to Captain Guzmán, who hath some concern o'er the son of such a father.”

“Far from fearing such as Robert Cecil, your good captain may set all plain sail and dread naught,” Thomas Phelippes said. “I have told Don Diego Flores de Valdés the same.”

“By God, sir, this is good to hear,” de Vega said. “I grieve only that his Most Catholic Majesty will not long outlive the foe he in's mercy spared.”

“The Lord moves in mysterious ways, blessed be His name.” Phelippes crossed himself. Lope did the same. The pockmarked, bespectacled little Englishman continued, “I had me the privilege of writing out the parts from Shakespeare's
King Philip
, making fair copy for the players' use. Though it were builded of brick and marble, a man might have a lesser monument.”

“Mine own thought is much the same,” de Vega agreed.

Phelippes bowed again. “May that production come not soon,” he said. “And now, sir, your pardon, but I must away.” He hurried off in the direction—Lope thought it was the direction—of the palace where he and Don Diego helped administer the Spanish occupation of England. Lope had intended to go back to London, but Lord Burghley's
funeral procession would surely clog the Strand for some time to come. With Catalina Ibañez gone, he ducked back into the wineshop instead.

 

W
HENEVER
S
HAKESPEARE LEFT
his lodging-house or the Theatre these days, the first thing he did was anxiously peer in all directions. He didn't want to see Nick Skeres coming his way with more bad news. And he especially didn't want to see Ingram Frizer, who might come his way with death.

He was supping on boiled beef and marrow bones stewed with barley and parsnips and mushrooms when Thomas Phelippes walked into the ordinary. By then, he'd come into the place often enough that Kate called to him: “A cup of the Rhenish, sir, as you've drunk before?”

“If you'd be so kind, mistress,” Phelippes replied. He pulled up a stool at Shakespeare's table and sat down, saying, “Give you good even.”

Shakespeare had raised a bone to his lips. He sucked out the rich, delicate marrow with a small, almost involuntary, sound of pleasure. Then he set the bone back in the bowl; this was no low dive, nor was he a rustic or a ruffian, to throw his refuse on the floor. “God give you good den as well, Master Phelippes,” he said grudgingly. Was the pockmarked little man a companion any safer than Skeres or Frizer? He had his doubts.

The serving woman brought Phelippes his wine. He set a penny on the table. She scooped it up. He eyed her as she walked off with it; candlelight glinted from the lenses of his spectacles. “A likely wench,” he remarked.

“Think you so?” Shakespeare said, as neutrally as he could. He sprinkled some salt from the saltcellar into his stew. “What would you?” he asked in a low voice. “You came not, meseems, for to praise the lady's beauty, however praiseworthy she be.”

Phelippes nodded. “There you speak sooth, sir.” He pointed to the pewter spoon Shakespeare had brought to the ordinary. “Eat up, quick as you may. I'd have you come with me.”

“What? Tonight? Now?” Shakespeare yelped. Thomas Phelippes nodded again. “Whither? Wherefore?” the poet demanded. “I'd purposed work of mine own this even. The one commission and the other both being done, as you will have seen”—he couldn't resist the gibe, for he remained unsure who Phelippes' true master was—“I dared hope I might pursue a notion no one set me.”

“Be ever at enmity with cozening hope; he is a flatterer,” Phelippes said. Shakespeare glared at him. Wasted effort: he gave no more heed than a snake to the frantic stares of a bird it swallowed. He went on, “Come away with me. Someone would fain take counsel with you.”

“Someone?” Shakespeare echoed. Phelippes nodded once more. “Who?” the poet asked. The other man cocked his head to one side. The dancing candle flame filled his spectacle lenses with light and lent him for a moment an inhuman cast of feature. Shakespeare mouthed Robert Cecil's name. Phelippes gave him yet another nod. Knowing he couldn't refuse, Shakespeare did eat quickly. When he'd finished the meat and the parsnips, he took up his writing tools and got to his feet. “Lead on, Master Phelippes.”

Seeing him head for the door instead of settling down to write, Kate called after him in surprise and alarm: “Is all well, Will?”

“Well enough, or so I hope,” he answered. That wouldn't reassure her. He hoped it would unsettle Phelippes. If anything happened to him, the alarm would spread quickly. The other question was, did Phelippes—did Robert Cecil—care? Shakespeare had to believe they did. If they would kill him when he'd done them no harm, when he'd labored long and hard to aid their cause, how were they better than the dons?

Outside the ordinary, darkness hung thick, almost palpable. As August moved towards September, nights were getting longer again, and colder, too. When Shakespeare sighed, he could see the vapor of his own breath. Somewhere high overhead, an owl hooted. Tiny skitterings from close by the walls said rats and mice went about their business even so.

“Whither away?” Shakespeare asked again. In that smothering dark, he felt as much a skulker as the skittering vermin.

