Ruled Britannia

Thomas Vincent nodded, too, relief on his face. 'I would not offend, sir, not for the world, but. You knowing of the trouble, I may speak freely.'

'By all means,' Shakespeare said. Vincent was more polite about it than poor Geoff Martin had been.

Had Shakespeare believed all the late prompter's slanders, he would never have presumed to take pen in hand.

Even if Vincent was polite, he pressed ahead: 'And, were your hand never so excellent, your latest still causeth. ah, difficulties in choosing a scribe.'

Every time a new pair of eyes saw Boudicca, the risk of betrayal grew. Vincent did his best to say that without actually saying it. Shakespeare didn't need it spelled out. He knew it all too well, as he had since Thomas Phelippes first drew him into the plot. If a scribe writing out fair copies for the players took them to the Spaniards. If that happened, everyone in Lord Westmorland's Men would die the death.

But the poet said, 'Fear not.' Hearing those words coming from his mouth almost made him laugh out loud. Only when he was sure he wouldn't did he go on, 'Haply I may name you a name anon.'

'May it be so,' Vincent said, and Shakespeare had to remember not to cross himself to echo that sentiment.

IX

It was the middle of a fine, bright morning. When Lope de Vega walked into his rooms in the Spanish barracks, he found his servant curled into a ball under the covers, fast asleep. De Vega sighed.

Diego had been almost unnaturally good and obedient these past few weeks. More surprising than his backsliding was how long it had taken.

Lope shook him, not at all gently. 'Wake up! By God and St. James, you're not the best boy in Spain.'

Diego muttered something that had no real words in it. Lope shook him again, even harder this time.

'Wake up!' he repeated.

His servant yawned and rubbed his eyes. 'Oh, hello, seA±or. I didn't-'

'Expect you,' de Vega finished for him, his tone sour. 'You're supposed to do your job whether I'm here or not, Diego.'

'I know, I know,' Diego said sulkily. He yawned again, though he did get out of bed before Lope started screaming at him. 'I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. It's only that. I get tired.'

He meant it. He was the picture of rumpled sincerity. That he could mean it made Lope marvel. 'And the less you do, the more tired you get, too,' Lope said. 'If you did nothing at all, you would sleep all day long and all night long as well-and you would love every moment of it. Are you a man or an oyster?'

'I am a man who likes oysters,' Diego replied with dignity. 'Now that you've got me up, what is it that's so important for me to do?'

' El mejor mozo de Espana,' Lope told him. 'You may not be the best boy in Spain, or even England, but you're damned well in The Best Boy in Spain, and it's time to rehearse. Come on. Get moving. Do you want Enrique to give you the horse laugh?'

'You think I care about that maricA?n?' Diego said. 'Not likely. If his arsehole isn't wider than the Thames-'

'Enough of your filth!' Lope exclaimed. 'You've said it before, but you've got no proof. None. Not a farthing's worth. Not a flyspeck's worth. So keep your mouth shut and don't make trouble. It'll turn out worse for you than for the people you're trying to hurt, and you can bet on that.'

'Oh, yes. Oh, yes.' Diego struck a pose more dramatic than any he was likely to take in The Best Boy in Spain. 'When an ordinary fellow says anything about a nobleman's servant, he's always wrong. Even when he's right, he's wrong.'

'When an ordinary fellow talks about a nobleman's servant, he'd better be right,' Lope said. 'And you aren't, or you can't prove you are. So you'd better shut up about that.'

'All right, seA±or. I'll keep quiet.' Diego still sounded surly. 'But you'll see whether I'm right or not. In the end, you'll see. And when you do, I'm going to say, I told you so.' '

'Don't gloat till you have the chance,' Lope said. 'For that matter, remember your station in life. Whether you're right or you're wrong, you're still a servant. You're still my servant. So don't gloat too much even if you turn out to be right.'

That sat none too well with Diego. Lope could see as much. But the servant put on a pair of shoes and accompanied him to the courtyard where his makeshift company was rehearsing El mejor mozo de Espana. Even in Spain, it would have made a spartan rehearsal ground. Here in England, where de Vega could compare it to the luxury of the Theatre and the other halls where plays were presented, it seemed more austere yet.

Austere? Lope laughed at himself. What you really mean is cheap, makeshift, shabby. He wondered what Shakespeare would think, seeing what he had to work with. Shakespeare was a gentle, courteous man. He would, without a doubt, give what praise he could. He would also, and equally without a doubt, be appalled.

As Lope had expected, Enrique was already there. He sat on the ground, his back against a brick wall, as he solemnly studied his parts. He was to play several small roles: a Moor, a page, and one of Ferdinand's friends. When he saw Lope, he sprang to his feet and bowed. ' Buenos dias, senor.'

Polite as a cat, he also bowed to Diego, though not so deeply. ' Buenos dA- as.'

'A good day to you as well,' Lope replied, and bowed back as superior to inferior. Diego, still grouchy, only nodded. Lope trod on his foot. Thus cued, he did bow. Lope didn't want Captain Guzman's servant offended by anyone connected to him.

Enrique didn't seem offended. He seemed enthusiastic. He waved sheets of paper in the air. 'This is an excellent play, senor, truly excellent. No one in Madrid will see anything better this year. I'm sure of that.'

'You are too kind,' Lope murmured. He was no more immune to flattery than anyone else-he was less immune to flattery than a lot of people. When he bowed again to show his pleasure, it was almost as equal to equal. Diego looked disgusted. De Vega debated stepping on his foot again.

Before he could, Enrique asked, 'Tell me, seA±or, is it really true what the soldier over there says? A real woman, a real Spanish woman, is going to play Isabella? That will be wonderful-wonderful, I tell you. The wife of an officer who could afford to bring her here, he told me.'

De Vega shot Diego a look that said, Would he be so happy about a woman if he didn't care for them? His servant's sneer replied, All he cares about is the play. If she makes it better, that's what matters to him. With a scowl, Lope turned back to Enrique. 'A woman, yes. A Spaniard, of course-could an Englishwoman play our great Queen? The wife of an officer? No. Don Alejandro brought his mistress-her name's Catalina Ibanez-to London, not his wife. And a good thing, too, for the play. A nobleman's wife could never appear on stage. That would be scandalous. But his mistress?

No trouble there.'

'Ah. I see.' Enrique nodded. 'I did wonder. But it is Don Alejandro de Recalde's woman, then?

Corporal Fernandez had that right?'

'Yes, he did,' Lope said.

Diego guffawed. 'If I had a choice between bringing my wife and my mistress to this miserable, freezing place, I'd bring the one who kept me warmer, too.'

'Be careful, or you'll be sorry,' Enrique whispered through lips that hardly moved. 'Here she comes.'

Don Alejandro's mistress knew how to make an entrance. She swept into the courtyard with a couple of serving women in her wake. They were both pretty, but seemed plain beside her. She was tiny but perfect. No, not quite perfect: she had a tiny mole by the corner of her mouth.

Be careful, or you'll be sorry. De Vega knew Enrique hadn't been talking to him, and hadn't meant that kind of