Ruled Britannia

enjoyed making others the butt of his japes. When he had to play the role, though, it suited him less well.

Before he and Shakespeare could start another round of insults, Richard Burbage asked the poet, 'Doth the work thus far done suit the principal?'

Was he speaking of Don Diego or of Lord Burghley, of King Philip or of Boudicca? Shakespeare wasn't sure. He wondered if Burbage were sure. Either way, though, he could safely nod. 'So I am given to understand.'

'Good, then. Beside that, naught else hath great import.' Burbage set his hands on his hips and raised his voice till it filled the Theatre: 'Now that Will's back amongst us, and back with good news, let's think on what we do this afternoon, eh? The wives of Windsor shall not be merry unless we make them so.'

Kemp fell to with more spirit than he often showed at rehearsals-but then, of course, he played Sir John Falstaff, around whom the comedy revolved. Even though the play ended with Falstaff's humiliation, the part was too juicy to leave him room for complaint. Indeed, after the rehearsal ended, he came up to Shakespeare and said, 'Would you'd writ more for the great larded tun.' He put both hands on his belly.

He was not a thin man, but would play Falstaff well padded.

'More? Of what sort?' Shakespeare asked. He knew Kemp spoke because he wanted the role, but was curious even so. The clown might give him an idea worth setting down on paper.

But Kemp said, 'He is too straitened in a town of no account. Let him come to London! Let him meet with princes. No, by God-he deserveth to meet with kings!'

Shakespeare shook his head. 'I fear me not. I got leave to write of the third Richard, he being villain black. But, did I bring other Kings of England into my plays, and in especial did I speak them fair,

'twould be reckoned treason, no less than the. other matter we pursue. Can you tell me I am mistook?'

Will Kemp scowled. 'Damn me, but I cannot. Devil take the dons, then! A bargain, Master Shakespeare-do we cast them down, give me Falstaff and a king.'

If he had a reason to throw off the Spaniards' yoke, he would be less likely to go to them in a fit of temper or simply a fit of folly. 'A bargain,' Shakespeare said solemnly. They clasped hands.

Lope De Vega and Lucy Watkins stood among the other groundlings at the Theatre. The boy playing Mistress Page said,

'Good husband, let us every one go home,

And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire;

Sir John and all.'

Richard Burbage, who played Ford, replied,

'Let it be so. Sir John,

To Master Brook you shall hold your word;

For he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford.'

A flourish of horns announced the end of the play. The actors bowed. Despite the rain that had been coming down all day, the Theatre erupted in applause. Lope clapped his hands. Beside him, Lucy hopped up and down in the mud, squealing with delight. De Vega smiled. 'I am glade it pleases thee,' he said. He had to repeat himself to make her hear him through the din.

She nodded, her eyes shining. 'Ay, it likes me well. My thanks for bringing me hither.'

' El gusto es mio,' Lope replied. And the pleasure was his; through the way The Merry Wives of Windsor enchanted her, he enjoyed it as he couldn't have if he'd come alone. The whelk-seller didn't try to pick it to pieces to see how it worked. She just let it wash over her, taking it as it came. Lope couldn't do that by himself. With her, he could.

William Shakespeare came out on stage. 'Behold the poet!' Will Kemp shouted. The applause got louder still. Shakespeare bowed. Lucy Watkins whooped and blew him kisses. She wasn't the only one in the crowd sending them to him or to one or another of the players. After another bow, Shakespeare withdrew. The rest of the company followed him, one or two at a time.

'Art fain to meet them?' Lope asked.

She stared at him. ' Could I?' she said, as if expecting him to tell her no.

He bowed. ' 'Twould be my pleasure,' he said. 'Pleasing thee is my pleasure.' Lucy leaned forward to peck him on the cheek. A man who smelled of onions standing behind them whooped and rocked his hips forward and back. Lope ignored the churl. He took Lucy's hand and led her towards the wings, towards one of the doors that opened onto the backstage tiring room. A delight of falling in love, as he'd said, was that which he took in making her happy.

Some small part of him knew that one day before too long he would spy another face, another form, that pleased him as much as Lucy's, or more. He would fall in love with the woman who had them, too.

Maybe he would lose his love for the whelk-seller, maybe he wouldn't. He had no trouble staying in love with two or three women at once-till they found out about it. Then he had trouble. He tried to forget what had happened after the bear-baiting in Southwark.

Lucy helped by distracting him. 'Look! A man guards the way. Will he give us leave to go forward?'

'Fear not, my sweet,' Lope answered grandly. The tireman's helper had just turned a prosperous-looking merchant away from the door. De Vega pushed past the disgruntled Englishman, an anxious Lucy on his arm. 'Good day to you, Edward,' he said.

'Ah, Master Lope.' The tireman's helper stood aside. 'Go in, sir. I know they'll be glad to see you.'

The look on Lucy Watkins' face was worth twenty pounds to him. 'They'll be glad to see thee?' she whispered in what couldn't have been anything but awe.

'Certes,' Lope said, and patted her hand. 'They are my friends.' Her eyes got wider still. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her on the spot, but didn't for fear of embarrassing her. She wasn't, and didn't act like, a trull, a woman of the town; if she gave herself to him when they were alone together, she behaved like a lady when in public.

'God give you good morrow, Master Lope,' Richard Burbage called when de Vega and Lucy came into the tiring room. Lope bowed in return. Lucy's curtsy came a heartbeat slower than it might have, but was graceful as a duchess'. As if she were a noblewoman, Burbage made a leg at her.

'They are thy friends,' she said in wonder, pressing closer to Lope.

'I'd never lie to thee, sweetheart,' he answered, and knew he was lying.

Will Kemp had got out of the padded costume he'd worn as Falstaff. The water he'd used to wash paint and powder from his face still dripped from his beard. He was puffing on a pipe of tobacco. 'Here,' he said with an inviting smile, holding it out to Lope. Smoke eddied from his mouth and nose as he spoke.

' Gracias.' Lope puffed, too, blew out his own stream of smoke, and handed the clay pipe to Lucy.

'I've not done this before,' she said doubtfully. Kemp snorted. Lope shot him a warning glance. For a wonder, he heeded it. Lucy raised the pipe to her lips. She sucked in smoke-and then coughed and choked and almost dropped the pipe. She made a horrible face. 'What vile stuff! How can anyone take pleasure in't?'

Lope retrieved the pipe and gave it back to Kemp. 'We have no trouble,' he said. The clown nodded.

Lucy only looked more disgusted. Will Kemp laughed. For once, he and Lope agreed completely.

Before that agreement could shatter, as it was likely to do, de Vega led Lucy away from the clown and over to Shakespeare. She curtsied to the English poet. He bowed over her hand, saying, 'I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady.'

'And I yours, sir,' she said. 'The play today-'twas a marvel. I all but split my sides laughing. When Falstaff hid amongst the washing-' She giggled.

Shakespeare raised an eyebrow, ever so slightly. 'That it like you delights me,' he said. Without words, his face said something else to Lope, something like, You didn't choose her for her wit, did you?