Ruled Britannia

care when he was talking to Diego. But the servant's words might have been meant for Lope. He couldn't take his eyes off Catalina IbaA±ez. and where his eyes went, he wanted his hands and his lips to follow.

He swept off his hat and bowed as low to her as if she really were Isabella of Castile, the first Queen of a united Spain. ' Buenos dias, Dona Catalina,' he said. A noble's mistress didn't really deserve to be called doA±a; out of the corner of his eye, he saw status-conscious Enrique raise an eyebrow some tiny fraction of an inch.

Catalina Ibanez accept the title as nothing less than her due. ' Buenos dias,' she replied with truly queenly condescension. Her black eyes snapped. 'Is everyone ready? Is everything ready?' Everyone and everything had better be, her tone warned. When Lope didn't say no, she nodded grudging approval. 'Let's get on with the rehearsal, then. I have plenty of other things to do once I'm finished here.' She tossed her head.

Be careful, or you'll be sorry. Lope hadn't lived his life being careful. He found it wildly unlikely he'd start now. Yes, Catalina Ibanez was a nobleman's plaything. Yes, she was trouble in a beautiful wrapping. Yes, she had no more pity and no more regard for anyone else than a cat did. Lope knew all that. Every bit of it was obvious at first glance. None of it stopped him from falling in love. Nothing had ever stopped him from falling in love.

He hadn't fallen out of love with Lucy Watkins. He didn't fall out of love with one woman when he fell in love with another. No, his way was to pile one love on another, adding delight to delight. till the whole rickety structure came crashing down on top of him, as it had outside the bear-baiting arena down in Southwark.

He gazed at Catalina Ibanez-and found her looking back, those midnight eyes full of old, cold wisdom. She knew. Oh yes, she knew. He hadn't said a word yet, but she knew everything there was to know. He didn't think she could read or write, but some things, plainly, she'd been born knowing.

Be careful, or you'll be sorry. Lope sighed. He saw no way this could possibly end well. He intended to go on with it, go through with it, anyhow.

Later. Not yet. El mejor mozo de Espana came first. Even set beside his love affairs, the words, the rhymes, the verses in his head counted for more. What had Shakespeare said in Prince of Denmark?

The play's the thing-that was the line. 'Take your places, then, ladies and gentlemen,' Lope said. 'First act, first scene. We'll start from where Rodrigo the page enters with his guitar and speaks to Isabella.'

Rodrigo was played by the strapping Spanish corporal named Joaquin Fernandez. He was tall as a tree, blond as an Englishman, handsome as an angel-and wooden as a block. He stumbled through his lines.

Catalina Ibanez replied,

'Tres cosas parecen bien:

el religioso rezando,

el gallardo caballero

ejercitando el acero,

y la dama honesta silando.'

She wasn't just pretty. She could act. Unlike poor Fernandez (whose good looks still worried Lope), when she spoke, you believed three things seemed good to her-a monk praying, a gallant knight going to war sword in hand, and an honest woman spinning.

That had to be acting. De Vega couldn't imagine Catalina IbaA±ez caring about monks or honest women spinning-gallant knights were liable to be a different story. But, listening to her, you believed she cared, and that was the mystery of acting. If the audience believed, nothing else mattered.

On they went. Joaquin Fernandez had at least learned his lines. He might get better-a little. Catalina sparkled without much help. Lope knew how hard that was. No matter who surrounded her, this play would work as long as she was in it. De Vega felt that in his bones.

I wish Shakespeare had Spanish enough to follow this, he thought as the scene ended. I wish he could see the difference using actresses makes, too. He shrugged. The Englishman would just have to bumble along in his own little arena with its own foolish conventions. If that meant his work never got the attention it deserved in the wider world, well, such was life.

'Bravo, Corporal Fernandez!' Lope said. Fernandez blinked. He wasn't used to getting praise from the playwright. Lope went on, 'And brava, DoA±a Catalina, your Majesty! Truly Spain will come into its own with you on the throne.'

'Thank you, Senior Lieutenant,' Catalina IbaA±ez purred. She dropped him a curtsy. Their eyes locked.

Oh, yes, she'd noticed him watching her. Or rather, she'd noticed the way he watched her-not just as an author and director watched an actress, which he had every right to do, but as a man watched a woman he desired. If she wanted him, too, then in some sense he had every right to do that as well-though Don Alejandro de Recalde, her keeper, would have a different opinion.

'All right,' Lope said. 'Let's go on.' He might have been speaking to the assembled players. People shifted, getting ready for the next scene.

Or he might have been speaking to Catalina IbaA±ez alone, all the rest of them forgotten. By the way her red, full lips curved into the smallest of smiles, she thought he was. Her eyes met his again, just for a moment. Yes, let's, they said.

Kate poured beer into Shakespeare's mug. 'I thank you,' he said absently. He'd eaten more than half of his kidney pie before noticing how good it was-or, indeed, paying much attention to what it was.

Most of him focused on King Philip. He'd stormed ahead the night before, and he couldn't wait to get to work tonight. The candle at his table was tall and thick and bright. It would surely burn till curfew, or maybe even a little longer.

The door to the ordinary opened. Shakespeare didn't look up in alarm, as he'd had to whenever it opened while he was working on Boudicca. He'd seldom dared write any of that play here, but even having it at the forefront of his thoughts left him nervous-left him, to be honest, terrified. If Spaniards or priests from the English Inquisition burst in now, he could show them this manuscript with a clear conscience.

But the man who came in was neither don nor inquisitor. He was pale, slight, pockmarked, bespectacled: a man who'd blend into any company in which he found himself. The poet hardly heeded him till he pulled up a stool and sat down, saying, 'Give you good den, Master Shakespeare.'

'Oh!' Shakespeare stared in surprise-and yes, alarm came flooding back. He tried to hide it behind a nod that was almost a seated bow. 'God give you good even, Master Phelippes.'

'I am your servant, sir,' Thomas Phelippes said, a great thumping lie: the dusty little man was surely someone's servant, but not Shakespeare's. Did he rank above Nick Skeres or under him? Above, Shakespeare thought. Phelippes, after all, was the one who'd brought him into this business in the first place.

Kate came up to the table. 'Good even, sir,' she said to Phelippes. 'The threepenny supper is kidney pie, an't please you.'

'Monstrous fine, too,' Shakespeare added, spooning up some more of his.

Phelippes shook his head. 'I have eat, mistress,' he said. 'A stoup of Rhenish wine'd please me, though.'

'I'll fetch it presently.' Kate hurried away and, as she'd promised, returned with the wine at once.

Phelippes set a penny on the table. She took it and withdrew.

'What would you?' Shakespeare asked. 'Or is't, what would you of me?'

'Seek you a scribe?' Phelippes inquired in return. 'So I am given to understand.'

Shakespeare frowned. 'I grow out of patience with others knowing my affairs ere I learn of them myself.'

'I know all manner of strange things,' the dusty little man answered, not without pride.

He would never be a hero on the battlefield, nor, Shakespeare judged, with the ladies, and so had to make do