going through the papers in Shakespeare's chest, she might have saved the uprising. Had the dons had even a few hours to make ready. Shakespeare didn't want to think about that.
He said, 'One may do for love of country that which one would not else.' De Vega howled. The Widow Kendall sniffed. The cunning woman nodded again. Was that relief on her face? Shakespeare couldn't be sure, not least because up till now she'd always been so much in control of herself that he didn't recall her wearing such an expression before.
'I still say-' Jane Kendall began.
'Wait, an't please you,' Shakespeare said. His landlady blinked; he seldom presumed to interrupt her. He went on, 'You were wise, Mistress Kendall, to say not that which may not be mended. For the times
The times would change, if the rebellion succeeded. He didn't know it would. But the Widow Kendall didn't know it wouldn't. And, as one who'd shown herself to be a devout Catholic these past ten years, she stood to lose perhaps a great deal if people she knew denounced her. She licked her lips.
Shakespeare could see that realization growing in her. She must have seen-the dons had made sure all England saw-what happened to stubborn Protestants. With a new spin of the wheel, it would be the Papists' turn. She exhaled with what might have been anger, but said not another word.
Cicely Sellis nodded towards Lope. 'What would you with him, Master Will?' she asked.
'I?' Shakespeare sounded startled, even to himself. He'd never held a man's life in his hands before. If he cut de Vega's throat here in the parlor, no one would think the less of him (save possibly Jane Kendall, on account of the mess it would make). If. He sighed and shook his head. 'I have not the murtherer's blood in me,' he said, as if someone had claimed he did. 'He acted but from duty, and from loyalty to his own King. Let him be made prisoner, to be ransomed or exchanged or otherwise enlarged as fate allow.'
'Gramercy,' Lope said softly. 'I am your servant.' He managed a ragged chuckle. 'And, but for yon witch, I should have made a
That jerked a laugh and a nod from Shakespeare. 'Ay, belike,' he said, and then, ' 'Twould like me one day to see
De Vega gave him a crooked grin. 'With our Lord, I say, let this cup pass from me.'
Shakespeare had had that thought, too. 'Come now,' Shakespeare said, gesturing towards the door with his knife. 'I will give you over into the charge of those whose duty is to take captives, for I know there be such men. Think not to flee, neither. You have yielded-and flight would prove the worse for you, we English holding London.'
'Before God, I shall not flee.' As Lope got to his feet, he put a hand to his bruised head. 'Before God, I
'Let's away, then,' Shakespeare said. 'By my troth, I'll give you into the hands of none others but them that will hold you safe until you may once more be set at liberty.' De Vega nodded. Even that small motion must have pained him, for he hissed and gingerly touched his head again. Shakespeare made a leg at Jane Kendall and Cicely Sellis. 'Farewell, ladies.'
His landlady dropped him an awkward curtsy by way of reply. Cicely Sellis dipped her head, murmuring,
'I stand much in your debt, Master Will.'
And how would I have that debt repaid? he wondered. In the same coin she gave the Spaniard? He shoved Lope. 'Let's away,' he said again, sounding rough as a soldier.
He didn't have to take de Vega far. They'd just come out into Bishopsgate Street when a fresh column of captives shambled down from the north. 'Move along, you poor cuckoldy knaves; you louts; you remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villains,' shouted the Englishman at their head. 'Ay, move along, or 'twill be the worse for you, you blackguards, you virgin-violators, you inexcrable dogs.' Most of the Spaniards couldn't have understood a word of the abuse he showered on them, but they did understand they had to keep moving.
Shakespeare waved to that loud Englishman, calling, 'Bide a moment! I've another don here, for to add to your party.'
'Well, bring him on, then, the damned murtherous fat-kidneyed rascal,' the fellow replied.
Careless of whatever anguish it might have cost, Lope gave him a courtier's bow. 'I am thy servant, thou proud disdainful haggard,' he said.
It must have sounded like praise to the Englishman. 'You're a sweet-tongued losel, eh?' he said. 'Belike the lickerish ladies think the same?' De Vega nodded, which the man didn't seem to expect. He jerked a thumb towards the captives. 'Get in amongst 'em. No trouble, or you'll be sorry for it.'
'I am already sorry for it,' Lope replied, but he took his place with the rest of the Spaniards. Away they went, down deeper into London.
As Shakespeare turned back towards his lodging-house, a brisk spatter of gunfire rang out not too far away: close enough, at any rate, for him to hear the cries of wounded men immediately afterwards. The fight for London hadn't quite finished. He couldn't tell whether the cries were in English or Spanish. Men in torment sounded much the same in either language.
The sun was sinking fast, though clouds and smoke-more of the former and less of the latter than he'd seen the day before. Most of the time, he would have gone to the Widow Kendall's and then to his ordinary for supper. He'd already been to the lodging-house. The excitement with de Vega had chased sleep from him-and there stood the ordinary, its door open and inviting.
When he walked in, Kate was setting candles on the tables and lighting them with a burning splinter. One man had already taken his place near the hearth. He was cutting up the beefsteak that sat on a wooden trencher in front of him. 'Will!' Kate exclaimed, and dropped the candles she was holding. She ran to him, took him in her arms, squeezed the breath out of him, and kissed him. 'Sweet Will! God be praised I see thee whole and hale!' She kissed him again.
'A right friendly dive, this,' said the man with the beefsteak, a grin on his greasy face.
Shakespeare ignored him. Holding Kate, kissing her, he forgot about Cicely Sellis. No, that went too far.
He didn't forget about her, but did put her in perspective. She was a temptation: a sweet one, but no more. Kate. Were he not tied to Anne back in Stratford, he would gladly have made her his wife.
He pushed that thought aside, as he had to. 'As you see me,' he said, 'and passing glad to see thee.'
Now he kissed her. The fellow by the hearth whooped. Neither of them paid him the least attention.
At last the kiss ended, but they still clung to each other. Kate asked, 'What wouldst thou, my darling?'
'Thou knowest full well what I would,' Shakespeare answered. 'What I will, what I can, what I may. '
He shrugged. 'Thou knowest likewise the difficulties, the impediments, the obstacles before me. I have not lied to thee.' He took a certain forlorn pride in that. Kate nodded. He went on, 'An I be able them to thrust aside, I'll do't in a heartbeat.'
'May it be so. Oh, may it be so! With all in flux, who can say this or that shall not come to pass? If Elizabeth be free o' the Tower-'
'She is,' Shakespeare said. 'With mine own eyne I saw her leave it, borne on Sir Robert Devereux his shoulders.'
'Well, then,' Kate said, as if that proved something. Maybe, to her, it did. 'Who could have dreamt such a thing, e'en a week gone by? So great a miracle being worked for England, why not a smaller one, for us twain alone?'
'Ay, why not?' Shakespeare agreed, and kissed her once more. That he remained alive and free to do it struck him as more than miracle enough right now.
When one of Lope de Vega's lovers caught him with another outside the bear-baiting arena in Southwark, he'd thought the round wooden building, so like a theatre in construction, would remain forever the scene of his worst humiliation. Now here he was back at the arena, and humiliated again: the English were using it to house the Spanish prisoners they'd taken. He squatted glumly on the sand-strewn dirt floor where so many bears and hounds