Instead of answering with words, Thomas Phelippes set off at a brisk pace.
Can I endure this arrogance? And from this fellow?
Sadly, Shakespeare knew he had no choice. He followed.

He wished he had Mommet's eyes. That would have kept him from stepping in several noxious piles and puddles. By Phelippes' low-voiced—and sometimes not so low-voiced—curses, he knew the other man had the same trouble. Somehow, that didn't console him.

Phelippes led him south and west. He didn't realize how far he'd come till he saw the great bulk of St. Paul's heaving itself up into the sky, blocking out the stars. Before long, Phelippes knocked at the door to a house that seemed neither rich nor poor. The knock had a curious
rhythm to it:
a code
, Shakespeare thought. The door opened. “In—make haste!” someone said. Phelippes ducked inside.

Shakespeare followed once more. He wished he could turn and flee instead. If he did, though, he was grimly certain he would meet Ingram Frizer in the ruffian's professional capacity. Would Frizer smile as he drove the knife home? Shakespeare would not have bet against it.

Inside, light blazed from candles and torches and a leaping fire in the hearth, a fire better suited to winter than summer. Robert Cecil sat in a chair not far from the flames; perhaps his back pained him when he used a stool like most men. “Give you good evening, Master Shakespeare,” he said, dipping his head in what was almost but not quite a seated bow.

“And to you, sir,” Shakespeare replied. “My deepest condolement on your loss.”

Lord Burghley's son waved him to a stool. As he perched there, nervous as a bird, the younger Cecil said, “ 'Tis the kingdom should condole, not I. My father passed from us full of years, but England's savior died untimely. What he cannot now do, I needs must essay. How stand we in respect of your part therein?”

“You will know the play is writ,” Shakespeare said, and Robert Cecil nodded. The poet went on, “You will also know Constable Strawberry sniffs after him who murthered both Geoff Martin and, now, Matthew Quinn.”

Cecil nodded again. Thomas Phelippes said, “We merit our freedom not, an such a bedlam brainsick counterfeit module may make to totter the fabric of our designs.”

“What Strawberry solus may not do, peradventure with confederates he may,” Shakespeare said. “Belike you will know he concerts with Lieutenant de Vega.”

Again, Phelippes was the one who spoke up: “And is not de Vega well and truly cozened? Does he not believe me friend to his enterprise? Can such a worthless post be feared?”

“Any man opposing us may be feared,” said Shakespeare, who'd learned more about fear since the previous autumn than he ever wanted to know. He glanced towards Robert Cecil. Cecil kept his own counsel. He would have been a dangerous man in a game of cards; Shakespeare had no idea what he was thinking. He dared hope Cecil
was
thinking something, and reminded himself Lord Burghley had had a good opinion of his crookbacked son.

A servant brought in goblets of Sherris-sack and sugar to sweeten it. Everyone fell silent till the man bowed his way out of the room. Then, sipping the wine, Cecil asked, “And should I know aught else?”

Shakespeare started to shake his head, as Robert Cecil plainly expected him to do. But then he checked the motion. “Haply you should, your Honor.”

One of Cecil's eyebrows rose, startlingly dark against the pallid skin of his forehead. His long, thin fingers tightened on the goblet's stem. But his voice showed nothing as he said, “Tell it me, then.”

“As you know of Walter Strawberry, as you know he treats with the don, so, belike, you will know Kit Marlowe is returned to London.”

That loosed a hawk amongst the pigeons. Robert Cecil started so violently, sugared sack slopped out of his goblet and onto the slashed black velvet of his doublet. “Why, thou infinite and endless liar!” Thomas Phelippes burst out.

“By my troth, sir, I am no such creature, and be damned to thine ignorant, oppressive arrogance for naming me one,” Shakespeare answered angrily.

Before Phelippes could loose some hot retort of his own, Robert Cecil help up a hand. The gesture, though spare, was commanding; Phelippes fell silent at once. Shakespeare just had time to note that before the younger Cecil's gaze fell full on him. It was not a magisterial stare, such as Sir William had had. But its blazing intensity made it at least as arresting. Robert Cecil said, “Tell me at once—at once!—how you know this to be true.”

“How, sir? Because I have seen him and spoke with him,” Shakespeare said. “He hath cropped his hair close to his head and shaved his beard, so that a man might pass him in the street and know him not; but his voice is not so easily disguised.”

“But he went to sea at Deptford,” Thomas Phelippes said.

“In sooth: as I told him,” Shakespeare replied. “And, quotha, he came ashore at Margate, for that he might hie back to London.”

“Damnation take him,” Phelippes said. “He were better gone. For he
will
make himself known. He can no more help spewing words than a malmsey-nose sot can help spewing wine.”

“Do the Spaniards seize him, he dies the death,” Robert Cecil said, “the which he must know.”