Ruled Britannia (49 page)

Don Alejandro tried to answer him, but blood poured from his lips instead of words. De Recalde was game. He kept on doing his best to skewer Lope. His best was alarmingly good—but not quite good enough.

Lope thrust at his head again, this time pinking his left ear. More blood flew. Don Alejandro shook his head and kept fighting. Both he and Lope ignored Catalina's screams.

Once more
, Lope thought. He gave this thrust all the arm extension he had. His point pierced his opponent's right eye, pierced the flimsy bone behind, and penetrated deep into de Recalde's brain. With a grunt that seemed more surprise than pain, Don Alejandro toppled to the grass like a kicked-over sack of clothes. His rapier fell from fingers that could hold it no more. His feet drummed briefly, then were still. A sudden stench said his bowels had let go. Catalina screamed one last time. She gulped to a stop, tears streaming down her face.

“Stupid bastard,” Lope said wearily, tugging his sword free and plunging it into the ground to cleanse it. “You never really tried to kill anyone before, did you? Well, by God, you won't try again, that's certain sure.”

He wished he'd never killed anyone himself. But he'd fought his way to London after the Armada's army came ashore; if he hadn't killed a few Englishmen, they would most assuredly have killed him. He wished their souls a kind judgment from God—as he did now for Don Alejandro de Recalde's—but they were dead and he was alive and that was how he wanted it to be.

He turned to Catalina Ibañez. “Come on,” he told her. “We have to let the authorities know what happened here. You are my witness I slew in self-defense.”

She nodded. “You are my hero, my champion.” she said. “You killed for my sake, for . . . for me.” Tears still wet on her cheeks, she gave him a glance full of animal heat. Lope had never had a woman look at him that way for that reason. He hoped to heaven he never would again.

 

T
HE NIGHT BEFORE
, Shakespeare had fallen asleep to Jack Street's snores. Now he woke to them. As he yawned and got out of bed, he wondered if he would ever be able to go to sleep without the glazier's racket after a couple of years of it. He'd got so very used to it, he had his doubts.

Sam King lay asleep in the third bed in their common bedchamber. Street's snoring had stopped bothering him, too. Shakespeare got out of his nightshirt and into doublet and hose. The early-morning sun leaking through closed shutters gave him plenty of light by which to dress. In summer, day swallowed half the night, not the other way round. He reveled in the daylight, and reveled in it more because he knew it would dwindle again as the seasons spun through their never-ending cycle.

A kettle of porridge bubbled over a low fire on the hearth. Shakespeare dipped out a bowlful to break his fast. He poured a mug of ale from a pitcher on the counter, then sat down to eat.

Cicely Sellis came out of her room a couple of minutes later, with Mommet walking around and between her feet. “Give you good day, Master Shakespeare,” she said, and got herself breakfast, too. As she sat down on a stool across the table from the poet, the cat puddled himself on top of her shoes.

“Give you good morrow as well,” Shakespeare answered. “I hope the world wags well for you?”

“Passing well,” she said. “How fares your friend, the Spaniard de Vega?”

“These past few days, I've seen him not,” Shakespeare said. Then he started violently. He had all he could do not to sign himself with the cross. “How knew you we have an acquaintance?”
What witch's trick told you so?
was what he meant. As with crossing himself, though, he lacked the nerve for that.

But Cicely Sellis laughed a merry laugh. “No bell, book, and candle: by God I give you my oath.” She showed no fear about using the holy sign herself. She never had. Laughing still, she went on, “For one thing, you have in my hearing spake his name, though peradventure you recall it not. For another, not long since I met the man himself in Bishopsgate Street—I daresay Mommet on my shoulder drew his eye. A man of much charm and wit, and much an admirer of yours.”

Shakespeare only half heard her, even less after she showed she hadn't used the black arts to learn of Lope de Vega. Normally, he would have savored praise, and savored Cicely Sellis' company, too. Now he scraped his bowl clean, gulped his ale, mumbled, “I must away,” and all but fled the lodging house. She'd convinced him she hadn't used witchcraft this time. She hadn't come close to convincing him she was no witch.

