Ruled Britannia

by Harry Turtledove

  "Oh, joy," Diego said.

  Whitehall had formerly been a noble's residence. Henry VIII, having taken it for his own, had enlarged it, adding tennis courts, bowling alleys, and another tilt-yard, with a second-story gallery from which he and his companions might observe the sport. Elizabeth had also watched jousts from that gallery, but neither Isabella nor her consort Albert much favored them. A wooden stage, not much different from that of the Theatre, had gone up on the tilt-yard, in front of the gallery. The highest-ranking English and Spanish grandees would view El mejor mozo de EspaA±a from the comfort of the gallery. The rest, prominent enough to be invited but not enough to keep company with the Queen and King, would impersonate the groundlings who packed the theatres out beyond London's walls. They didn't have to pay a penny for the privilege, though.

  In the makeshift tiring room behind the stage, players donned costumes, put on makeup, and mumbled their lines, trying to hold them in their memory. When Lope came in, Catalina IbaA±ez rushed up to him.

  "Oh, Senor de Vega, God help me, I'm so nervous!" she cried. "I want to explode!"

  He glanced around to make sure Don Alejandro was out in the audience and not hovering backstage here, then leaned forward and gave her a kiss that might have seemed careless. "Don't you worry about a thing, sweetheart. You'll be wonderful!" he told her, and sent up a quick, silent prayer that he'd prove right.

  A lackey rushed into the tiring room. "The Queen and King have taken their places in the gallery," he said.

  "Then we'd better perform for them, hadn't we?" Lope said. "Come on, my friends, show them what you can do." He looked around again, to make sure everyone was ready. "Diego, in the name of God, don't fall asleep now!"

  "I wasn't falling asleep," Diego said. "I was only-"

  "Resting my eyes," Lope finished for him. "You've used that one before. Don't use it again, unless you want to get to know the real Scotland, not the yard here." One last quick, worried look. Then he nodded to Catalina IbaA±ez and one of her maidservants, who would open the play as Isabella and DoA±a Juana, her lady-in-waiting.

  Catalina crossed herself. Her maidservant giggled. They went out onto the stage. The audience, which had been mumbling and buzzing, gave them its ears. As soon as Catalina IbaA±ez got on stage, she was fine-better than fine. Lope breathed a sigh of relief.

  Everything went as well as he'd hoped. Everything, in fact, went better than he'd dared hope. The actors remembered their lines. Even the most wooden ones delivered them with some feeling. Diego made a better servant on stage than he ever had for real. An hour and a half flew by as if in a dream. The applause for the players was thunderous.

  From the tiring room, Lope heard Catalina IbaA±ez call, "And here is the man who gave us these golden words to say: Senior Lieutenant Lope FA©lix de Vega Carpio!"

  More applause as Lope, who felt as if he were dreaming himself, came out onto the stage and bowed to the audience-especially to the central gallery, where Isabella and Albert of England sat. How had Catalina learned his full name? No time to wonder about that now; Queen Isabella was calling, "Well done, Senor de Vega. You are a very clever fellow." Lope bowed again. Isabella tossed him a small leather purse. He caught it out of the air. It was heavy, heavy enough to be stuffed with gold. He bowed once more, this time almost double. Dazedly, he followed the company offstage.

  Back in the tiring room, he went over to Catalina IbaA±ez and said, "How can I thank you for calling me out there?"

  Her eyes were as warm with promise as an early summer morning. "If you're as clever as Queen Isabella says, SeA±or de Vega, I'm sure you'll think of something," she purred. Only later did he wonder whether she was really looking at him or at the purse he'd just got.

  Sam King came up to Shakespeare in the parlor of the lodgings they shared. A little shyly, he said,

  "I have somewhat for you, Master Will." He held out his hand and gave Shakespeare three pennies-two stamped with the visages of Isabella and Albert, the third an older coin of Elizabeth's.

  "Gramercy," Shakespeare said in surprise. Up till now, King hadn't had enough money for himself, let alone to pay back anyone else. Shakespeare had almost forgotten the threepence he'd given the younger man for a supper, and certainly hadn't expected to see it again.

