"Those who win, rescue," the other Spaniard said. "If we are not rescued, it is because we do not win."
That made much more sense than Lope wished it did. The first Spaniard said, "But how can we lose to this English rabble? We beat them before-beat them with ease. Are they such giants now? Have we turned into dwarfs these past ten years?"
"Our army is scattered over the country now," the other man answered. "English soldiers were supposed to do much of the job for us, so a lot of our men could go back to the Netherlands and put down the rebels there."
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes!" the first captive said. "The English did a wonderful job of holding down the countryside-till they turned on us like so many rabid dogs."
Lope said, "And the Netherlands have risen in revolt again, too, or so the English say. Just when we thought we had them quiet at last. " He wanted to shake his head, but didn't. Even now, more than a week after he'd been struck down, such motion could bring on blinding headaches. After a moment, he continued, "And who knows what Philip III will do once word of this finally reaches him?"
Neither of the other men answered for a little while. At last, one of them murmured, "Ah, if only his father were still alive." His friend nodded. So did Lope, cautiously. Philip II would have had the determination to fight hard against an uprising like this. That, of course, was not the smallest reason the English had waited till he was dead to rebel. And everyone knew all too well that Philip III was not the man, not half the man, his father had been.
That night, cannon fire off to the east interrupted Lope's rest. He wondered what it meant, but no one inside the bear-baiting arena could see out. He'd just dozed off in spite of the distant booms when an enormous explosion, much larger than a mere cannon blast, jerked him upright and make him wonder if his head would burst as well. After that, the gunfire quickly diminished. An almost aching silence returned.
Having nothing else he could do, he lay down and went back to sleep.
When the sun rose, the Englishmen who came in to feed their captives were jubilant. "Some of your galleons essayed sailing up the Thames," said the fellow who handed Lope a bowl of sour-smelling porridge, "but we sent 'em back, by God, tails 'twixt their legs."
"How, I pray you?" Lope asked. He shoveled the porridge into his mouth with his fingers, for he had not even a horn spoon to call his own.
"How? Fireships, the which we sent at 'em from just beyond London Bridge," the Englishman answered.
"The current slid the blazing hulks against your fleet sailing upriver, the which had to go about right smartly and flee before 'em: else they too had been given o'er to the flames. As indeed the San Juan was-heard you not the great roar when the fire reached her magazine?"
"The San Juan?" Lope crossed himself, muttering an Ave Maria. He'd come to England in that ship.
"And the San Mateo de Portugal lies hard aground," the fellow added, "hard aground and captured. I doubt not e'en you cock-a-hoop dons'll think twice or ever you try the like again." He went on to feed someone else.
"What does he say?" a Spaniard asked Lope. "I heard in amongst his English the names of our ships."
De Vega translated. He added, "I don't know that he was telling the truth, mind."
"It seems likely," the other man said. "It seems only too likely. Would a lie have such detail?"
"A good one might," Lope answered, though he knew he was trying to convince himself at least as much as the man with whom he was talking.
Day followed day. No Spanish force fought its way into London. At least as much as anything else, that convinced Lope the Englishman had told him the truth. The longer he stayed in the bear-baiting arena, the plainer it grew that the English uprising was succeeding.
With the arena still full of prisoners, some of the Londoners' usual sport was taken away from them.
Escorted by armed and armored guards, they began coming in to view the Spanish captives. Lope suspected it was a poor amusement next to what they were used to. Maybe they'll set mastiffs on us instead of on the bears, he thought. He took care never to say that aloud. When it first crossed his mind, it seemed a bitter joke. But the English might do it, if only it occurred to them.
Most of the men who came to see the Spaniards showed them a certain respect. Anyone who'd fought in war knew misfortune could befall even the finest soldiers. The women were worse. They jeered and mocked and generally made Lope think the guardsmen were protecting his countrymen and him from them rather than the reverse.