Someone two houses down flung the contents of a very full
chamber pot from an upstairs window out into the street. Even though it didn't come close to splashing Shakespeare, the stench made him wrinkle his nose. That stench also took the edge off his pleasure in the fine day. He hurried up towards Bishopsgate, hoping he'd get no more unpleasant surprises.

People streamed into London from the tenements outside the walls, to look for work, to buy and sell, or to drink. Fewer folk went in the other direction. “Whither away so early, now?” an Irish gallowglass asked as Shakespeare headed out. He made as if to step forward and bar the poet's path.

“I'm for the Theatre,” Shakespeare answered.

“Faith, are you indeed?” the Irishman said. “Riddle me why, then. I'm after knowing these plays run of afternoons.”

“In sooth, they do,” Shakespeare agreed. “But we needs must practice or ever we play, else were the show not worth the seeing.”

The Irishman scratched at his red whiskers. He scratched hard, caught something, and squashed it between his two thumbnails. Seeing that made Shakespeare want to scratch, too. Maybe getting rid of the vermin cheered the gallowglass, for he waved Shakespeare forward. “Pass on.”

“Gramercy. God give you good day.” Not least from fear, Shakespeare was always polite around the savages from the western island.

Out beyond the wall, the tenements were as crowded and squalid as anything within, maybe worse. Shakespeare strutted up Shoreditch High Street towards the Theatre as fiercely as he could. Footpads had never set on him, and he hoped a show of belligerency from a good-sized man would keep making them choose other targets.

Only the night watchman was at the Theatre when Shakespeare got there. He sat on a stool, his back against the wall by the outer entrance, his hat down over his eyes to shield him from the sunlight. Soft snores rose from him. Shakespeare hoped he'd been more alert during the night.

He paused in front of the entrance and coughed. The watchman's snores changed rhythm. Shakespeare coughed again, louder this time. The other man yawned and stretched and raised his hat enough to see out from under the brim. “Oh, 'tis you, Master Will,” he said around a yawn that showed bad teeth. “Good day, sir. Go on in, an't please you. You're first here today.”

“How know you that?” Like Pilate asking,
What is truth?
Shakespeare didn't want an answer. He nodded and went into the Theatre. The watchman pulled his hat down again. He was ready for more sleep.

He turned out to be right; no one from the company had gone past him while he dozed. Shakespeare had the Theatre all to himself. He looked up to the wide ring of heaven. A kestrel flashed by overhead. The little hawk never had any doubts of what prey nature intended it to take, nor of how to go about the tasks nature had appointed it. For his part, Shakespeare had never imagined he might envy a bird's pure simplicities. He'd never imagined it, but it was so.

While he stood with his feet on the hard-packed earth (it smelled faintly of spilt beer; despite the sweepers, nutshells, bits of bread, a broken clay pipe, and other refuse still lay all around), he stretched out his arms full length and wistfully flapped them. He envied the kestrel its ability to fly out of trouble, too.

From behind him, someone said, “Lo! Here the gentle lark, weary of rest, from his moist cabinet mounts on high, and wakes the morning.”

Shakespeare spun round. There stood Richard Burbage, a grin on his handsome, fleshy face. “I am no songbird,” Shakespeare said. “But the crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark when neither is attended.”

“No songbird? Haply not, not in your own person,” Burbage said. “But verily you give others music, killing care and grief of heart. Orpheus with his lute made trees bow themselves when he did sing. So you as well, e'en if it be through the throats of others.”

“You are gracious,” Shakespeare said, “and I thank you for't.”

“How d'you come here, the hour being so young?” Burbage asked. “I had looked to be alone yet some little while, as usually chances.”

“How, Dick? I'll tell you how.” Shakespeare spoke of how Cicely Sellis had asked him about Lieutenant de Vega. “She ghasted me out of doors betimes, nor am I shamed to own it.”

