Ruled Britannia

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 bowed 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!'