"Be it so, then," the man said, doubt in his voice.
He urged his horse forward with reins, voice, and the pressure of his knees against its sides. Shakespeare did the same. His mount, a good-natured and well-trained mare, obeyed him with so little fuss that, by the time he'd gone a couple of blocks, he felt as much centaur as man. The man who'd held the poet's horse brought up the rear on his own beast.
"Way! Make way!" the bravo in the lead bawled whenever they had to slow for foot traffic or other riders or wagons and carts. "Make way for the Queen's business!" Sometimes the offenders would move aside, sometimes they wouldn't. When they didn't, Shakespeare's escort bawled other, more pungent, things.
Outside the entrance to St. Paul's, the head and quartered members of a corpse were mounted on spears. They were all splashed with tar to slow rot and help hold scavengers at bay. Despite that, Shakespeare recognized the lean, even ascetic, features of Robert Parsons before he saw the placards announcing the demise of the Catholic Archbishop of Canterbury. SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS! one of those placards declared.
Was't for this you so long ate the bitter bread of exile? Shakespeare wondered. Was't for this you at last came home? Parsons might have answered ay; he had the strength and courage of his belief no less than his foes of theirs. And much good he got from them, Shakespeare thought. A rook, the bare base of its beak pale against black feathers, fluttered down and landed on top of the dead churchman's head. Tar or no tar, it pecked at Parsons' cheek.
More bodies and parts of bodies lined the road from London to Winchester. Rooks and carrion crows and jackdaws and sooty ravens fluttered up from them as riders went past, then returned to their interrupted feasting. Looking back over his shoulder at Shakespeare, his escort said, "May those birds wax as fat on the flesh of traitors as Frenchmen's geese crammed full with figs and nuts."
Shakespeare managed a nod he feared feeble. He rejoiced that England was free. But revenge, no matter how sweet at first, grew harsh to him. He saw the need; he would have been blind not to see the need.
But he could not rejoice in it. Others, many others, felt otherwise.
As Isabella and Albert had before her-and, indeed, as she often had before them-Elizabeth stayed at Whitehall. Servitors who'd likely bowed and scraped before Philip II's daughter and her husband shot Shakespeare scornful glances for his plain doublet and hose. But their manner changed remarkably when they found out who he was.
Elizabeth's throne was off-center on the dais. Till a few weeks before, two thrones had stood there. At the Queen's right hand, on a lower chair, sat Sir Robert Cecil. Since he was small and crookbacked, he had to tilt his chin up to speak to his sovereign.
Making his lowest leg to Queen Elizabeth, Shakespeare murmured, "Your Majesty."
"You may stand straight, Sir William. God give you good day." As Elizabeth had been at the Theatre, she was armored against time with wig and paint and splendid gown. Only her bad teeth still shouted out how old she'd grown.
"I am your servant, your Majesty," Shakespeare said. "But command me and, if it be in my poor power, it shall be yours. By my troth, I. "
The Queen's eyes remained sharp enough to pierce like swords. Under that stern gaze, his words stumbled to a stop. He hardly dared breathe. Then Elizabeth smiled, and it was as if spring routed winter.
"I called you here not to serve me, but that I might reward you according to my promise when I made you knight," she said. "That you shall not want, it pleaseth me that Sir Robert settle upon you the sum of. " She looked to Cecil.
"Three hundred fifty pound," he said.
"Gra-Gramercy," Shakespeare stammered, bowing deeply. Along with what he'd got from Sir Robert's father and from Don Diego for Boudicca and King Philip, he was suddenly a man of no small wealth. "I am ever in your debt." "Not so, but rather the reverse," Elizabeth said. "How joyed I am that so good event hath followed so many troublesome endeavors, laborious cares, and heedful undertakings, you may guess, but I best can witness, and do protest that your success standeth equal to the most thereof. And so God ever bless you in all your actions. For myself, I can but acknowledge your diligence and dangerous adventure, and cherish and judge of you as your grateful sovereign. What you would have of me, ask, and I will spare no charge, but give with both hands. Honor here I love, for he who hateth honor hateth God above."