And then, one drizzly day, he saw a black-haired, black-eyed beauty on an English nobleman's arm. The nobleman stared at the Spaniards as if at so many animals in a cage. So did his companion, who laughed and murmured in his ear and rubbed against him and did everything but set her hand on his codpiece right there in front of everyone. And he only strutted and swaggered and slipped his arm around her waist, displaying to the world the new toy he'd found.
Slowly and deliberately, Lope turned away. He might have known Catalina IbaA±ez would make the best of whatever happened in England. He could have told that nobleman a thing or two, but what point?
Besides, sooner or later the fellow would find out for himself.
De Vega did hope Catalina didn't recognize him. By now, the beard was dark on his cheeks and jawline as well as his chin. To her eye, he should have been just one more glum and grimy prisoner among so many. Having her gloat over his misery would have been more than he could bear. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.
She gave no sign she knew him: a tiny victory, but all he'd get in here. She laughed again, a sound like tinkling bells, and stood on tiptoe to kiss her new protector on the cheek. Chuckling indulgently, he patted her backside. Lope prayed for a bear, or even for mastiffs. God must have been busy somewhere else, for Catalina and the Englishman strolled out of the arena together.
XV
As it had on that fateful afternoon six weeks earlier, absolute silence reigned in the Theatre. Into it, Joe Boardman once more spoke Boudicca's final lines:
"We Britons never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when we do first help to wound ourselves.
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Naught shall make us rue,
If Britons to themselves do rest but true."
The Queen of the Iceni died again.
As he had then, Shakespeare strode for ward past Boudicca's body. As he had then, he ended the play:
"No epilogue here, unless you make it;
If you want your freedom, go and take it."
And, as he had then, he stood there at the front of the stage and waited for whatever came next.
What came, this time, was applause, wave after wave of it, from groundlings and galleries alike.
Shakespeare's eyes went to the velvet-upholstered chair that had been set up in the middle gallery. He bowed low to Queen Elizabeth.
She inclined her head by way of reply. She had once more the outward seeming of a Queen: her gown glimmering with pearls, her great ruff starched and snowy, pale powder banishing the years from her face, a coronet in place in her curly red wig. Yet to Shakespeare's mind she'd never been more queenly than when she spoke, all unadorned, from the window in the Tower.
Behind the poet, the players who'd acted in Boudicca came forward to take their bows. At the earlier performance, they hadn't got the plaudits they deserved. The play had aimed at firing the audience against the Spanish occupiers, and met its aim even better than Shakespeare dared hope. That meant the players, though, went all but forgotten.
Not now. The audience clapped and stamped their feet and shouted and roared. Lord Westmorland's Men bowed again and again, but the tumult would not die. Robert Cecil-now Sir Robert-who sat beside Elizabeth, leaned towards her and spoke behind his hand. Shakespeare saw her smile and nod.
Then she rose to her feet and blew the company a kiss. Along with everyone else, Shakespeare bowe
d once more, lower than ever. The din in the Theatre redoubled.
At last, after what seemed forever, it began to ebb. A trumpeter behind Elizabeth's seat winded his horn.
The sharp, clear notes drew everyone's attention. Elizabeth rose once more and said, "Lord Westmorland being a proved traitor and Romish heretic who hath fled with the dons, and the name of a former company of players having fallen into misfortunate disuse, it is my pleasure to ordain and declare that the players here before me assembled shall be known henceforward and forevermore as the Queen's Men, betokening my great favor which for most excellent reason they do enjoy."
That drew even more applause than the play had. Once again, Shakespeare bowed very low. So did all the members of the company behind him. When laughter mingled with the applause, Shakespeare looked over his shoulder. There was Will Kemp, turning his reverence to the Queen into a silly caper. Burbage looked horrified. When Shakespeare glanced up towards Elizabeth in the gallery, she was laughing.
Maybe that said Kemp knew her humor better than Burbage did. Maybe-perhaps more likely-it said the clown couldn't help clowning, come what might.
The trumpeter blew another flourish. He had to blow it twice before the crowd heeded him and quieted.
