Ruled Britannia

by Harry Turtledove

  Burbage kissed her, then struck a pose. "I am hale, as thou seest. What of thyself, and of William and Isabel?"

  "We are well." His wife seemed to be fighting to convince herself as well as him. "The broil commencing, we kept within doors. A don was slain yonder, in front of Master Goodpasture's." She pointed across the street. No sign of the body remained. Gathering herself, she went on, "But for that, all might have seemed to pass in some far country, but 'twas real, 'twas real." She shivered.

  So did Shakespeare, who'd seen more than she of how very real it was. He set a hand on Burbage's arm. "I praise the Lord all's well with you, and now I must away."

  "God keep you safe, Will," the player said. Winifred Burbage nodded. In times like these, that was no idle phrase, but a real and urgent wish.

  Church bells chimed two as Shakespeare started away from Burbage's house. He shivered again. Had it been but a day since Lord Westmorland's Men gave Boudicca instead of King Philip? That seemed impossible, but had to be true. He'd never known twenty-four more crowded hours. On a normal day, the company would be offering another play even now. Not today. He hoped the Theatre still stood. If not, how would he make his living? Like any player, he worried about that despite the money he'd got from Lord Burghley and from the dons for his two plays.

  A man swaggered up the street with a featherbed over his shoulder, a cage with several small, frantically chirping birds in one hand, and a pistol in the other. How many Englishmen had used the uprising as an excuse for rapine against their own folk? That had hardly crossed Shakespeare's mind before a woman several blocks away screamed. How many Englishmen were using the uprising as an excuse for rape, too? They revel the night, rob, murder, and commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways, he thought sadly.

  Here and there, fires still smoldered. Had the wind been stronger, much of London might have burned.

  He started to cross himself to thank God that hadn't happened, but arrested the gesture before it was well begun. Up till yesterday, not signing himself could have marked him as a Protestant heretic. Now, using the sign of the cross might make him out to be a stubborn Papist. Men of fixed habit, men who could not quickly and easily adapt to changing times, would surely die because others judged them to be of the wrong opinion. It had happened before, the last time ten years ago.

  He turned up Bishopsgate Street and hurried north towards his lodging-house. Less than a day earlier, he'd roared south down the same street towards the Tower of London, shouting, "Death-Death-Death to the dons!" And death had come to a great many of them since, and to a great many Englishmen as well. Yes, death had had his day, and Shakespeare feared him not yet glutted.

  Turning left off Bishopsgate Street, the poet made his way through the maze of side streets and stinking alleys to the Widow Kendall's house. When he passed the ordinary where he often supped, he murmured, "Oh, praise God," to see it unharmed. That likely meant Kate was all right. He almost stopped to let her know he was safe, but, yawning, kept on instead. Tonight would do. He desperately craved more sleep.

  The front door to the Widow Kendall's house stood open. Shakespeare frowned. That was unusual. His landlady habitually kept it closed, fearing-with some reason-thievery. Then a shriek rang from within the house. Shakespeare broke into a run.

  Jane Kendall screamed again as he dashed through the front door and into the parlor. Cicely Sellis held a stool in front of her as if she were a lion-tamer, doing her best to keep at bay a man who menaced her with a dagger that almost made a smallsword.

  Altogether without thinking, Shakespeare tackled the man from behind. The fellow let out a startled grunt.

  The knife flew from his hand. The Widow Kendall let out another shriek. Shakespeare noticed it only absently. He bore the man to the ground as Cicely Sellis grabbed the dagger. His foe tried to twist and strike at him, but all his movements were slow and clumsy. Though anything but a fighting man, Shakespeare had no trouble subduing him.

  And when he did. "De Vega!" he exclaimed.

  A great swollen livid bruise covered the left half of Lope's forehead. Shakespeare marveled that anyone could take such a hurt without having his skull completely smashed. No wonder the Spaniard was slower and less formidable than he might have been.

  Almost as an afterthought, Shakespeare remembered he too had a knife. He pulled it free and held it to Lope's throat. "Give over!" he panted. "Cease your struggles, else you perish on the instant."

  De Vega tensed for a final heave, but then went limp instead. "I yield me," he said sullenly. When he stared up at Shakespeare, one pupil was bigger than the other.