“And yet 'twas no witchery that you should speak, or even that they should meet. Passing strange, that.” Burbage snapped his fingers. “I mind me we need not fear dear Master Lope for some little while, at the least.”

“Wherefore say you so?” Shakespeare asked. “If Dame Rumor run abroad, she hath not caught me up.”

“I supped yesternight at an ordinary close by the dons' barracks. There was talk in Spanish amongst 'em, and in English back and forth 'twixt the tapman and the drawer, the which I might follow. De Vega hath slain a man, a noble Spaniard.”

“ 'Swounds!” Shakespeare said. “Shall he be hanged for't?”

Burbage shook his head. “Methinks not. 'Twas in some affray over a woman.”

“With Master de Vega? You astound me,” Shakespeare said. Burbage laughed. He too knew—he could hardly help knowing—Lope de Vega's passion for passionate conquests. Shakespeare went on, “Still and all, that could be murther, did he lie in wait for his rival or smite from behind.”

“Why, so it could,” Burbage admitted. “I had not thought on it, the Spaniard seeming a tolerable man of his hands, but haply you have the right of't. I know not, nor could I glean it from the talk I overheard. But he shan't come hither soon, an I mistake me not.”

“May it be so,” Shakespeare said. “A few days' time to rehearse our
Boudicca
in peace were a blessing.”

“Ay. Naught compares to moving about the stage for the refining of bits of business, and breaking off in the midst of a scene jars hardly less than breaking off in the midst with a wench,” Burbage said.

“A fit figure, in view of what's passed.” Shakespeare inclined his head.

“I'm certain sure she had a fit figure,” Burbage said. “The Spaniard hath an eye for 'em.”

“Hold the tireman's helper on high,” Shakespeare warned. “If Master Lope return of a sudden, we dare not be caught out.”

“That I know, Will,” Burbage said heavily. “By my troth, that I know.”

 

L
OPE DE
V
EGA
stood at stiff attention before Captain Baltasar Guzmán. “Before God, sir, it was self-defense, nothing else,” he declared. A pen scratched across paper off to one side: Guzmán's servant, Enrique, writing down every word he said. “Don Alejandro came at me sword in hand. If I hadn't defended myself, some other officer would be taking his statement now.”

Some other officer
might
be taking his statement now
, Lope thought.
Or, then again, maybe not
. Had Don Alejandro de Recalde slain him, how much of an inquiry would there have been? He was only a lieutenant, after all, from a family not particularly eminent. As likely as not, they would have buried him, patted Don Alejandro on the back for his fine swordsmanship, and gone on about their business.

Baltasar Guzmán, now, said nothing at all. He sat behind his desk, staring up at de Vega. “You will have questioned my companion,” Lope said stiffly. “
Señorita
Ibañez's account should match mine.”

“And so it does,” Guzmán admitted, “or you would be in a great deal more trouble than you are.”

“Your Excellency, if
Señorita
Ibañez's account does match mine, I should be in no trouble at all.”

“Unfortunately, Senior Lieutenant, it is not quite so simple. What were you doing with the woman when Don Alejandro discovered the two of you alone together?”

“We'd had a picnic, sir,” Lope said stolidly. “We were leaving the yard for the Kings of Scotland when Don Alejandro burst in.”
Scratch, scratch, scratch
went the quill in Enrique's clever right hand.

“A picnic?” One of Captain Guzmán's eyebrows leaped.

“Yes, your Excellency. A picnic. The soldiers who came after the fight took the coverlet we sat on, and the wine bottle we drank from, and the mugs, and the bread and honey we had there.”

“One—or two—can do other things on a coverlet besides sitting.”

“No doubt, sir. We were having a picnic,” Lope said.
Scratch, scratch, scratch
.

“Will you see
Señorita
Ibañez again?” Guzmán asked.

“How can I know, your Excellency?” de Vega answered. “She is . . . an attractive woman, and her protector—her former protector—is now unfortunately deceased.”