Elizabeth said, "Be it also known that I purpose rewarding the players of the Queen's Men with more than the name alone, the which is but wind and air, good for vaunting but little else. Your valor in giving this play when the foul occupiers of our land would vilest treason style it shall of a surety be not forgot.
That I am Queen again over more than mine own chamber I am not least through your exertions, nor shall I never forget the same."
Cheers rang out again, some of them hungry: not so much envious as speculative. They shall have favor and wealth. How can I dispossess 'em of those, taking them for mine own? Shakespeare could all but hear the thoughts behind the plaudits. Had he been standing amongst the groundlings or even in the galleries, such thoughts might have run through his head, too. Consumption of the purse is so often incurable, who'd not seek a remedy therefrom?
One more trumpet flourish rang out. Trailed by Robert Cecil, the Queen descended from the middle gallery. Instead of leaving the Theatre, though, she made her way through the groundlings towards the stage. They parted before her like the Red Sea before Moses. In black velvet, the younger Cecil might have been her shadow behind her.
"How may I ascend?" she asked Shakespeare, who still stood farthest forward of the company.
He pointed back towards the right. "Thitherward lies the stair, your Majesty."
With a brusque nod, she used the stairway to come up onto the stage. Sir Robert remained at her heel.
Fear gnawed Shakespeare. If anyone in the audience meant her ill, he had but to draw a pistol and.
But no one did. Elizabeth's confident, even arrogant stride said she was certain no one would. Perhaps that confidence helped ensure that no one would. Perhaps. Shakespeare remained nervous even so.
The Queen walked up beside him. She looked out over the audience for a moment, again seeming almost to defy anyone to strike at her. Then she said, "Know, Master Shakespeare, you are much in my mind and heart for writing this Boudicca in despite of the Spaniards, showing forth no common courage in the doing."
I was more afeared of Ingram Frizer's knife than of the dons, Shakespeare thought. Sometimes, though, not all the truth needed telling. Here, he could and did get by with a murmured, "Your Majesty, I am your servant."
Elizabeth nodded again. "Just so. And you served me right well, in a way none other might have matched." Shakespeare knew a stab of grief for Christopher Marlowe. But even Kit had said he was best suited for this business. Then the Queen added another sharp word, one that cast all thoughts of Marlowe from his mind: "Kneel."
"Your Maj-?" Shakespeare squeaked in surprise. Elizabeth's eyes flashed. Awkwardly, Shakespeare dropped to his right knee.
"Your sword, Sir Robert," Elizabeth said.
"Is ever at your service, your Majesty." Robert Cecil drew his rapier and handed it to the Queen.
By the way she held it, she knew how to use it. She brought the flat down on Shakespeare's shoulder, hard enough to make him sway. "Arise, Sir William!" she said.
Dizzily, Shakespeare did, to the cheers of his fellow players and of the crowd in the Theatre. Queen Elizabeth returned the rapier to Robert Cecil, who slid it back into its sheath. "Your-Your Majesty,"
Shakespeare stammered, "I find me altogether at a loss for words."
"This I do now forgive in you, for that you were at no loss whilst setting pen to page on this play, which did so much to aid in mine own enlargement and England's freedom from the tyrant's heel," Elizabeth replied. "The necessity of this action makes my speech the more heartfelt, hoping you will measure my good affection with the right balance of my actions in gratitude for yours, for the which I render you a million of thanks. Sweet is my inclination towards you, whereby I may demonstrate my care: of this we shall speak more anon." She swept off the stage, Sir Robert Cecil once more following close.
Out she went, through the groundlings. They cheered her as lustily as before, and turned back to shout,
"Hurrah for Sir William!" Still dazed, Shakespeare bowed to them one last time before leaving the stage.
And had we given King Philip, and had the rebellion failed, Queen Isabella might have dubbed me knight this day, he thought, at which spectacle these selfsame folk would have cheered no less.
And if they had given King Philip, and if Isabella had knighted him, would he be thinking Elizabeth might have done the same had the company presented Boudicca? He shook his head, not so much in denial as in reluctance to get caught up in the tangling web of what might have been. Going back to the tiring room was nothing but a relief.