  "Wherefore came you hither?" the poet asked him. "And why your menace 'gainst Mistress Sellis?"

  "Wherefore?" Lope echoed. "For to kill this bruja, this witch, this whore-"

  "I am no man's whore," Cicely Sellis said. Shakespeare noted she did not deny the other.

  "Heaven be praised you came when you did, Master Will," the Widow Kendall said. "Methought there'd be foul, bloody murther done in mine own parlor."

  "Haply not, had you helped more and wailed less," the cunning woman told her, voice tart.

  Jane Kendall glared. She looked as if she wanted to answer sharply but did not have the nerve.

  Shakespeare would have thought twice before angering Cicely Sellis, too.

  He pulled his attention back to Lope de Vega. "Say on. What mean you?"

  De Vega hesitated, then shrugged. "Well, why not? What boots it now? Having heard you were seen consorting with Robert Cecil in the street, I hastened hither yesterday, to learn if you purposed treason despite your fine verses on his Most Catholic Majesty."

  Shakespeare shivered. So some spy had recognized Robert Cecil even with his beggar's disguise! By what flimsy threads the uprising had hung! But they hadn't broken, not quite. Shakespeare asked, "How hath this aught to do with Mistress Sellis?"

  "Why, we chanced to meet in this very parlor," Lope answered, as if Shakespeare should already have known that. "We chanced to meet and, she asking why I was come, I spake the truth, thinking her honest-"

  "And so I am," Cicely Sellis said. By the Widow Kendall's expression, her opinion differed, but she held her tongue.

  "She bade me enter her chamber," Lope continued. Jane Kendall stirred yet again. Yet again, she dared do no more than stir. "She bade me enter her chamber," the Spaniard repeated, "and there she bewitched me. By some foul sorcery, she cast oblivion upon me, made me to forget why I'd come hither, made me to forget I was for the Theatre bound, there to play Don Juan de IdiA?quez. "

  At that, the Widow Kendall did cross herself. Her lips moved in a silent paternoster. Cicely Sellis only shrugged. Mommet came out of her chamber and wove around her ankles. Bending to scratch behind the cat's ears, she said, " 'Twas but the same sleight I used to calm Master Street this Easter past." Mommet purred. He pushed his face against the cunning woman's hand.

  "Ah," Shakespeare said: the most noncommittal noise he could make. He'd thought what she did to Jack Street then was witchcraft, and no mere sleight. His landlady's fear-filled eyes said she thought the same.

  "And then," Lope went on, "and then. " He shot a furiously burning glare at the cunning woman. "And then she did lie with me in love, to maze me further and lead me astray from my purpose in coming hither.

  Nor did she fail of hers." Reproach filled his voice. For himself or for her? Shakespeare wondered.

  Belike both. His own gaze flicked from de Vega to Cicely Sellis and back again. He hadn't expected to be so jealous of the Spaniard.

  Jealousy wasn't what Jane Kendall felt. "So thou art a doxy, then," she spat at Cicely Sellis. "Whore!

  Trull! Poxy callet!"

  "Oh, be still, you stale, mouse-eaten cheese," the cunning woman replied. "Your virginity, your old virginity, is like one of those French withered pears: it looks ill, it eats dryly."

  The Widow Kendall stared, popeyed with fury. Having had a husband, she surely was no virgin. And yet, after what she'd c
alled the younger woman, the word seemed to stick to her, and in no flattering way.

  Calmly, Cicely Sellis nodded to Shakespeare. "Ay, I lay with him. Both you and he had made it pikestaff plain somewhat of no small import was afoot, the which he must not let nor hinder. I lay with him, and thought of England."

  "Of England?" Lope yelped. "I on her belly fell, she on her back, and she bethought her of England?

  Marry, what a liar thou art, Mistress Sellis! 'Twas not of England, but of thy-" He seemed to have lost the English word. Shakespeare did not supply it. De Vega, miffed and more than miffed, addressed his words to him: "I do assure you, Master Will, her caterwauls were like to those coming from the throat of this accursed beast, her witchy familiar." He jerked a thumb towards Mommet.