Shakespeare gaped. Did that, could that, mean what it seemed to? He could name whatever he wanted in all the world, and the Queen would give it to him? Before he could begin to speak, Sir Robert Cecil did, his voice dry as usual: "Sir William, I say this only-seek no more gold of her Majesty, for she hath it not to give, England yet being all moils and disorders."
"I understand." Shakespeare hadn't intended to ask for more gold. That would have been like asking for a fourth wish from a fairy who had given three: a good way to lose all he might have gained. He paused to gather his thoughts, then spoke directly to Elizabeth: "Your Majesty, when a lad in Stratford I made a marriage I do repent me of. Romish doctrines being once more o'erthrown"-he saw in his mind's eye the rook landing on Robert Parsons' tarred head outside St. Paul's-"you may order it dissevered, an it please you."
"Have you issue from the said union?" Elizabeth asked.
"Two living daughters, your Majesty, and a son now two years dead," he answered. Hamnet, poor Hamnet. "I would settle on the girls' mother a hundred pound of your generous bounty, that they may know no want all the days of their lives."
"A hundred fifty pound," Elizabeth said sharply. Shakespeare blinked. He hadn't expected that kind of dicker. But he nodded. So did the Queen. She turned to Sir Robert. "Let it be made known to clerks and clerics that this is my will, to which they are to offer no impediment."
"Just so, your Majesty," Cecil said.
The Queen gave her attention back to Shakespeare. "Here, then, is one thing settled. Be there more?"
Three wishes, he thought again, dizzily. "Your Majesty will know," he said, "that whilst I wrote Boudicca I wrote also another play, this latter one entitled King Philip."
Elizabeth nodded. "I do know it. Say on, Sir William. You pique my curiosity. What would you in aid of this King Philip?"
Shakespeare took a deep breath. "King Philip the man is dead, for which all England may thank a God kind and just. By your gracious leave, your Majesty, I'd fain have King Philip live upon the stage."
"What?" Queen Elizabeth's eyebrows came down and together in a fierce frown. He'd startled her, and angered her, too. "This play you writ for the dons, for the invaders and despoilers and occupiers"-she plainly used the word in its half-obscene sense-"of our beloved homeland, praying-I do hope-it would ne'er be given, you'd now see performed? How have you the effrontery to presume this of me?"
Licking his lips, Shakespeare answered, "I ask it for but one reason: that in King Philip lieth some of my best work, the which I'd not have go for naught."
Would she understand? All he had to make his mark on the world were the words he set on paper. He marshaled no armies, no fleets. He issued no decrees. He didn't so much as make gloves, as his father had. Without words, he was nothing, not even wind and air.
Instead of answering directly, Elizabeth turned to Sir Robert. "You have read the play whereof he speaketh?"
Cecil nodded. "I have, your Majesty. Sir Thomas Phelippes, whilst in the employ of Don Diego, made shift to acquaint my father and me therewith."
"And what think you on it?" the Queen inquired.
"Your Majesty, my opinion marches with Sir William's: though Philip be dead, this play deserves to live.
It is most artificial, and full of clever conceits."
The Queen's eyes narrowed in thought. "Philip did spare me where he might have slain," she said musingly, at least half to herself, "e'en if, as may well be, he reckoned the same no great mercy, I being mured up behind Tower walls. And I pledged my faith to you, Sir William, you should have that which your heart desireth, wherefore let it be as you say, and let King Philip b
e acted without my hindrance-indeed, with my good countenance. 'Tis noble to salute the foe, the same pricking against my honor not but conducing thereto."
"Again, your Majesty, many thanks," Shakespeare said. "By your gracious leave here, you show the world your nobleness of mind."
Judging from her self-satisfied smile, that touched Elizabeth's vanity. "Be there aught else you would have of me?" she asked him.
He nodded. "One thing more, an it please you, also touching somewhat upon King Philip."
"Go on," she said.
"A Spanish officer, a Lieutenant de Vega, was to play Juan de IdiA?quez, the King's secretary. He being now a captive, I'd beg of you his freedom and return to his own land."
"De Vega. Methinks I have heard this name aforetimes." Elizabeth frowned, as if trying to remember where. A tiny shrug suggested she couldn't. "Why seek you this? Is he your particular friend?"