He found no peace there. Players kept coming up to pay him their respects. So did the tireman, the bookkeeper, the tireman's helpers, and everybody else who managed to get into the crowded room.
Some of them were really congratulating him. More, he judged, were congratulating his rank.
That thought must have occurred to Will Kemp, too. After bowing low-far too low to a knight (or to a duke, for that matter)-the clown said, "Ay, by my halidom, you're a right rank cove now," and held his nose.
"Go to!" Shakespeare said, laughing. " 'Tis the stench of your wit I'd fain rout from my nostrils."
"Had I more rank, I'd be less. Had God Himself less, He'd be more," Kemp said.
"Your quibbles fly like arrows at St. Sebastian." Shakespeare mimed being struck.
"Arrows by any other name would smell as sweet," Kemp retorted. Shakespeare flinched. However fond of puns he was himself, he'd never looked to see Romeo and Juliet so brutalized. Loftily, Kemp added,
"The same holds not for me."
"Naught holds for you," Richard Burbage said, coming up beside him. "Nor honor nor sense nor decency."
"Ah, but so that you love me, Dick, all's well!" Kemp cried, and planted a wet, noisy kiss on Burbage's cheek.
"Avaunt!" Burbage pushed him away, hard. "Aroint thee, mooncalf!"
The clown sighed. "Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, should be so tyrannous and rough in proof." He puckered up again.
"Good Lord, what madness rules in brainsick men," Burbage said.
"I am not mad; I would to heaven I were," Kemp replied. "For then, 'tis like, I should forget myself." He capered bonelessly-and more than a little lewdly.
Burbage looked ready to thwack him in good earnest. "Give over, the both of you," Shakespeare said.
Will Kemp gave him another extravagant bow. "I'd sooner be a cock and disobey the day than myself and disobey a knight."
"Half cock, belike," Burbage said.
"I yield to your judgment, sweet Dick, for you of all men surely are all cock as well."
"Enough!" Shakespeare shouted, loud enough to cut through the din in the tiring room and make everyone stare at him. He didn't care. "Give over I said, and give
over I meant," he went on. "The Queen hath said we are to be rewarded according to our deserts, and you'd quarrel one with another? 'Tis foolishness. 'Tis worse than foolishness: 'swounds, 'tis madness. Did we brabble so whilst in the mist of terrible and unavoided danger we readied Boudicca for the stage?"
Shaming them into stopping their sniping didn't work as he'd hoped. Burbage nodded. "Ay, by my troth, we did," he declared.
Kemp only shrugged. "Me, I know not. Ask of Matt Quinn."
Shakespeare threw his hands in the air. "Go on, then," he said. "Since it likes you so well, go on. You were pleased to play on cocks. Strap spurs on your heels, then, and and tear each other i'the pit." Will Kemp stirred. Shakespeare glared at him. That quibble never got made.
As the players left the Theatre, Burbage caught up with Shakespeare and said, "There be times. " His big hands made a twisting motion, as if he were wringing a cock's neck.
"Easy," Shakespeare said. "Easy. He roils you of purpose."
"And I know it," Burbage replied. "Natheless, he doth roil me."
"Showing him which, you but urge him on to roil you further."
"If he prick me, do I not bleed? If he poison me, do I not die? Have I not dimensions, sense, affections, passions? If he wrong me, shall I not revenge? The villainy he teacheth me I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction."
"He is a clown by very nature," Shakespeare said. "It will out, will he or no. And he hath a gift the auditors do cherish-as have you," he added hastily. "The company is better-the Queen's Men are better-for having both you twain."
"The Queen's Men." Burbage's glower softened. "There you have me, Will. A prize worth winning, and we have won it. And I needs must own he holp us in the winning." He was, when he remembered to be, a just man.
When Shakespeare walked into his lodging-house, he found Jane Kendall all fluttering with excitement.
"Is it true, Master Shakespeare?" she trilled. "Is it true?"
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