  But, a touch of pride in his voice, King said, "I pay what I owe, I do."

  "Right glad am I to hear't," Shakespeare answered. "You've found work, then?"

  "You might say so." But King's nod seemed intended to convince himself at least as much as to convince Shakespeare. "Ay, sir, you might say so."

  "And what manner of work is't, pray tell?"

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Shakespeare wished he had them back. Had Sam King landed an apprenticeship with a carpenter or a bricklayer, he would have shouted the news to the skies, and would have deserved to. As things were. As things were, he turned red. "I am. stalled to the rogue," he replied at last.

  "Are you?" Shakespeare tried to sound happy for the man who slept in the same room as he did. For someone on his own and hungry in London, even being formally initiated as a beggar had to seem a step up. Carefully, the poet went on, "God grant men be generous to you."

  He wondered how long they would stay generous. King was young and healthy, even if on the scrawny side. A beggar with one leg or a missing eye or some other injury or ailment that inspired pity might have a better chance at pennies and ha'pennies and farthings. But King smiled and said, "There are all manner of cheats to pry the bite from a gentry cove, or from your plain cuffin, too. I've a cleym, now, fit to make a man spew an he see it."

  "Have you indeed?" Shakespeare wasn't surprised to hear that. He'd known other beggars who used false sores to get money from those who saw them.

  "Ay, sir," Sam King said. "And the moe I learn the art, the better the living I shall have of it." Yes, he might almost have been speaking of carpentry or bricklaying.

  "May it be so," Shakespeare said, as politely as he could. He wished the other man would go away. He gave beggars coins now and again, and did not care to think of them as frauds.

  King, though, bubbled with enthusiasm for his new trade. "I take crowfoot, spearwort, and salt, and, bruising these together, I lay them upon the place of the body I wish to make sore," he said, grinning.

  "The skin by this means being fretted, I first clap a linen cloth, till it stick fast, which plucked off, the raw flesh hath ratsbane thrown upon it, to make it look ugly; and then cast over that a cloth, which is always bloody and filthy."

  Shakespeare's stomach lurched, as it might have in a small boat on rough water. Fascinated in spite of himself, he asked, "But doth your flesh not from such rude usage take true hurt?"

  "Nay, nay." Sam King shook his head. "I do't so often, that in the end I feel no pain, neither desire I to have it healed, but I will travel with my great cleym from market to market, being able by my maunding to get quite five shillings in a week, in money and in corn."

  "No wonder you could repay me, then," Shakespeare remarked. Five shillings a week wouldn't make a man rich, but he wouldn't starve on such earnings, either.

  "No wonder at all," King agreed happily. "I company with two or three other artificial palliards, and we sing out boldly, thus. " His voice rose to a shrill, piercing whine: "Ah, the worship of God look out with your merciful eyne! One pitiful look upon sore, lame, grieved, impotent people, sore troubled with the grievous disease, and we have no rest day nor night by the canker and worm, that continually eateth the flesh from the bone! For the worship of God, one cross of your small silver, to buy us salve and ointment, to ease the poor wretched body, that never taketh rest; and God reward you for it in heaven!"

  Jane Kendall hurried into the parlor. "Begone! We want no beggars here," she began, and then checked herself. "Oh, 'tis you, Master King. Methought you some other tricksy wretch seeking to beguile silver by cleyms and other frauds. I'll not have such doings in this house. I know better."

  She di
dn't mind if King begged elsewhere. She simply didn't want her lodgers tricked out of money that might otherwise assure her of her rent. Having dwelt in her house some little while, Shakespeare was certain of that. He said, "Fear not. He did but learn me his law, the which is indeed most quaint and bene."

  "We'll say no more about it, then." The Widow Kendall heaved a sigh. "This place is not what it was-by my halidom, it is not. That I should have lodging here, all at the same time, a beggar and a witch and a poet. " She shook her head.

  Shakespeare resented being lumped together with Sam King and Cicely Sellis. A moment's reflection, though, told him they might resent being lumped together with him. He said, "So that we pay what you require on the appointed day, where's your worry, Mistress Kendall?"