  The cat arched its back and hissed. Cicely Sellis flushed. By that, Shakespeare judged she likely had thought of other things besides England when she bedded Lope, and taken more pleasure than she cared to admit now. But that didn't mean she hadn't thought of England. And if she'd kept the Spanish officer from going through the papers in Shakespeare's chest, she might have saved the uprising. Had the dons had even a few hours to make ready. Shakespeare didn't want to think about that.

  He said, "One may do for love of country that which one would not else." De Vega howled. The Widow Kendall sniffed. The cunning woman nodded again. Was that relief on her face? Shakespeare couldn't be sure, not least because up till now she'd always been so much in control of herself that he didn't recall her wearing such an expression before.

  "I still say-" Jane Kendall began.

  "Wait, an't please you," Shakespeare said. His landlady blinked; he seldom presumed to interrupt her. He went on, "You were wise, Mistress Kendall, to say not that which may not be mended. For the times do change, will you or nill you, and it will go hard for those who change not with them."

  The times would change, if the rebellion succeeded. He didn't know it would. But the Widow Kendall didn't know it wouldn't. And, as one who'd shown herself to be a devout Catholic these past ten years, she stood to lose perhaps a great deal if people she knew denounced her. She licked her lips.

  Shakespeare could see that realization growing in her. She must have seen-the dons had made sure all England saw-what happened to stubborn Protestants. With a new spin of the wheel, it would be the Papists' turn. She exhaled with what might have been anger, but said not another word.

  Cicely Sellis nodded towards Lope. "What would you with him, Master Will?" she asked.

  "I?" Shakespeare sounded startled, even to himself. He'd never held a man's life in his hands before. If he cut de Vega's throat here in the parlor, no one would think the less of him (save possibly Jane Kendall, on account of the mess it would make). If. He sighed and shook his head. "I have not the murtherer's blood in me," he said, as if someone had claimed he did. "He acted but from duty, and from loyalty to his own King. Let him be made prisoner, to be ransomed or exchanged or otherwise enlarged as fate allow."

  "Gramercy," Lope said softly. "I am your servant." He managed a ragged chuckle. "And, but for yon witch, I should have made a splendid Don Juan de IdiA?quez."

  That jerked a laugh and a nod from Shakespeare. "Ay, belike," he said, and then, " 'Twould like me one day to see King Philip on the stage. An you bide yet in England, Master Lope, the part's yours."

  De Vega gave him a crooked grin. "With our Lord, I say, let this cup pass from me."

  Shakespeare had had that thought, too. "Come now," Shakespeare said, gesturing towards the door with his knife. "I will give you over into the charge of those whose duty is to take captives, for I know there be such men. Think not to flee, neither. You have yielded-and flight would prove the worse for you, we English holding London."

  "Before God, I shall not flee." As Lope got to his feet, he put a hand to his bruised head. "Before God, I cannot flee far. But I would not, even if I could. I have seen your London wolves stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining at the start, and would not have them dog my heels."

  "Let's away, then," Shakespeare said. "By my troth, I'll give you into the hands of none others but them that will hold you safe until you may once more be set at liberty." De Vega nodded. Even that small motion must have pained him, for he hissed and gingerly touched his head again. Shakespeare made a leg at Jane Kendall and Cicely Sellis. "Farewell, ladies."

  His landlady dropped him an awkward curtsy by way of reply. Cicely Sellis dipped her head, murmuring,

  "I stand much in your debt, Master Will."

  And how would I have that debt repaid? he wondered. In the same coin she gave the Spaniard? He shoved Lope. "Let's away," he said again, sounding rough as a soldier.

  He didn't have to take de Vega far. They'd just come out into Bishopsgate Street when a fresh column of captives shambled down from the north. "Move along, you poor cuckoldy knaves; you louts; you remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villains," shouted the Englishman at their head. "Ay, move along, or 'twill be the worse for you, you blackguards, you virgin-violators, you inexcrable dogs." Most of the Spaniards couldn't have understood a word of the abuse he showered on them, but they did understand they had to keep moving.

  Shakespeare waved to that loud Englishman, calling, "Bide a moment! I've another don here, for to add to your party."

  "Well, bring him on, then, the damned murtherous fat-kidneyed rascal," the fellow replied.

