Ruled Britannia (59 page)

A big, rough-looking blond man wearing a disreputable cap smiled at Lope, showing a couple of missing teeth. “Gramercy, your honor,” he said, and touched the brim of that cap. “You just saved me a bit o' work, that you did.” Before the Spaniard could ask him what he meant, he hurried away.

Another man said, “I shall fetch a constable hither.” He too hurried off.

“Yes, do, and yarely,” Lope called after him. “An you come on a Spanish patrol, fetch them likewise.” He looked down at his rapier. The last couple of inches of the blade had blood on them, blood and Christopher
Marlowe's brains. He stabbed the sword into the ground to clean it, as he had after slaying Don Alejandro.

Lope was still waiting by Marlowe's body for the constable and for his own countrymen when bells began to chime, first at one church far away, then at another and another and another, till after no more than a minute or two the bronzen clangor filled all the streets of London. “What signifies that?” someone asked. Someone else shrugged. But Lope knew what it meant, what it had to mean, and ice and fire ran through him.

His Most Catholic Majesty, King Philip II of Spain, after so long dying, at last was dead. And Lope de Vega, standing there bare blade in hand, burst into tears like a little boy.

 

A
DAPPER LITTLE
gamecock of an officer rapped out a question in Spanish. Shakespeare looked to Lope de Vega, who translated it into English: “Captain Guzmán would know why Christopher Marlowe was bound for your lodging when we chanced each upon the other. I own, I too am fain to know the same.”

“As am I,” Shakespeare said. If his voice trembled, who could blame him? The dons had come for him at dawn, as he was about to leave the Widow Kendall's for the Theatre, and marched him here to their barracks instead. If they misliked the answers he gave them, he was assuredly a dead man—nor was he all that would die. He went on, “Methought Kit was fled abroad.”

Had anybody who could recognize Marlowe seen him and Shakespeare together? If someone gave him the lie . . . He refused to dwell on that. If someone gave him the lie there, the Spaniards wouldn't merely question him. They would put him to the question, an altogether different and more painful business.

But all de Vega said was, “Plainly not.”

You fool's zany, you stood close by him at
Cambyses
and knew him not
, Shakespeare thought. Captain Guzmán flung more Spanish at him. Again, Lope de Vega did the honors: “He asks, how is't Constable Strawberry knew Marlowe was returned to London whilst you remained deep-sunk in ignorance?”

Damn Constable Strawberry
. But Shakespeare knew he had to have a better answer than that. He said, “Belike the constable will have ears 'mongst the masculine whores of's bailiwick. Knowing Kit's pleasures, they'd learn he was in these parts or ever the generality heard it.”

De Vega spoke in excited Spanish to his superior. Captain Guzmán's reply sounded anything but convinced. Lope spoke again, even more passionately. Guzmán answered with a shrug.

To Shakespeare, de Vega said, “ 'Twas even so Strawberry got wind of't—thus he told me when I inquired of him.”

“Well, then.” Shakespeare dared risk indignation. “This being so, wherefore tax you me o'er that which I wist not of?”

After de Vega rendered that into his own language, Baltasar Guzmán growled something that sounded angry. “Thus saith my captain,” Lope replied: “You standing on the edge of so many swamps of treason, how do your feet stay dry?”

“I am no traitor,” Shakespeare said, as he had to. “Were I such a caitiff rogue, could I have writ
King Philip
?”

Once more, Lope translated his words into Spanish. Once more, he did not presume to answer himself, but waited for his superior to respond. Captain Guzmán spoke a curt sentence in Spanish. “That is what we seek to learn—if the worm of treason still begnaw your soul,” was how de Vega put it in English.

“ ‘Still,' is't?” Shakespeare knew he was fighting for his life, and could concede his foes nothing. “My duty to your captain, Master Lope, and say this most precisely: by this word he assumes me treacherous, and proves himself no honest judge. He must forthwith retract it, as slanderous to my honor.”

And how would Captain Guzmán respond to that? By letting him defend his honor with a sword? If so, he was a dead man. He had no skill at swordplay, whereas a Spanish officer was all too likely to be a deadly man of his hands. Lope de Vega had certainly shown himself to be such a man, at any rate.