  "So that you do, all's well," she answered. "But with such trades. Sweet Jesu, who ever heard of a rich poet?"

  She could imagine a rich beggar. She could imagine a cunning woman with money. A poet? No.

  Shakespeare was tempted to brag of the gold he'd got from Lord Burghley and Don Diego. He was tempted, for a good half a heartbeat. Then common sense prevailed. The best way to keep from being robbed or having his throat slit was not to let on he had anything worth stealing.

  Mommet stalked into the parlor. The cat rubbed the side of its head against Shakespeare's ankle and began to purr. A little uncomfortably, Shakespeare stroked it. The cunning woman's cat-her familiar? — had seemed to like him from their first meeting. What would an inquisitor on the trail of witchcraft make of that? Nothing good, Shakespeare was sure.

  Sam King said, "Mistress Kendall, may I take a mug of your fine ale?" At her nod, King hurried into the kitchen. When he came back with the mug, mischief lit his face. He squatted by Mommet and poured out a little puddle on the floor.

  The Widow Kendall's voice rose in sharp indignation: "Here, now! What do you do? Would you waste it?"

  "By no means." King crooned, "Here, puss, puss, puss," to the animal. "Come on your ways-open your mouth-here is that which will give language to you, cat. Open your mouth!"

  Mommet sniffed at the ale slowly soaking into the rammed-earth floor. The cat's head bent. Ever so delicately, it lapped at the puddle. Then it looked up. It eyes caught the firelight from the hearth and glowed green.

  "What game play you at?"

  Sam King started violently and made the sign of the cross. Shakespeare jerked in surprise, too. But it wasn't the cat that had spoken. It was Cicely Sellis, standing in the doorway to her room, hands on hips, her face furious.

  "What play you at?" she asked again. "Tell me straight out, else I'll make you sorry for your silence."

  "N-N-N-Naught, Mistress Sellis," King stammered, his face going gray with fear. "I was but, ah, giving your cat, ah, somewhat to drink."

  "You play the palliard," the cunning woman said. "Play not the fool, sirrah, or you'll find more in the way of foolery than ever was in your reckoning. Hear you me?"

  "I–I do," King answered in a very small voice.

  "See to't, then," Cicely Sellis snapped. She made a small, clucking sound. "Come you here, Mommet."

  Cats didn't come when called. Shakespeare had known that since he was a little boy in Stratford. Cats did as they pleased, not as anyone else pleased. But Mommet trotted over to Cicely Sellis like a lapdog.

  The cat's contented buzz filled the parlor.

  That frightened Sam King all over again. "God be my judge, mistress, I meant no harm," he whispered.

  The look the cunning woman gave him said she would judge him, and that God would have nothing to do with it. "Some men there are that love not a gaping pig," she said, "some, that are mad if they behold a cat. As there is no firm reason to be rendered why he cannot abide a harmless necessary cat, so he were wiser to show mercy, and pity, than to sport with a poor dumb beast that knoweth naught of sport. Or think you otherwise?"

  "No." King's lips shaped the word, but without sound. He vanished into the bedchamber he shared with Shakespeare. Jane Kendall disappeared almost as quickly.

  That left Shakespeare all alone with Cicely Sellis-and with Mommet. He could have done without the honor, if that was what it was. As she stroked the cat's brindled coat, he asked, "Go you to the arena to see bears baited, or bulls, or to the cockfights?"

  To his relief, she didn't take offense, and did take the point of the question. Shaking her head, she answered, "I go not to any such so-called sports. I cannot abide them. I am of one piece in mine affections and opinions, Master Shakespeare. Can you say the same?"

  "Me, lady? Nay, nor would I essay it, for my wits are all in motley, now of one shade, now another. And which of us is better for't?" Shakespeare asked. Cicely Sellis thought, then shrugged, which struck him as basically honest.

  X

  A sharp cough brought Lope de Vega up short. He looked back towards Shakespeare, who advanced across the stage of the Theatre. "You attend not, Master de Vega," Shakespeare said severely.

