Ruled Britannia

He'd just turned onto Lombard Street and passed the church of St. Mary Woolnoth when he spied a Spanish patrol ahead of him. 'You men!' he called, and gave them a peremptory wave. 'Come with me!'

Their sergeant recognized him. 'What do you want with us, Lieutenant de Vega? We have places we need to check, and we're running late.'

Lope set his hands on his hips. 'And I have a bruja to catch and treason to put down,' he rapped out.

'Which carries the greater weight?'

Gulping, the sergeant stiffened to attention. 'I am your servant, senor!'

'You'd better be. Come on, and my God come with us!'

The bells of St. Mary Woolnoth rang out two o'clock. All across London, dozens, hundreds, of church bells chimed the hour. De Vega cursed. He should have been up at the Theatre. Lord Westmorland's Men should be presenting King Philip. Were they? If they weren't, what were they giving instead? He didn't know. He couldn't know. But he could guess, and all his guesses sent ice racing along his spine.

And then, all at once, he had more things to worry about than Lord Westmorland's Men. Someone on a rooftop flung a stone or a brick at the patrol. It clanged off a soldier's morion. The man staggered, but stayed on his feet. 'You all right, Ignacio?' the sergeant asked.

'Yes, thanks be to God-I've got a hard head,' the soldier replied. 'But where's the cowardly son of a whore who threw that? I'll murder the bastard.'

Before the sergeant could answer, a chamber pot sailed out of a second-story window-not just the stinking contents, but the pot, too. It shattered between two Spaniards, spattering the whole patrol with filth. And then, while they were still cursing that, a pistol banged. With a howl of pain, a soldier slumped to the ground, clutching his leg. Crimson blood streamed out between his fingers.

High and shrill and blazing with excitement, a voice cried out in English: 'Death to the dons!'

And, as if that one voice were a burning fuse leading to a keg of powder, a whole great chorus took up the shout. 'Death-Death-Death to the dons!' In a heartbeat, the cry echoed up and down the streets of London. 'Death-Death-Death to the dons!'

Lope's mind went clear and cold as the ice he'd imagined he felt. Suddenly, the patrol that had seemed so reassuringly strong felt tiny and helpless as a baby. He nodded to the sergeant. 'This is it. They are going to rise.' His own voice held eerie certainty.

The sergeant tried to peer up at all the windows overlooking the street. Smoke still eddied in front of one.

The shot had come from there, but what odds the pistoleer still lingered? Slim, slim. He didn't order his men after the assassin, as he would have without that daunting cry. Instead, nodding to Lope, he asked,

'And what do we do now, senor?'

'We win or we die-it's that simple,' de Vega answered. But it wasn't, quite. He looked around, too, as the sergeant had, trying to see every which way at once. Plainly, the patrol would never get to the Theatre, nor even to Bishopsgate. He wished that soldier hadn't been wounded. He couldn't bear to leave the fellow behind, but bringing him along would hamper them. 'We'd better get back to the barracks,' he said reluctantly. 'We'll have numbers on our side there.'

'Yes, sir.' The sergeant sounded relieved. Now that he had orders, he knew what to do with them.

'JosA©, Manuel: bandage Pedro's leg and get him up with his arms over your shoulders.'

Both soldiers knelt to do as he told them, but one said, 'We can't do much fighting that way, Sergeant.'

'We'll worry about that later. Quick, now!' To punctuate the underofficer's words, another stone thudded down into the street. It hit no one, but could have smashed a skull if it had. Seeing it, hearing it, made Lope acutely aware he wore a felt hat with a jaunty plume, not a high-combed morion.

Pedro howled again when they hauled him upright. And the sergeant proved cleverer than de Vega had suspected: one of the soldiers supporting the wounded man was lefthanded, so they both had their swords free even with his arms draped over them.

'Let's get moving,' Lope said, and they started back the way they had come.

'Death-Death-Death to the dons!' The cry seemed to come from everywhere at once, from near and far. More stones and more reeking waste flew out of windows. A furious trooper fired his arquebus at one of their tormentors, but only a mocking laugh rewarded him. And then the patrol had to pause while he reloaded: an empty arquebus was nothing but an awkward club.

Lope hated every heartbeat of delay. How long before the Englishmen nerved themselves to fight in the streets, if they weren't already elsewhere in London? How long before weapons long hoarded in hope came out of hiding? Not long, he feared, and he didn't have enough men at his back.

Half a dozen Englishmen, a couple armed with swords, the rest with bludgeons, came out of St. Mary Woolnoth and formed a ragged line across Lombard Street.'What do we do, senor?' the sergeant muttered.

'We fight if we have to, but let me try something first,' Lope answered in a low voice. Then, in English, he shouted, 'Stand aside, in the name of the Queen!'

He hissed out a great sigh of relief when they did stand aside. One of them doffed his cap and made a clumsy leg at de Vega, saying, 'We cry your pardon, sir, but we took ye for a pack of stinking Spaniards.'

'God bless Elizabeth!' another Englishman added.

They all nodded. So did Lope. He led the patrol past them without another word. If he spoke too much, his accent would betray him. And betrayal enough was already loose in London this day. If they dared speak imprisoned Elizabeth's name, if they believed he, leading soldiers, also spoke of Elizabeth and not Isabella. If that was so, treason ran far deeper than even de Vega had dreamt.

Behind him, one of the Englishmen said, 'Come. Let's to the Tower, and help to set her free.' Their departing footsteps were quick and purposeful. They thought they could do it. Whether they proved right or wrong, their confidence chilled Lope.

'Sergeant!' he said sharply.

' Si-, senor? '

'Who garrisons the Tower of London? We, or the English?'

'Why, some of each, sir. We both want to make sure Elizabeth the heretic stays there till she dies, eh?'

The sergeant hadn't understood any of what Lope or the street ruffians said in English. De Vega's dread only grew. In times like these, how far could any Spaniard trust an Englishman?

As he and the patrol turned down into St. Swithin's Lane, a sharp volley of gunfire came from the south, from the direction of the barracks. He wanted to order a charge. With the wounded soldier slowing everyone else and hampering two healthy men, he couldn't.

Englishmen swarmed up the street towards them. They were fleeing, not fighting. No cries of, 'Death to the dons!' burst from their throats. They'd met death, and didn't like him. When one of them spied de Vega and his comrades, he cried, 'Here's more o' the foul fiends! We are fordone!' But he and his friends pounded past before Lope and his little force could hope to halt them.

Bodies lay in the lane, some unmoving, some thrashing in pain. Spanish soldiers moved among them, methodically putting to the sword any who still lived. More Spaniards, pikemen and arquebusiers, formed a line of battle in front of the barracks. One of the soldiers with sword in hand looked up from his grim work and growled, 'Who the devil are you?' as Lope led the patrol towards him.

'Senior Lieutenant de Vega,' Lope answered.

The other Spaniard's face changed. 'Oh! You're the fellow who knew this mess was coming. Pass on, seA±or-pass on. If we hadn't had a few minutes' warning of trouble, those damned Englishmen might've taken us unawares.'

'De Vega! Is that you?' From one end of the line of battle, Captain GuzmA?n waved.

'Yes, your Excellency.' Lope waved back.

'God be praised you're all right,' GuzmA?n said. 'When Enrique came running back here with your report, I feared we'd never see you again. I was about to go after you to the Theatre when we were attacked ourselves.'

'Never mind the Theatre, or me.' Even Lope, far from the least self-centered man ever born, knew some things were more important than he was. 'The English are going to try to free Elizabeth from the Tower.