"My particular friend? Nay, I'd say not so, though we liked each the other as well as we might, each being loyal to his own country. But he is a poet and a maker of plays in the Spanish tongue. If poets come not to other poets' aid, who shall? No one, not in all the world."
"De Vega. Lope de Vega." Queen Elizabeth's gaze sharpened. "I have heard the name indeed: a maker of comedies, not so? The guards at the Tower did with much approbation speak of some play of his offered before the usurpers this summer gone by. Following Italian, I could betimes make out their Spanish."
"Your Majesty, I have found the same," Shakespeare said.
"You are certain he is captive and not slain?"
"I am, having ta'en him myself," Shakespeare said.
"Very well: let him go back to Spain and make comedies for the dons, provided he first take oath never again to bear arms against England. Absent that oath, captive he shall remain." Elizabeth turned to Robert Cecil. "See you to it, Sir Robert."
"Assuredly, your Majesty," Cecil said. "This de Vega is known to me: not the worst of men." Coming from him, that sounded like high praise. "A kind thought, Sir William, to set him at liberty."
"I thank your honor," Shakespeare said. "It were remiss of me also to say no word for Mistress Sellis, a widow dwelling at my lodging-house. Her quick wit"- amongst other things, the poet thought-"balked Lieutenant de Vega of learning we purposed presenting Boudicca in place of King Philip, and haply of thwarting us in the said enterprise."
"Let her be rewarded therefor," Elizabeth said. She asked Sir Robert Cecil, "Think you ten pound sufficeth?"
"Peradventure twenty were better," he said.
Elizabeth haggled like a housewife buying apples in springtime. "Fifteen," she declared. "Fifteen, and not a farthing more."
Sir Robert sighed. "Fifteen, then. Just as you say, your Majesty, so shall it be."
"Ay, that well befits a Queen." Elizabeth's face and voice hardened. "As who should know more clearly than I, having thrown away-upon my troth, cruelly thrown away! — in harshest confinement ten years of this life I shall have back never again, wherein not in the least respected was one single word from my lips." For a moment, she seemed to imagine herself still in the Tower of London, to have forgotten Robert Cecil and Shakespeare and her guardsmen and the very throne on which she sat. Then she gathered herself. "Be there aught else required for your contentment, Sir William?"
"Your Majesty, an I may not live content by light of your kind favor, I make me but a poor figment of a man," Shakespeare replied.
"A courtesy worthy of a courtier," the Queen said, which might have been praise or might have been something else altogether. "Very well, then. You may go."
"God bless your Majesty." Shakespeare bowed one last time.
"He doth bless me indeed," Elizabeth said. "For long and long I wondered, but. ay, He blesseth me greatly." Shakespeare turned away so he wouldn't see tears in his sovereign's eyes.
Rain pattered down on Lope de Vega. It hadn't snowed yet, for which he thanked God. Next to him, another Spanish soldier coughed and coughed and coughed. Consumption, Lope thought gloomily. He was just glad the black plague hadn't broken out among his miserable countrymen. No snow. No plague. Such were the things for which he had to be grateful these days.
And his headaches came less often. He supposed he should have been grateful for that, too, but he would have been more grateful to have no headaches at all. On the other hand, if he hadn't been thwacked senseless and left for dead, he probably would have died in the savage fighting that had claimed so many Spaniards. He-cautiously-shook his head. Damned if I'll be grateful for almost having my head smashed like a melon dropped on the cobbles.
An Englishman-an officer, by his basket-hilted rapier and plumed hat-strutted into the bear-baiting arena. Lope paid him no special attention. Plenty of Englishmen and — women still came to the arena to look over the Spanish prisoners as if they were the animals that had formerly dwelt here. Lope had seen Catalina IbaA±ez on her Englishman's arm only that once. One more small, very small, thing for which to be grateful.
Then the officer took out a scrap of paper and peered down at it, shielding it from the rain with his left hand. "Lope de Vega!" he bawled. "Where's Lieutenant Lope de Vega? Lope de Vega, stand forth!"
"I am here." De Vega got to his feet. "What would you, sir?"
