Ruled Britannia

Shakespeare's words because they weren't what he wanted to hear. Shakespeare admired him for that.

He asked, 'What's to be done, then?'

'A moment, first, an't please you,' Shakespeare said, 'for I had not rehearsed all the troubles hereto pertaining.' He waited for Burghley to nod again before continuing, 'This secret, as Master Skeres hath said, must be held by the several men of the company. That alone were no easy matter.'

'True enough.' Another nod from Burghley. 'What else?'

'Not only must they keep it close, sir, they must keep it close over some long stretch of time, wherein they learn their parts and learn to play 'em: all this, of course, in secret. And we shall have to contrive costumes for the Romans and the-'

'Wait.' Lord Burghley held up a hand. 'How much of this might you scant?'

'Why, as much as you like, my lord,' Shakespeare answered. The nobleman looked pleased, till he went on, 'If it suit you to have presented a clumsy, aborted botch of a show, we'll dispense with rehearsal altogether. But such a play, wherein we're hissed and pelted from the stage, meseems would serve your ends less well than you desire.'

A wordless rumble came from deep within Lord Burghley's chest. 'You show me a sea of troubles, Master Shakespeare. How arm we against them? Here you must be my guide: you, not I, are the votary of this mystery.'

'I see no sure way,' Shakespeare told him, wishing he could say something different. 'What seems best is this: to sound the players one by one, in such wise that I give not the game away should a man prefer the Spaniards-or even simple quiet-to daring the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.'

'And if one of them be a cozener or an intelligencer?' Nick Skeres asked. Sure enough, he took conspiracy and betrayal for granted. 'How shall you hinder him from sending the lot of you to the block or the gallows or such delightsome toys as only a Spaniard would think to devise?'

'Such is the risk inherent in the exercise,' Lord Burghley remarked.

You can say that, Shakespeare thought resentfully. You'll likely be dead ere we're well begun. And the nobleman would die in his own time, having lived a long life. But if the players were found out. Skeres had the right of it. Such delightsome toys. He shuddered. He was not a particularly brave man.

Counterfeiting courage on the stage, he'd seldom needed it in humdrum everyday life.

'Would you see England free again?' Burghley asked softly.

Ay, there's the rub, Shakespeare thought. Every hamlet in the land dreamt of England free again. He found himself nodding. He could do nothing else.

'Then we'll find ways and means, find them or make them.' The baron sounded perfectly confident.

Again, Shakespeare silently fumed. But what can I do save go forward? He'd already heard enough to make him a dead man if he didn't sing to the Spaniards- and if things miscarry, he reminded himself. If all go well, they'll make of you a hero.

He had trouble believing it.

Sir William Cecil briskly rubbed his hands together. 'We are in accord, then-is't not so?' Shakespeare nodded, still rather less than happily. The nobleman smiled at him. 'Commence as quickly as may be. The sooner the play is done, the sooner the players have their parts by heart, the better. Only God knows how long Philip-and Elizabeth- will live. We must be ready.'

Shakespeare didn't scream, but he came close. 'My lord,' he said carefully, 'I am now engaged upon preparing a new play for the company, and-'

'This hath greater weight behind it,' Burghley said.

Again, screams bubbled just below the surface. 'Your Grace, if I cease work upon a play half done, who will not wonder why? Were it not best that I draw no questions to myself?'

'You quibble,' Burghley said ominously.

'By God, sir, I do not,' Shakespeare answered. 'And here's the rest of't: Lord Westmorland's Men will pay me for Love's Labour's Won, and pay me well. Who'll pay me for this Roman tragedy? A poet lives not upon sweet breezes and moonbeams; he needs must eat and drink like any man.'

'Ah.' Burghley nodded. Taking from his belt a small leather sack, he tossed it to Shakespeare, who caught it out of the air. It was heavier than he'd expected. When he undid the drawstring, gold glinted within. His eyes must have widened, for William Cecil let loose another of his wet chuckles. 'There's fifty pound,' he said carelessly. 'An you require more, Nick Skeres will have't for you.'

'G-Gramercy,' Shakespeare choked out. He'd never made anywhere near so much for a play; most of his income came from his share of the Theatre's takings. He also eyed Skeres. Any sum of money that came through the sharp little man would probably be abridged before reaching its intended destination.

Skeres stared back, bland as butter.

'Have we finished here?' Baron Burghley asked. Numbly, Shakespeare nodded. When he got to his feet, his legs, at first, didn't want to hold him up. Burghley said, 'Get you gone, Master Shakespeare. I'll away anon. We should not be seen entering or leaving together, nor should you come to my house, though it be nigh. I am here on pretense of waiting on my nephews, Anthony and Francis Bacon.'

'Do I meet them on repairing hither another time, know they of this our enterprise?' Shakespeare inquired.

Sir William Cecil looked through him as if he hadn't asked the question. Chuckling, Nick Skeres said,

'Any cokes can see you're new to the game. What you know not, e'en the bastinado can't squeeze from you.'

Shakespeare made a noise down deep in his throat, nothing close to a word: 'Urrr.' Skeres might call it a game, but games didn't kill. Some do, Shakespeare corrected himself: baiting the bear or the bull. He could almost feel fangs tearing into him.

Still shaking his head, he left the house in Drury Lane. He was halfway home before realizing no one had said anything about how Nick Skeres would return to London. He shrugged. Skeres, he was sure, would prove as slippery and evasive as a black-beetle or a rat. He wished he could say the same for himself.

III

Lope De Vega waved to a tall, scrawny Englishman in ragged clothes who stood, as hopefully as he could, by a rowboat. 'You there, sirrah!' he said sharply. 'How much to row us across to Southwark?'

He pointed to the far bank of the Thames.

'Tuppence, sir,' the fellow answered, making a clumsy botch of his bow. 'A penny each for you and your lady.'

'Here, then.' Lope gave him two bronze coins. 'Put us ashore as near to the bear-baiting garden as you may.'

'To the old one, or the new?' the boatman asked.

'To the new,' de Vega replied.

'Yes, sir. I'll do't.' The Englishman smiled at his companion. 'Mind your step as you get in, my lady.'

'Have no fear, my dear, my sweet,' Lope said grandly, and gave Nell Lumley his arm. She smiled as she took it. She was as tall as he, blond and buxom, and called herself a widow for politeness' sake, though de Vega doubted she'd ever wed. But she was fond of him, and he always enjoyed squiring a pretty woman around. He expected to enjoy lying with her afterwards, too. Cold country, hot blood, he thought; Englishwomen had pleasantly surprised him.

And he enjoyed the feeling of being half, or a little more than half, in love. It heated his own blood, as a cup of wine would. As often as not, he discarded one mistress and chose another for no more reason-

but also, he told himself, for no less reason-than to have that sweet intoxication singing through his veins.

So now: he swept off his cloak, folded it a couple of times, and set it on the bench for Nell. She wagged a finger at him. 'Ah, Lope, my sweetheart, thou needst not do that.'

'I do't not for that I need to,' he answered. 'I do't for that I want to. Sit, sit, sit, sit.' He clucked like a