Ruled Britannia

Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn.

In her days every man shall eat in safety;

Her honour and the greatness of her name

Shall grow, and make new nations. She shall flourish

In all the plains about her. Our children's children

Shall see this, and bless heaven.'

'Thou speakest wonders,' Suetonius said, awe in his voice.

'She will be your true and natural Queen,

Bred, born, and brought up amongst you. So will

You most naturally, like British men,

Defend her, fight for her, and not only

Guard her with danger of your lives, but also

Aid her with your hands and livings. You will

Fight for your country, your dearest country,

Wherein you shall be nourished. It will be

Your native soil, and therefore most sweet, for

What may be more belov'd than your country?'

Dying Boudicca managed a feeble nod, and sent her last words out to a breathlessly silent Theatre:

'E'en so; 'Tis true. Oh! — I feel the poison!

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.'

She fell back and lay dead.

Shakespeare strode forward, to the very front edge of the stage. Into more silence, punctuated only by sobs, he said,

'No epilogue here, unless you make it;

If you want your freedom, go and take it.'

He stood there, waiting, for perhaps half a dozen heartbeats. This was even harder than when he'd spoken the prologue. If he'd failed here. Suddenly, without warning, silence shattered-not into applause, but into a great roar of rage at all that England had endured in the ten years since the Spaniards came and forced Isabella and Albert onto the English throne. Had Shakespeare been the foreign Queen or King, that roar would have made him tremble.

Being who he was, he stared out in wonder at the audience. Everything they'd held in for these ten long years now loosed itself at once. Crying, 'Spaniards' dogs!' and other things, far worse, the groundlings turned on a handful of their own number known to like the invaders too well. Up in the galleries, several real fights broke out- more of the upper classes, those who could afford such places, favored the Spaniards and Isabella and Albert.

More struggling men, and a couple of shrilly shrieking women, too, fell or were flung down amongst the groundlings. Their hurtling bodies sent the folk below sprawling, and must have badly hurt some. The groundlings punched and pummeled and kicked-and, no doubt, robbed-the richer folk who'd, literally, fallen into their hands. They assumed anyone who was cast down loved the dons. Shakespeare wondered if they were right.

In the middle gallery, the fanciest in the Theatre, an aristocrat in a fine doublet of glowing white silk made his voice rise above the din: 'To the Tower! To the Tower, to free the Queen!' He was a handsome man a few years younger than Shakespeare, with dark hair, a sandy beard scanty on the cheeks but long on the chin and cut square at the bottom, and red, red lips. 'To the Tower, and I will lead you!' As if on cue, a sunbeam gleamed from the rapier he brandished.

'To the Tower! To the Tower! To free the Queen!' One man with firm purpose was plenty to fire all the others. When the aristocrat descended, the groundlings swarmed up to him and raised him on their shoulders.

'Who's yon gentry cove?' Shakespeare asked the players on the stage behind him. They'd come out to take their bows, but the crowd, full of a greater passion, had all but forgotten them.

'Why, know you not Sir Robert Devereux?' Richard Burbage sounded surprised. Shakespeare only shrugged. He'd never worried much about recognizing aristocrats by sight. He left that to Burbage, a socially more ambitious man-indeed, a climber if ever there was one.

And then Edward the tireman's assistant, now a budding actor who still wore his 'Roman' helmet and corselet, raised his sword as Devereux had done. 'To the Tower!' he cried. 'To the Tower, to free the Queen!' He ran past Shakespeare, jumped down off the stage, and joined the roaring throng pouring out of the Theatre.

Eight or ten young players, some who'd portrayed Romans and others Iceni, followed him, allies now against the Spaniards. 'To the Tower!' they shouted, one after another. The youth who'd played Epona threw down his wig and rushed after them, still in a woman's shift.

And then, to Shakespeare's amazement and dismay, Burbage and Will Kemp tramped forward together, both of them plainly intent on marching on the Tower of London, too. Shakespeare seized Burbage's arm. 'Hold, Dick!' he said urgently. 'Let not this wild madness infect your wit. Can a swarm of rude mechanicals pull down those gray stone walls? The soldiers on 'em'll work a fearful slaughter. Throw not your life away.'

Before Burbage could answer, Will Kemp did: 'The soldiery on the walls may work a fearful slaughter, ay, an they have the stomach for't. But think you 'twill be so? A plot that stretcheth to the Theatre surely shall not fall short of the Tower.'

Shakespeare pondered that. Of course, William Cecil's plans-Robert Cecil's now-went far beyond this production of Boudicca. The poet had seen that from the beginning. He'd seen it, but he hadn't seen all of what it meant. Here Kemp certainly saw more than he had.

Burbage added, 'Having come so far, Will, would you not watch what your words have wrought?'

'Thus spake Kit Marlowe of's return to London,' Shakespeare said, 'and much joy he had of't.' But Burbage and Kemp both jumped down onto the hard-packed dirt where the groundlings stood. Once more, Shakespeare discovered the desire not to seem a coward to his friends could push him forward where fear of death would have held him back. Cursing under his breath, damning himself for a suicide and a fool, he sprang down, too.

Another stage-Roman landed beside him and offered him a knife, saying, 'I can well spare it, for I have me also this fine long sword.'

'My thanks,' Shakespeare said. What good the dagger would do against the arquebuses and cannon of the garrison in the Tower, he couldn't imagine. Having it somehow gave comfort even so.

Only one narrow doorway led into and out of the Theatre, the better to keep cheats from sneaking in without paying. The crowd took some little while to filter out through it. Shakespeare wondered whether the delay would stifle spirits. But no; shouts of, 'To the Tower!' and, 'To free the Queen!' and, 'God bless good Queen Bess!' doubled and redoubled.

When at last Shakespeare escaped the building, he saw several thick columns of black smoke rising from different parts of London. Through the din and gabble around him, the distant crackle of arquebuses and pistols going off and the deeper, slower boom of cannon fire came to his ears. The city was already rising against the occupiers.

'Said I not so?' Will Kemp bawled in his ear.

'You did. And you had the right of it.' Shakespeare gave credit where it was due, admitting what he could