"Come you with me, and straightaway," the Englishman replied.
"God's good fortune go with you, senor," the consumptive soldier said.
" Gracias," Lope said, and then, louder and in English, "I obey."
The officer led him out of the arena. Only a few feet from where Lope's two mistresses had discovered each other, the fellow said, "You are to be enlarged, Lieutenant, so that you give your holy oath nevermore to bear arms against England and presently to quit her soil. Be it your will to accept the said terms and swear your oath?"
"Before God, sir, you mean this? You seek not to make me your jest?" Lope asked, hardly daring to believe his ears.
"Before God, Lieutenant, no such wicked thing do I," the English officer replied. "The order for your freedom-provided you swear the oath-comes from Sir Robert Cecil, by direction of her Majesty, the Queen. I ask again: will you swear it?"
"Right gladly will I," de Vega said. "By God and the Virgin and all the saints, I vow that, if it be your pleasure to set me at liberty, I shall never again take up arms against this kingdom, and shall remove from it fast as ever I may. Doth it like you well enough, sir, or would you fain have me swear somewhat more?"
" 'Twas a round Romish oath, but I looked for none other from a Spaniard," the officer said. "I am satisfied indeed, Lieutenant, and declare you free. God go with you."
Lope bowed. "And with you, for your generous chivalry." He hesitated, then let out an embarrassed chuckle. "I pray your pardon for a grateful man's foolish question, but how am I to get me hence without a ha'penny to my name? — for my purse was slit or ever I was ta'en."
"Did you ask me this, I was told to give you these: two good gold angels, a pound in all." After returning the bow, the Englishman set the coins in Lope's hand. "Sir William saith, Godspeed and and safe journey homeward."
"Sir William?" Lope scratched his head. "I know none of that name and title but Lord Burghley, may he rest in peace." He made the sign of the cross.
The English officer started to do the same, then abruptly caught himself and scowled. He forgot he is a Catholic no more, de Vega thought with amusement he dared not show. The Englishman said, "Whether you ken him or no, Lieutenant, he doth know you. Which beareth the greater weight?"
"Oh, that he know me, assuredly. And I do thank you for conveying to me his kind gift." For not stealing it, he meant. The English officer had to think someone would check on him.
"You are welcome." The officer pointed north, towards the wharves of Southwark and, across the Thames, London. "There, belike, you'll find a ship to hie you to France or the Netherlands."
A man strode towards the bear-baiting arena: a tall fellow about Lope's own age, with neat chin whiskers and a high forehead
made higher by a receding hairline. "There, belike, I'll find a friend." De Vega waved and raised his voice to call, "Will! Thought you to find me within? You're come too late, for they've set me free."
"God give you good day, Master Lope," Shakespeare answered. "And if you be new-enlarged, He hath given you a good day indeed. Will you dine with me?"
"I would, but I may not, for I am sworn to quit England instanter."
"Who'd grudge your going with a full belly?" Shakespeare said. "To an ordinary first; and thence, the docks."
Lope let himself be persuaded. After the prisoner's rations he'd endured, he couldn't resist the chance for a hearty meal. Half a roast capon, washed down with Rhenish wine, made a new man of him, though Shakespeare had to lend him a knife with which to eat. He stabbed the fowl's gizzard and popped it into his mouth. When he'd swallowed the chewy morsel, he said, "You do me a great kindness: the more so as I would have slain you when last we met."
"That was in another country," Shakespeare said-not quite literally true, as Isabella and Albert had fled the night before, but close enough. The English poet added, "And besides, the witch lives yet."
"A great sorrowful pity she doth live," Lope said.
"None take it amiss you served Spain as best you might," Shakespeare said. "Mistress Sellis did likewise for England."
" Puta, " Lope muttered, but let it go.
"At Broken Wharf in London lieth the Oom Karl," Shakespeare remarked. "She takes on board woolen goods, bound for Ostend and sundry other Flanders ports. Might she serve your need?"
"Peradventure she might." De Vega sighed. "A swag-bellied Hollander ship, by her name, with a swag-bellied Hollander captain at the con. I'd liefer not put my faith in such, but"-another sigh-"betimes we do as needs must, not as likes us."
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