  Careless of whatever anguish it might have cost, Lope gave him a courtier's bow. "I am thy servant, thou proud disdainful haggard," he said.

  It must have sounded like praise to the Englishman. "You're a sweet-tongued losel, eh?" he said. "Belike the lickerish ladies think the same?" De Vega nodded, which the man didn't seem to expect. He jerked a thumb towards the captives. "Get in amongst 'em. No trouble, or you'll be sorry for it."

  "I am already sorry for it," Lope replied, but he took his place with the rest of the Spaniards. Away they went, down deeper into London.

  As Shakespeare turned back towards his lodging-house, a brisk spatter of gunfire rang out not too far away: close enough, at any rate, for him to hear the cries of wounded men immediately afterwards. The fight for London hadn't quite finished. He couldn't tell whether the cries were in English or Spanish. Men in torment sounded much the same in either language.

  The sun was sinking fast, though clouds and smoke-more of the former and less of the latter than he'd seen the day before. Most of the time, he would have gone to the Widow Kendall's and then to his ordinary for supper. He'd already been to the lodging-house. The excitement with de Vega had chased sleep from him-and there stood the ordinary, its door open and inviting.

  When he walked in, Kate was setting candles on the tables and lighting them with a burning splinter. One man had already taken his place near the hearth. He was cutting up the beefsteak that sat on a wooden trencher in front of him. "Will!" Kate exclaimed, and dropped the candles she was holding. She ran to him, took him in her arms, squeezed the breath out of him, and kissed him. "Sweet Will! God be praised I see thee whole and hale!" She kissed him again.

  "A right friendly dive, this," said the man with the beefsteak, a grin on his greasy face.

  Shakespeare ignored him. Holding Kate, kissing her, he forgot about Cicely Sellis. No, that went too far.

  He didn't forget about her, but did put her in perspective. She was a temptation: a sweet one, but no more. Kate. Were he not tied to Anne back in Stratford, he would gladly have made her his wife.

  He pushed that thought aside, as he had to. "As you see me," he said, "and passing glad to see thee."

  Now he kissed her. The fellow by the hearth whooped. Neither of them paid him the least attention.

  At last the kiss ended, but they still clung to each other. Kate asked, "What wouldst thou, my darling?"

  "Thou knowest full well what I would," Shakespeare answered. "What I will, what I can, what I may. "

  He shrugged. "Thou knowest likewise the difficulties, the impediments, the obstac
les before me. I have not lied to thee." He took a certain forlorn pride in that. Kate nodded. He went on, "An I be able them to thrust aside, I'll do't in a heartbeat."

  "May it be so. Oh, may it be so! With all in flux, who can say this or that shall not come to pass? If Elizabeth be free o' the Tower-"

  "She is," Shakespeare said. "With mine own eyne I saw her leave it, borne on Sir Robert Devereux his shoulders."

  "Well, then," Kate said, as if that proved something. Maybe, to her, it did. "Who could have dreamt such a thing, e'en a week gone by? So great a miracle being worked for England, why not a smaller one, for us twain alone?"

  "Ay, why not?" Shakespeare agreed, and kissed her once more. That he remained alive and free to do it struck him as more than miracle enough right now.

  When one of Lope de Vega's lovers caught him with another outside the bear-baiting arena in Southwark, he'd thought the round wooden building, so like a theatre in construction, would remain forever the scene of his worst humiliation. Now here he was back at the arena, and humiliated again: the English were using it to house the Spanish prisoners they'd taken. He squatted glumly on the sand-strewn dirt floor where so many bears and hounds had died.

  The beasts were gone, taken away to another pit. Their stenches lingered: the sharp stink of the dogs and the bears' ranker, muskier reek. With so many captives packed into the place, the commonplace smells of unwashed men and their wastes were crowding out the animal odors.

  Gray clouds gathered overhead. If it rained, the arena floor would turn to mud. Lope knew he would have to find himself a place in one of the galleries. I should have done that sooner, he thought. But he hadn't had the energy. He'd been sunk in lethargy since taking the blow that almost broke his skull, and especially since failing to avenge himself on Cicely Sellis. After that failure, nothing seemed to matter.

  Not far away, one of his countrymen asked another, "In the name of God, why does no one rescue us?"