our pride's sake, not suffering our foes to outdo us.'
'Gramercy.' Shakespeare bowed once more.
'Your thanks are welcome but not needed, for doing this likes us well,' Robert Cecil said. His father nodded. Shakespeare did not answer. No doubt the younger Cecil meant what he said. But Shakespeare knew he might have met with Ingram Frizer and his knife had he displeased the two powerful Englishmen.
In aid of which. 'Constable Strawberry knows Ingram Frizer's name,' the poet warned.
'We know of Constable Strawberry,' Lord Burghley said with another wet chuckle. 'Fear not on that score.'
Robert Cecil nodded. 'If he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse.'
'His wits are not so blunt as, God help us, I would desire them,' Shakespeare said.
'Comparisons are odorous,' the younger Cecil observed, proving he had indeed marked Walter Strawberry's style, 'but not Hercules could have knocked out his brains, for he had none.'
'Belike,' Shakespeare said, 'yet some of what your wisdoms would not have discovered, that shallow fool hath brought to light.'
'He'll find no more,' Robert Cecil said. With that Shakespeare had to be content-or rather, less than content.
'Nick!' Sir William Cecil said sharply.
'Your Grace?' Nicholas Skeres replied.
'Go walk the garden, Nick,' the old man told him. 'Bring back report of its beauties in, oh, a quarter hour's time.'
Shakespeare would have resented such a peremptory dismissal. Skeres took it in stride. He dipped his head in what was more than a nod but less than a bow. 'Just as you say, my lord,' he murmured, and withdrew from the arbor.
Both Cecils stared at Shakespeare, who suddenly felt very much alone. 'What-what would ye?' he asked, and felt blood rush to his face in embarrassment at hearing his voice quaver.
Lord Burghley said, 'Here's what, Master Shakespeare: I'd fain hear some of your verses. The play advanceth, ay, but my course on earth doth likewise. The horses of the night of which Marlowe writ will not run slow for me. Give me some foretaste, then, of the dish I ordered but shall not eat.'
'My lord, may you glut yourself with it,' Shakespeare said. Lord Burghley only shrugged and gestured for him to go on. After a moment's thought, he did: 'You are to understand, this is Boudicca, urging her stalwarts to war against the Romans.'
'Ah, very good.' That was Robert Cecil, not his father. 'Give it us.'
'I shall, as best I recall it,' Shakespeare replied. 'Here, then: a€?Had we a difference with a petty isle,
Or with our neighbours, good sirs, for our land-marks,
The taking in of some rebellious lord,
Or making a head against commotions,
After a day of blood, peace might be argued;
But where we grapple for the ground we live on,
The liberty we hold as dear as life,
The gods we worship and, next these, our honours,
And with these swords that know no end of battle,
These men, besides themselves, allow no neighbour,
Those minds that where the day is claim inheritance,
And where the sun makes ripe the fruits, their harvest,
And where they march, but measure out more ground
To add to Rome, and here i'the bowels on us;
It must not be. No, as they are our foes,
And those that must be so until we tire 'em,
Let's use the peace of honour, that's fair dealing,
But in the end our swords. That hardy Roman,
That hopes to graft himself into my stock,
Must first begin his kindred underground, and be allied in ashes.' '
He waited. The two Cecils looked at each other. Slowly, magisterially, Lord Burghley nodded. So did his son, who despite his briskness deferred to the old man's opinion. Shakespeare felt as if he'd just received the accolade. Robert Cecil said, ' 'Twill serve. Beyond doubt, 'twill serve. Have you more?'
Shakespeare beamed. 'By my troth, you know how to please a poet!' William Cecil laughed; Robert allowed himself a thin chuckle. Shakespeare continued, 'This is Caratach, Boudicca's brother-in-law and the great warlord of the Iceni-'
'We know our Tacitus, Master Shakespeare,' Robert Cecil broke in.
'Your pardon, I pray,' Shakespeare said. 'The groundlings, however, will not: thus I needs must make it plain.'
'Indeed. You know your craft best, and so 'tis I must ask your pardon,' the younger Cecil said. 'Carry on.'
'So I shall. This is Caratach, I say, speaking to Hengo, who is his young nephew, and Boudicca's.'
'And who is
'In sooth, your Grace, he is not,' Shakespeare agreed, 'but I need him for the play, and so summoned him to being.'
The two Cecils put their heads together. Sir William Cecil said, 'Again, Master Shakespeare, we take your point. The play's the thing. Let us hear it.'
'Gladly. Here is Caratach:
'And, little sir, when your young bones grow stiffer,
And when I see you able in a morning
To beat a dozen boys, and then to breakfast,
I'll tie you to a sword.'
And Hengo replies'-Shakespeare did his best to change his voice to a boyish treble-' a€?And what then, uncle?' ' In his usual tones, he spoke for Caratach once more: ' Then you must kill, sir, the next valiant Roman that calls you knave.' ' Treble for Hengo: ' And must I kill but one?' ' His own voice for Caratach: ' An hundred, boy, I hope.' ' He tried to make the treble fierce, for Hengo's reply was,
' I hope, five hundred.' ' Through Shakespeare, Caratach said, ' That's a noble boy!' '
Lord Burghley raised a hand. Shakespeare obediently fell silent. The old man said, 'I chose wisely, to summon you. You make a fine fletcher for the shaft I purpose loosing at the dons. I-' He broke off and began to cough. He had trouble stopping. His face turned red and then began to turn blue. His son leaned towards him, raw fear on his face. William Cecil waved Robert back. At last, he mastered the coughing fit. Slowly-too slowly-his normal color, or rather pallor, returned. He went on, 'Belike I'll loose it from beyond the grave, but may it fly no less straight for that.'
'Amen, your Grace,' Shakespeare said.
Rain dripping from the brim of his hat, Nicholas Skeres returned to the rose arbor. Nodding to Lord Burghley and Robert Cecil in turn, he said, 'I'll take him away now.' By the way he spoke, Shakespeare might have been a butt of ale.
'Yes, do, Nick.' Robert Cecil spoke the same way, which set Shakespeare's teeth on edge. But then the crookback added, 'He hath our full favor. Let all your friends know as much.'
'I'll do't, sir. You can depend on Nick Skeres.' Shakespeare could imagine no one on whom he less wanted to depend. But nobody in this mad game cared a farthing for what he wanted. Skeres turned to him with a half mocking grin. 'You may not know't, Master Shakespeare, but I reckon you the safest man in London these