  "That was your cue to say forth your lines, and it passed you by. I had not known you as such an unperfect actor on the stage, who with his fear is put besides his part."

  "Nor am I such." Lope bowed apology. "You pardon, sir, I pray you. 'Twas not fear put me out."

  "What then?" Shakespeare asked, still frowning. "Whate'er the reason, you must improve, else you'll appear not. Would you have the groundlings pelt you with marrows and beetroots and apples gone all wormy? Would you have them outshout the action, crying, a€?O Jesu, he does it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see'?" The Englishman's voice climbed to a mocking falsetto.

  "No and no and no." Lope shook his head. That harlotry struck too close to the mark. "I fear me I find myself distracted-a matter having naught to do with yourself or with your most excellent King Philip."

  He wondered how much more he would have to say. But Shakespeare, after cocking his head to one side, got to the nub of it in two words: "A woman?"

  "Yes, a woman," Lope answered in some relief. "She hath made promises, made them and then kept them not. And yet she may. This being so, I am torn 'twixt hope and fury."

  He hadn't thought Catalina IbaA±ez would play him for a fool. He hadn't thought she could play him for a fool. But Don Alejandro's mistress had been all warmth and seductiveness when she didn't have to deliver, and had either kept from seeing him alone or been frustratingly cool when she did. It drove Lope mad: too mad to realize it might have been intended to do just that.

  Will Kemp laughed. The clown pitched his voice high, as Shakespeare had: "If thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay. So thou wilt woo." He let it drop back to its usual register: "Sits the wind so?"

  He'd summed it up more neatly than de Vega had on his own. "Yes, just so," Lope answered. "What am I to do?"

  "You are to have your lines as Master IdiA?quez by heart, even an she be heartless," Shakespeare told him. "Let not your honor as a man touch your honor as a player, or no player shall you be."

  "I understand," Lope said contritely. "You have reason, seA±or. My private woe should not unsettle this your play."

  "As for the wench, a boot in the bum may haply work wonders, as hath been known aforetimes," Kemp said. "And if you cannot cure her by the foot, belike you'll do't by the yard."

  He leered. Shakespeare snorted. So did the rest of the Englishmen in earshot. Lope scratched his head.

  He spoke English well, but every so often something flew past him. He had the feeling this was one of those times.

  "I do know my lines," he said, ignoring what he couldn't follow. "Hear me, if you will:?This cardinal,

  Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly

  Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle

  He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one:

  Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;

  Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not,

  But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.

  And, to add greater
honours to his age

  Than man could give him, he died fearing God.' "

  "In sooth, you have them," Shakespeare agreed. "It were better, though, to bring them forth when called for."

  "And so I shall," Lope promised. "Before God, I shall."

  "Before God, ay-we are ever before God," Will Kemp said. "But can you stand and deliver before the groundlings? There's the rub."

  He couldn't mean he thought the groundlings a more important and more difficult audience than God.

  could he? No one could be that blasphemous. The English Inquisition would get its hooks into a man who dared say anything of the sort-would get them in and never let go again. An ordinary man, fetched before the inquisitors, would have no defense. But a player, Lope realized, just might. He could say he'd put the thought of his craft ahead of his soul for a moment. He probably wouldn't escape scot-free, but might avoid the worst.

  "Let us try again," Shakespeare said. "The more we work afore ourselves alone, the better we shall seem when the Theatre's full."

  "Or not, an God will it so," Kemp said. "The best-rehearsed company will now and again make a hash of things."

  "I have myself seen the same, more often than I should wish," Lope agreed.

  "Ay, certes. So have we all," Shakespeare said. "But a company less than well rehearsed will make a hash of things more than now and again. Thus I tell you, once more into the breach, dear friends, once more; or close the show up with our bungled lines. Disguise fair nature with hard-summoned art. When the trumpet's blast blows in your ears, then imitate the action of the Spaniard."

  "I need not imitate," Lope pointed out.

  Shakespeare made a leg at him. "Indeed not, Lieutenant. But as for you others, I'd see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. Follow your spirit, and upon your cue cry, a€?God for Philip! Sweet Spain and Saint James!' "