'Her pleasure becomes mine,' Lope murmured. Lucy, still gushing about
'Hark you now, Master Lope,' Shakespeare said. 'Here's Don Juan de IdiA?quez, King Philip's secretary- whose role, I hope, you'll essay-speaking to his royal master: a€?Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it?
The eagle suffers little birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean thereby,
Knowing that with the shadow of his wings
He can at pleasure stint their melody;
Even so may you the circle of the world.' '
Lope tasted the lines, then slowly nodded. 'An honor to play so great a man. An honor to have such splendid words to say.' Shakespeare nodded thanks for the compliment.
Lucy Watkins' eyes widened. 'Thou'lt tread upon the stage, with Master Shakespeare here writing thee a part?'
'Even so, my beloved,' Lope answered. Some women, especially those of higher blood, would have looked down their noses at him for it. To one who sold shellfish, though, the glamour of the theatre seemed perfectly real. Lope knew how tawdry a place it could be. In Lucy's eyes, it shone-and so, through her, it shone again for him, too, at least for a little while.
When he and Lucy left the Theatre a little later, they found the closest lodging they could. He never quite figured out whose arms first went around whom. Lucy had been less lively in bed than some women he'd known. No more. Up till then, he hadn't learned all that went into igniting her. He laughed at the moment they spent themselves together, something he'd hardly ever done despite all his many partners. The theatre had more enchantments than even he'd thought.
VIII
Along with the rest of the parishioners, Shakespeare came to the church of St. Ethelberge early on Easter morning, before the bells rang out that would have summoned them to Mass. As he walked into the church, deacons went up and down the aisles lighting candles and torches till the building blazed with light.
A small stone sepulcher stood against the north wall of the church. More candles burned before it; it was covered by a cloth embroidered with scenes of the Passion and the Resurrection. On Good Friday, a priest had laid the Host and a crucifix within it. Since then, men prominent in the parish had taken turns watching over the sepulcher, receiving bread and ale and some small payment for their service.
Now the clergymen formed a procession that went up to the sepulcher. A priest swung a censer over it.
The sweet smoke tickled Shakespeare's nostrils. Another priest ceremoniously lifted the sepulcher cloth, while a third took the pyx that held the Host and returned it to its usual position above the altar.
Then, solemnly, yet another priest raised the crucifix from the sepulcher and carried it in triumph all around the church. The bells in the steeple clamored out joy. The choir sang
'Christ, rising again from the dead, dieth no more. Death shall have no more dominion over Him. For in that He liveth, He liveth unto God. Now let the Jews declare how the soldiers who guarded the sepulcher lost the King when the stone was placed, wherefore they kept not the rock of righteousness. Let them either produce Him buried, or adore Him rising, saying with us, Alleluia, Alleluia.'
The crucifix was reverently placed on an altar on the north side of the church. Worshipers crept towards it, some on their knees, others on their bellies. Tears of rejoicing streamed down their faces as they adored the risen Christ.
Tears stung Shakespeare's eyes, too. His father had spoken of such ceremonies when he was a young man, and again in Mary's reign. Till the coming of the Armada, Shakespeare had never seen them himself.
Elizabeth had suppressed them along with so much other Catholic ritual. They did have a grandeur, a passion (fitting word for this season of the year), missing from the Protestant liturgy she'd imposed on England.
Matins began. And my treason thrive, all this once more'll be cast down, Shakespeare thought. That saddened part of him, the part that responded to the drama of Catholic ceremonial. But the rest. Did we choose it of our own will, well and good. But the dons forced it down the throat, as a farmer'll force an onion up the arse of a sick ox. Let them keep it.
Mass followed Matins. At the end of the ceremony, Shakespeare queued up to receive communion.
'Have to take my rights,' someone in front of him muttered. He nodded, though the words hadn't been aimed at him. Taking communion on Easter Sunday marked one as part of the adult community; being denied the Host on this holiest of days ostracized and disgraced a man or a woman. In some towns-even in some churches in London, Shakespeare had heard-folk delinquent with parish dues could be refused the sacred wafer.
He reached the head of the line. '
To prevent embarrassing accidents, a parish clerk stood by the priest with a chalice of unconsecrated wine. He offered it to Shakespeare, who took a mouthful to wash down the unleavened morsel.
Often, when he left the church after Easter Mass, the green of new spring growth offered its own symbolic resurrection. Not this year. With Easter so early-only a day after the equinox-winter's grip still held the land. Trees and bushes remained bare-branched; the muddy ground was brown, with only the sickly yellow-gray of last year's dead grass showing here and there.
To his own surprise, he didn't much care. Maybe the Mass had inspired him. Or maybe. He stopped, a sudden delighted smile illuminating his face.
However much the thought pleased him, it did nothing for the fellow behind him, who bumped into him when he unexpectedly halted. 'Here, pick up your feet, you breathing stone,' the man grumbled.
'I pray pardon,' Shakespeare said, and got out of the way. Still unhappy, the man who'd bumped him went up the street. Shakespeare followed more slowly. The glory of that notion still blazed in him. It struck him as a perfect cap for the day Christ rose from the dead.
It struck him as a perfect cap, that is, till he got back to the house where he lodged. Jane Kendall had gone to the early Mass, too, and had got back before him. She was already throwing fresh wood on the hearth. This day, for once, she cared nothing for expense. 'God bless you, Master Will!' she said. 'Now we feast!'
'Let it be so, my lady,' Shakespeare answered. 'Never before this year have I known Lent to seem so long.'
'Nor I,' his landlady said. 'I had not thought on it thus, but you have the right of't. I wonder why it might be so.'
'Haply for that Lent began so early,' Shakespeare said. ' 'Twas but the middle part of February, mind you.'
Widow Kendall nodded. 'Yes, it could be. But now Lent too is passed away. Will you do me the honor of carving the leg of pork I took just now from the fire?'
'A rare privilege!' Shakespeare cried, and bowed over her hand as he'd seen Lope de Vega bow over that of his latest lady friend. Jane Kendall giggled and simpered, playing the coquette for all she was worth. Shakespeare's stomach rumbled. He'd gone without meat for a long time at a hard season of the year, which made it seem even longer. Spit flooded into his mouth at the thought of finally breaking the fast.
As he carved slice after slice from the leg of pork, a few odd bits-or perhaps more than a few-found their way into his mouth. His landlady looked on indulgently. No matter how indulgent she looked, he did try to be moderate, and evidently succeeded well enough. 'Pleaseth you the flavor?' she asked.
He made sure he swallowed the morsel in his mouth before answering, 'Ay.' He had no trouble sounding enthusiastic. The Widow Kendall had been lavish with cloves and cinnamon and pepper, and the meat was so fresh, it hardly even needed the spices to taste good-an advantage of Easter's coming in a cool season of the year.
