Ruled Britannia (57 page)

Performing in the play itself came as a great relief. While he trod the boards, he didn't have to—he couldn't—think about anything else. Hearing people gasp at his first appearance, hearing a woman up in the galleries let out half a shriek, assured him he still played a specter better than anyone else. He only wished he had more lines, the better to keep himself distracted.

Aye, I make me a passing fine ghost
, he thought as he crouched under the stage again, awaiting his next scene.
Shall I make me a ghost in sooth ere this coil unravel to the fullest?
That seemed altogether too likely.

He came out on stage for his bows after
Cambyses King of Persia
ended, still in ghost makeup and turban. He saw de Vega applauding (and Cicely Sellis with him). He saw Marlowe applauding, too, which gave him an odd prick of pleasure. He even saw dour Walter Strawberry applauding. But the only thing that stuck in his mind was,
I go well acclaimed to my doom
.

Back in the tiring room, he accepted congratulations with half an ear. As it always did in a play with a ghost, the chore of getting off his unusually elaborate makeup gave him an excuse for not paying too much attention to people who came up to him. He could always soap and splash and scrub and say, “Gramercy,” without really worrying about what they were trying to tell him. Today of all days, that suited him well. He wanted to escape from the Theatre—which was just how he thought of it—as fast as he could.

He said hello to Lope, and to the cunning woman on his arm.
Do they lie together?
he wondered. By the way they spoke and touched and looked at each other, he didn't think so, but they were both, in a way, players, and so likely better at dissembling than most. That made him wonder what else Lope might be concealing. Did the Spaniard know of
Boudicca
? Was he biding his time, waiting to scoop up all the plotters when the time was ripe?

There's a question I'd give much to ask
. But Shakespeare had to dissemble, too. He had to dissemble, and to pray no one betrayed him before the day, whenever that day should come. And he had to pray the rising that would come on and after the day succeeded, for its failure likewise doomed him and all of Lord Westmorland's Men unless they could flee abroad ahead of Spanish—and English—vengeance.

He kept looking around the tiring room for Christopher Marlowe, especially after the company had given one of the other poet's plays. Kit had had the chance to flee abroad ahead of Spanish vengeance. He'd had it, and he hadn't taken it.
Zany
, Shakespeare thought. Marlowe did seem to have the sense to stay away from this chamber, where his disguise could not hope to hold up.

Shakespeare was about to slip out of the tiring room himself, out of the tiring room and out of the Theatre, when Walter Strawberry pushed his way towards him through the crowd. “Good day to you, Master Shakespeare,” the constable boomed. “Good day.”

“And the same to you, sir,” Shakespeare answered.

“Your performance this day was ghastly, passing ghastly indeed,” Strawberry said.

By his smile, that was evidently intended for praise. Shakespeare dipped his head in what he hoped would pass for modesty. “I thank you for your gracious kindness,” he murmured. He didn't ask Strawberry what he wanted. If he didn't ask, maybe the constable would prove not to have wanted anything and leave him alone.

Forlorn hope. Strawberry planted his wide frame in front of Shakespeare and said, “Know you, in his last hours under this earth, Matt Quinn spake traitorously? It be so, a certain witness hath demurred to me.”

“I knew this not, sir,” Shakespeare lied, and did his best to spread confusion wherever he could: “But if he were a traitor, then belike he who slew him loved his country.”

“Think you so, eh?” Constable Strawberry said. “Well, I have my suppositions on that. Ay, some suppositious coves yet run free, a murtherer's blood adrip from their fingers.”

“Surely it were the blood of them that were murthered,” Shakespeare said.

“The which is what I said, not so?”

“God forbid I should quarrel with your honor.”

“God forbid it? God forbid it indeed! For I tell you, sir, them as quarrel with me have cause to beget it afterwards,” the constable declared.

“I doubt not you speak sooth,” Shakespeare said soberly.

“Mark it well, then,” the constable said, “for the day of beckoning draws nigh.”

“I shall keep your words ever within my mind.” Shakespeare hesitated, then asked, “What sort of treason spake this Matthew Quinn?”

