Ruled Britannia

told you are the best poet in England,' he sounded like a man not in the habit of believing what he was told.

'Again I say, your Excellency, you do me too much honor.'

'Who surpasseth you?' Flores asked sharply, the Spanish lisp making his English sound old-fashioned.

When Shakespeare did not reply, the officer laughed. 'There. You see? Honor pricks you on, more than you think. This I understand. This I admire. If it be a sin to covet honor, I myself am the most offending soul alive.' He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. 'And so-for this were you summoned hither. Because you are the best.'

'What would you of me? Whatever sort of poet I be, I am a poet of English. I know not the Spanish tongue.'

' Claro que sa-,' Don Diego said, and then, seeing Shakespeare's puzzled expression, 'But of course.

You are desired because you write English so well.' Shakespeare was sure he looked more puzzled than ever. Flores continued, 'Have you not heard that King Philip, God love him, fails in regard to his health?'

Was that a trap? Ought I to claim ignorance? Shakespeare wondered. After some thought, he rejected the idea: the King of Spain's decline was too widely known to make such knowledge dangerous.

Cautiously, the poet said, 'Ay, your Excellency, I have heard somewhat of't.'

' Muy bien. Very good.' The Spaniard again translated for himself, though this time Shakespeare followed him perfectly well. Crossing himself, Flores went on, 'Soon the good Lord will summon to his bosom the great King.'

'May King Philip live and reign for many years.' Shakespeare saw no way to say anything else, not to Philip's commandant in England.

'May it be so, — , but Philip is a mortal man, being in that like any other.' Flores sounded impatient; perhaps he knew more of the state of Philip's health than was common gossip in London. 'To make for him a memorial, a monument: it is for this I summoned you hither.'

'My lord?' Shakespeare still felt at sea. 'As I told you, I am a poet, a player, not a stonecutter.'

The Spanish grandee snorted. One unruly eyebrow rose for a moment. He forced it down, but still looked exasperated; plainly, Shakespeare struck him as something of a dullard. That suited Shakespeare well enough; he wished he struck Flores as a mumbling, drooling simpleton. The officer gathered himself.

'May the memorial, the monument, you make prove immortal as cut stone. I would have from you, seA±or, a drama on the subject of his Most Catholic Majesty's magnificence, to be presented by your company of actors when word of the King's mortality comes to this northern land: a show of his greatness for to awe the English people, to make known to them they were conquered by the greatest and most Christian prince who ever drew breath, and to awe them thereby. Can you do this thing? I promise you, you shall be furnished with a great plenty of histories and chronicles wherefrom to draw your scenes and characters. What say you?'

Do I laugh in his face, he'll hold me lunatic-and stray not far from truth. How can I do't? Another thought immediately followed that one: how can I say him nay? Shakespeare did his best: 'May't please your Excellency, I find myself much engaged in press of business, and-'

Don Diego Flores de Valdas waved that aside with a dry chuckle. 'For his Most Catholic Majesty, himself the best, none save the best will serve. We bind not the mouths of the kine who tread the grain.

Your fee is an hundred pound. I pay it now, and desire you to set to work at once, none of us knowing what God's plan for King Philip may be.' He took from a drawer a fat leather sack and tossed it to Shakespeare. Chuckling again, he added, 'And what say you now of this business of yours?'

Dizzily, Shakespeare caught the sack. Gold clinked sweetly. Nothing else could be so heavy in so small a space, for Flores would scarcely try to trick him with lead. An I live, I am rich. But how can I live, with Burghley and the Spaniard both desiring plays of me? He had no answer to that. 'I am your servant,' he murmured once more.

' Saes verdad.' Don Diego didn't bother translating that. He pointed to the door. 'You may go. I look for the play in good time.'

Shakespeare rose. He left-almost staggered from-the commandant's chamber. The big Englishman with the deep voice waited outside to take charge of him. As they walked down the hall, Shakespeare saw Thomas Phelippes writing in a nearby room. Did Phelippes have anything to do with this? If so, did that make it better or worse? Again, Shakespeare had no answer.

IV

'Shakespeare will write a play on the life of his most Catholic Majesty?' Lope de Vega dug a finger in his ear, as if to make sure he'd heard correctly. 'Shakespeare?'

Captain Baltasar GuzmA?n nodded. 'Yes, that is correct. You seem surprised, Senior Lieutenant.'

'No, your Excellency. I seem astonished. With the Archbishop of Canterbury and, it appears to me, everyone else in the world suspecting him of treason, why give him such a plum? He is, without a doubt, a fine writer-'

'And you are, without a doubt, naive.' GuzmA?n smiled. Lope made himself smile back, in lieu of picking up his stool and braining his arrogant little superior with it. That supercilious smile still on his face, Captain GuzmA?n continued, 'If Shakespeare is well paid, he may be less inclined to treason. This has been known to happen before. If he writes a play praising King Philip, he may be too busy to get into mischief.' He ticked off points on his fingers as he made them.

'But what sort of play will he write?' Lope asked. 'If he is a traitor-I don't believe it, mind you, but if he is- won't he slander the King instead of praising him?'

'Not with the Master of the Revels looking over his shoulder every moment,' Guzman replied. 'If the Master finds even a speck of slander in the play, it will not go on the stage-and Senor Shakespeare will answer a great many pointed questions from the English Inquisition, from Queen Isabella and King Albert's intelligencers, and from Don Diego Flores de Valdas. Shakespeare may be a poet, but I do not think him a fool. He will know this, and give us what we require.'

Lope didn't care for the way Captain Guzman eyed him. You are a poet, and I do think you a fool, the nobleman might have said. But what he had said made more than a little sense. 'It could be,' de Vega admitted reluctantly.

'Generous of you to agree. I am sure Don Diego will be relieved,' Guzman said. Lope stiffened. He was more used to giving out sarcasm than to taking it. GuzmA?n pointed at him. 'And one more thing will help keep us safe against any danger from SeA±or Shakespeare.'

'What's that, your Excellency?'

'You, Senior Lieutenant.'

'Your Excellency?'

'You,' Baltasar GuzmA?n repeated. 'Shakespeare is writing about King Philip of Spain. You are a Spaniard. You are also mad for the English theatre. What could be more natural than that you tell the Englishman what he needs to know of his Most Catholic Majesty, and that you stay with his troupe to make sure all goes well? He will be grateful for it, don't you think?'

'What I think,' Lope said, 'is that you may be committing a sin under the eyes of God by making me enjoy myself so much.'

Captain Guzman laughed. 'I will mention it to the priest the next time I confess. I think my penance will be light.'

'I hope you're right. You order me to go to the Theatre, sir?' de Vega asked. His superior nodded.

Lope wondered how much liberty he'd just received. 'This will be the whole of my duty till the play goes before an audience?'

GuzmA?n nodded again. The pleasure that shot through Lope was so intense, he thought he would have to add it to his next confession. But then the nobleman said, 'This is for the time being. It may change later. And if any emergency or uprising should occur-'

'God forbid it!'

'God forbid it, indeed. But if it should, you will help meet it as I think best.'