But Guzmán nodded and then bowed low. He spoke in Spanish. “You have reason, quotha,” Lope said. “Naught against you is proved, nor should he have spake as if it were. He cries your pardon therefor.” Shakespeare bowed in return; he hadn't expected even so much. The Spaniard spoke again, this time harshly. “Naught against you is proved, saith he, but much suspected. We will have answers from you.”

“I have given all I can,” Shakespeare said, “and so shall I do. Ask what you would.”

They pounded him with questions about Marlowe, about Nick Skeres, about Ingram Frizer, and about the late Sir William Cecil. They had most of the pieces to the puzzle, but did not know how—or even
if—they fit together. Shakespeare told them as little as he could. He admitted having heard Marlowe and Nicholas Skeres knew each other. That wouldn't hurt Marlowe now, and Skeres remained safely out of the dons' hands.

When Shakespeare said he was thirsty, they gave him strong sack to drink. He wished he'd kept his mouth shut; the wine was liable to make him trip over his own tongue and fall to his doom. But he could not refuse it, not after he'd complained. He sipped carefully, never taking too much.

After some endless while, someone knocked on the door to Captain Guzmán's office. Guzmán snarled a Spanish curse. He pointed to the door. Lope de Vega opened it. In came a skinny, pockmarked Englishman wearing spectacles: Thomas Phelippes.

Shakespeare didn't know whether to rejoice or to despair. The Spaniards had not said a word about Phelippes, for good or ill. Did that mean the dusty little man had succeeded in covering his tracks? Or did it mean Phelippes was their man, a spy at the very heart of the plot?

Whatever he was, he spoke in Spanish far too quick and fluent to give Shakespeare any hope of following it. Before long, Baltasar Guzmán answered him sharply. Phelippes overrode the officer. Shakespeare caught the name of Don Diego Flores de Valdés, the Spanish commandant in England. He caught the name, yes, but nothing that went with it. Captain Guzmán spoke again. Once again, Thomas Phelippes talked him down. Guzmán looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon.

At last, Lope de Vega returned to English: “Don Diego being satisfied you are a true and trusty man, Master Shakespeare, you are at liberty to get hence, and to return to your enterprises theatrical. After
King Philip
be put before the general . . . then we may delve further into such questions as remain.”

“Gramercy.” Shakespeare could honestly show relief here. “And gramercy to you as well, Master Phelippes.”

“Thank me not.” Phelippes' voice came blizzard-cold. “ 'Tis my principal's mercy upon you, not mine own. Don Diego hath a good and easy spirit. Mine is less yielding, and I do wonder at his wisdom, obey though I must. Get hence, as saith Master Lope, and thank God you have leave to go.”

“By my halidom and hope of salvation, sir, I
do
thank Him.” Shakespeare crossed himself. “For God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.” He crossed himself.

Phelippes and de Vega also made the sign of the cross. So did Captain Guzmán, when Phelippes translated Shakespeare's words. Then Guzmán made a brusque gesture:
get out
. The poet had never been so glad as to obey.

Outside the barracks, the day was dark and cloudy, with occasional cold, nasty spatters of drizzle. To Shakespeare, it seemed as glorious as the brightest, warmest, sunniest June. He'd never expected to see freedom again. A Spanish soldier—a fierce little man who wore his scars like badges of honor—coming into the building growled something at him, probably,
Get out of the way
. Shakespeare sprang to one side. The soldier tramped past him without a backwards glance.

Shakespeare hurried off towards the Theatre. “What is't o' clock?” he called to somebody coming the other way.

“Why, just struck one,” the man answered.

Nodding his thanks, Shakespeare trotted on. The audience was filing into the wooden building in Shoreditch when he got there. One of the men at the cash box tried to take a penny from him. “Nay, 'tis Master Shakespeare,” another man said. “Where were you, Master Shakespeare? You are much missed.”

“Where? In durance vile,” Shakespeare replied. “But I am free, and ready—more than ready—to give my lines with a good heart.”