“Vile, unlawful treason: most vile. Know you another sort?”

“Might you make yourself more clear, more plain?”

“Why, sir, I aim to be as clear as the nose on my face, as plain as a peacock,” Strawberry said. “And so I shall exculpate more upon this matter. The said Quinn did speak insultingly on the King of Spain, dislikening him to a common bawd.”

“A bawd?” Shakespeare said, frowning.

Walter Strawberry nodded. “The very same, sir: a bawd which hath two debauched daughters. An this be not treason, what name shall you give it?”

Shakespeare didn't answer right away; he was trying to make the pieces fit together. And then, with sudden, frightening ease, he did. Whoever had given Strawberry the story must have misheard
bawd
for
Boudicca
, substituting a familiar word for the unfamiliar name. And the Queen of the Iceni had had two daughters the Romans had ravished. A good thing whatever witness the constable—and the Spaniards?—had found seemed to know nothing of Roman history, or he would have
given a clearer picture of Matt Quinn's folly. From the report that had come back to the Theatre through Will Kemp, Quinn had said far more than Walter Strawberry knew.

“Be this not treason?” Strawberry repeated. “If it be not treason, what name would you give it? Would you call it plum pudding?”

“Treason indeed. I'd not deny it,” Shakespeare said. “Haply his end came at the hand of some bold soul whose overflowing choler would not suffer him to hear good King Philip reviled so.” Again, he did his best to lead the constable away from the true trail.

And, again, he did not get so far as he would have wanted. Constable Strawberry said, “This Ingram Frizer I have aforementioned is villain enough and to spare for murther and felonious absconding with his periwig both. By my halidom, I do believe him to be the perpetuator against Matthew Quinn.”

Since Shakespeare believed the same thing, he had to tread with the greatest of care. He said, “Your honor will know better than I, for I have not met the gentleman you name.”

“No gentry cove he, but a high lawyer and rakehell,” Strawberry said. Once more, Shakespeare agreed. Once more, he dared not let Strawberry see as much. The constable went on, “Curious you twain should hold friends in common. Passing curious, I call it. How say you?”

“I say Nick Skeres is no friend of mine. I have said the same again and again. Will you not heed me, sir?” Shakespeare showed a little anger. Were he honest, he thought he would have done so. And it helped hide his fear.

Before Constable Strawberry could answer, another man came up to Shakespeare: an older man, jowly and leaning on a stick. Strawberry bowed to him. “Give you good day, Sir Edmund.”

“And you, Constable,” Sir Edmund Tilney answered. “Give me leave to speak to Master Shakespeare here, if you please.”

“Certes, certes. Shall I gainsay the Master of the Revilements?” Walter Strawberry bowed again and withdrew.

Shakespeare too made a leg at Sir Edmund. “Good morrow, sir. What would you?”

The Master of the Revels looked around to make sure Strawberry was out of earshot before murmuring, “That man will trip to death on's own tongue.”

“Nothing in his life'd become him like the leaving of it,” Shakespeare said.

“He is an annoyance, but surely not so bad as that,” Tilney said.

“His vexatiousness knows no bounds.” With a sigh, Shakespeare added, “But it will be what it is, an I rail at it or no. I ask again, sir: how may I serve you?”

“In the matter o'er which I come hither, I am
your
servant, Master Shakespeare,” the Master of the Revels replied. “I speak of your
King Philip
.”

“Ah. Say on, sir. Whatsoe'er the play in your view wants, I shall supply. Direct me, that I may have the changes done in good time, his Most Catholic Majesty failing by the day.” Shakespeare crossed himself.

So did Sir Edmund. His awkward motion told how full of years he'd been before the success of the Armada brought Catholicism and its rituals back to England. He said, “No need for change here, not by the standards of mine office. By the standards of dramaturgy . . . The purpose of playing was and is to hold, as 'twere, the glass up to nature. Methinks you have held it here most exceeding well.”

“For the which you have my most sincerest thanks.” Shakespeare meant every word of that. If all went as Robert Cecil hoped,
King Philip
would never be staged. Even so, the poet had worked as hard and as honestly on it as on
Boudicca
. He had no small pride in what he'd achieved. That the Master of the Revels—a man who'd likely seen the scripts for more plays than anyone else alive—should recognize its quality filled him with no small pride.

“You have earned your praises,” Tilney said now. Shakespeare bowed. The Master returned the gesture. Then he asked, “Wherefore doth Master Strawberry make inquiry of you?”

“He is Sir Oracle, and, when he opes his lips, let no dog bark!” Shakespeare said sourly. Sir Edmund chuckled. But Shakespeare realized his answer would not do. Tilney could ask the constable himself. Better to lull him than to let Strawberry fan his suspicion to flame. The poet went on, “He seeks him who murthered Geoffrey Martin and Matt Quinn.”

“He cannot believe you are the man?” Tilney said.

“No, sir, for which I thank God. But, quotha, the man he suspects and I both are known to the same man. From this I seem to lie under reflected suspicion, so to speak.”

“Whom have you in common?” the Master of the Revels asked.

Shakespeare wished he would have picked a different question. “One Nicholas Skeres, sir,” he said, again knowing Walter Strawberry could give the answer if he didn't.

“Nick Skeres?” Tilney said. Shakespeare nodded. “ 'Sblood, I've
known Nick Skeres these past ten years, near enough,” Sir Edmund told him. “A friend of Marlowe's, Nick Skeres is. I'd not dice with him, I'll say that: he hath no small skill in the cheating law, and he'd not stick at sliding high men or low men or fullams into the game to gull a cousin. But a murtherer? I find that hard to credit, and I'd say as much to the constable's face.”

“Gramercy, if you'd be so kind,” Shakespeare said. He too thought Skeres would use dice with only high numbers or only low ones or weighted dice whenever he thought he could get away with it. “Master Strawberry's importunings do leave me distracted from seeing
King Philip
forward. Could you ease them . . .”

“I hope I may,” the Master of the Revels said. “Zeal without sense is like a mast without stays—the man having the one without the other will soon fall into misfortune. Ay, Master Shakespeare, I'll bespeak Strawberry for you.”

“For the which many thanks, sir. I'd be most disgraceful to you on account of't,” Shakespeare said, deadpan.

Sir Edmund Tilney started to nod and turn away. Then he heard what Shakespeare had really said. After one of the better double takes the poet had seen, Sir Edmund guffawed. “You are a most dangerous vile wicked fellow,” he said, “and you know your quarry as a cony-catcher knows his cony.”

“Why, whatever can you mean?” Shakespeare said. This time, they both laughed. Tilney clapped him on the shoulder and went off to chat with Thomas Vincent. By the way the prompter smiled and nodded, Sir Edmund was also telling him Lord Westmorland's Men could legitimately perform
King Philip
.

Shakespeare peered into a looking-glass. He muttered under his breath—he'd missed some greasepaint below one eye, so he looked as if he had a shiner. He scrubbed at the makeup with a rough cloth, then examined himself again. This time, he nodded in satisfaction.

The sun hung low in the west when he left the Theatre. The equinox had come the day before. Soon, all too soon, days would dwindle down to the brief hours of late autumn and winter. A chill breeze that smelled of rain made him glad of his thick wool doublet.

He hadn't gone far towards London before he saw Marlowe perched on a boulder by the side of Shoreditch High Street. The other poet, plainly, was waiting for him. “Begone, you carrion crow, you croaker, you slovenly unhandsome corse,” Shakespeare said.

“Your servant, sir.” Marlowe descended from the rock and made a leg at him. “You
can
play the ghost: I deny it not. Henceforth, I'll hear in your voice dead Darius' words.”

“I may play the ghost, but, do you not get hence, you'll have the role in good earnest,” Shakespeare answered. “Robert Cecil knows you are returned to London. An his men find you, you are sped.” He didn't tell Marlowe he was the one who'd given Cecil that news.