A cheer rose from the players when he rushed into the tiring room. Richard Burbage bowed as low as if he were a duke. Will Kemp sidled up to him and said, “We feared you'd ta'en sick o' the tisick that claimed Geoff Martin and Matt Quinn.”

“Tisick?” the poet exclaimed. “You style it so?”

“Certes,” Kemp said innocently. “A surfeit of iron in the gullet, was't not?”

“Away, away.” That was Jack Hungerford. Even Kemp took the tireman seriously. He slouched off. Hungerford said, “Out of your clothes, Master Will, and into costume, for the apparel oft proclaims the man.”

“Have I time for the change?” Shakespeare asked, for he would appear in the second scene of Thomas Dekker's comedy.

“You have, sir, an you use it 'stead of talking back,” Hungerford said severely. Without another word, Shakespeare donned the silk and scarlet the tireman gave him.

Not the smallest miracle of the day, at least to him, was that he did remember his lines. He even got laughs for some of them. When he came back on stage to take his bows after the play was done, he felt as
dizzy as if he'd spent too long dancing round a maypole: too much had happened too fast that day.

Afterwards, as he exchanged the gorgeous costume for his ordinary clothes, Burbage came up to him and said, “We did fear you'd found misfortune—or misfortune had found you. Why so late?”

“De Vega yesterday slew Marlowe outside my lodging-house,” Shakespeare answered wearily. “A man need not see far into a millstone to wonder why Kit was come thither. The dons this morning gave me an escort of soldiery to their barracks, that they might enquire into what matters he carried in's mind.”

“Marry!” Burbage muttered. His proud, fleshy face went pale. “And you said?”

“Why, that I knew not, the which is only truth.” Whose ears besides Richard Burbage's were listening? Shakespeare let them hear nothing different from what he'd told de Vega and Guzmán. He added, “By my troth, I knew not that poor Marlowe was returned to London.”

“Nor I,” Burbage agreed. He too played for other ears—Shakespeare had told him Marlowe was back. Liars both, they smiled at each other.

When Shakespeare got back to his lodging-house after the performance, the Widow Kendall gave him an even warmer welcome than his fellow players had. “Oh, Master Will, I thought you sped!” she cried. “An the dons seize a man, but seldom returneth he.”

“I am here. I am hale.” Shakespeare bowed, as if to prove he'd undergone no crippling torture. “ 'Twas but a misfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding, forsooth!” Jane Kendall exclaimed. “A misunderstanding like to prove your death.” She poked him with a pudgy forefinger. “And all centering on the accursed sodomite, that Marlowe, the which Mistress Sellis' Spaniard did slay in the street like a cur-dog this day just past.”

Before Shakespeare could answer, the door to Cicely Sellis' room opened. Out came the cunning woman, with a plump, worried-looking Englishman. Mommet wove around her ankles. “Fear not, sir, and trust God,” she told her client. “He will provide.”

“May it be so, my lady,” he said, as if she were a noblewoman. Bobbing a nod to Shakespeare and the Widow Kendall, he hurried out into the gathering gloom.

After he'd closed the door behind him, Cicely Sellis said, “Lieutenant de Vega is not my Spaniard, Mistress Kendall. And, though he'd fain make me his Englishwoman, I am not that, neither.”

Jane Kendall signed herself. “By my halidom, Mistress Sellis, I—I meant no harm,” she stammered. “ 'Twas but a—a manner of speaking.” She brightened. “Yes, that's it—a manner of speaking.”

“Ay, belike.” The cunning woman's words said she accepted that. Her tone said something else altogether. But then, as her cat went over to Shakespeare and rubbed against his leg, she gave him a smile full of what he thought to be unfeigned gladness. “Like Mistress Kendall, right pleased am I to see you here, to see you well, once more.”

“I do own I am right pleased once more to come hither,” Shakespeare answered. He wondered how Cicely Sellis could have known what he and their landlady were talking about. She had, after all, been behind a closed door. Were her ears as keen as that? Shakespeare supposed it was—just—possible. He stooped to scratch the corner of Mommet's jaw. The cat pushed its head into his hand and purred louder.