Ruled Britannia

throat slit was not to let on he had anything worth stealing.

Mommet stalked into the parlor. The cat rubbed the side of its head against Shakespeare's ankle and began to purr. A little uncomfortably, Shakespeare stroked it. The cunning woman's cat-her familiar? — had seemed to like him from their first meeting. What would an inquisitor on the trail of witchcraft make of that? Nothing good, Shakespeare was sure.

Sam King said, 'Mistress Kendall, may I take a mug of your fine ale?' At her nod, King hurried into the kitchen. When he came back with the mug, mischief lit his face. He squatted by Mommet and poured out a little puddle on the floor.

The Widow Kendall's voice rose in sharp indignation: 'Here, now! What do you do? Would you waste it?'

'By no means.' King crooned, 'Here, puss, puss, puss,' to the animal. 'Come on your ways-open your mouth-here is that which will give language to you, cat. Open your mouth!'

Mommet sniffed at the ale slowly soaking into the rammed-earth floor. The cat's head bent. Ever so delicately, it lapped at the puddle. Then it looked up. It eyes caught the firelight from the hearth and glowed green.

'What game play you at?'

Sam King started violently and made the sign of the cross. Shakespeare jerked in surprise, too. But it wasn't the cat that had spoken. It was Cicely Sellis, standing in the doorway to her room, hands on hips, her face furious.

'What play you at?' she asked again. 'Tell me straight out, else I'll make you sorry for your silence.'

'N-N-N-Naught, Mistress Sellis,' King stammered, his face going gray with fear. 'I was but, ah, giving your cat, ah, somewhat to drink.'

'You play the palliard,' the cunning woman said. 'Play not the fool, sirrah, or you'll find more in the way of foolery than ever was in your reckoning. Hear you me?'

'I–I do,' King answered in a very small voice.

'See to't, then,' Cicely Sellis snapped. She made a small, clucking sound. 'Come you here, Mommet.'

Cats didn't come when called. Shakespeare had known that since he was a little boy in Stratford. Cats did as they pleased, not as anyone else pleased. But Mommet trotted over to Cicely Sellis like a lapdog.

The cat's contented buzz filled the parlor.

That frightened Sam King all over again. 'God be my judge, mistress, I meant no harm,' he whispered.

The look the cunning woman gave him said she would judge him, and that God would have nothing to do with it. 'Some men there are that love not a gaping pig,' she said, 'some, that are mad if they behold a cat. As there is no firm reason to be rendered why he cannot abide a harmless necessary cat, so he were wiser to show mercy, and pity, than to sport with a poor dumb beast that knoweth naught of sport. Or think you otherwise?'

'No.' King's lips shaped the word, but without sound. He vanished into the bedchamber he shared with Shakespeare. Jane Kendall disappeared almost as quickly.

That left Shakespeare all alone with Cicely Sellis-and with Mommet. He could have done without the honor, if that was what it was. As she stroked the cat's brindled coat, he asked, 'Go you to the arena to see bears baited, or bulls, or to the cockfights?'

To his relief, she didn't take offense, and did take the point of the question. Shaking her head, she answered, 'I go not to any such so-called sports. I cannot abide them. I am of one piece in mine affections and opinions, Master Shakespeare. Can you say the same?'

'Me, lady? Nay, nor would I essay it, for my wits are all in motley, now of one shade, now another. And which of us is better for't?' Shakespeare asked. Cicely Sellis thought, then shrugged, which struck him as basically honest.

X

A sharp cough brought Lope de Vega up short. He looked back towards Shakespeare, who advanced across the stage of the Theatre. 'You attend not, Master de Vega,' Shakespeare said severely.

'That was your cue to say forth your lines, and it passed you by. I had not known you as such an unperfect actor on the stage, who with his fear is put besides his part.'

'Nor am I such.' Lope bowed apology. 'You pardon, sir, I pray you. 'Twas not fear put me out.'

'What then?' Shakespeare asked, still frowning. 'Whate'er the reason, you must improve, else you'll appear not. Would you have the groundlings pelt you with marrows and beetroots and apples gone all wormy? Would you have them outshout the action, crying, a€?O Jesu, he does it as like one of these harlotry players as ever I see'?' The Englishman's voice climbed to a mocking falsetto.

'No and no and no.' Lope shook his head. That harlotry struck too close to the mark. 'I fear me I find myself distracted-a matter having naught to do with yourself or with your most excellent King Philip.'

He wondered how much more he would have to say. But Shakespeare, after cocking his head to one side, got to the nub of it in two words: 'A woman?'

'Yes, a woman,' Lope answered in some relief. 'She hath made promises, made them and then kept them not. And yet she may. This being so, I am torn 'twixt hope and fury.'

He hadn't thought Catalina IbaA±ez would play him for a fool. He hadn't thought she could play him for a fool. But Don Alejandro's mistress had been all warmth and seductiveness when she didn't have to deliver, and had either kept from seeing him alone or been frustratingly cool when she did. It drove Lope mad: too mad to realize it might have been intended to do just that.

Will Kemp laughed. The clown pitched his voice high, as Shakespeare had: 'If thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse and say thee nay. So thou wilt woo.' He let it drop back to its usual register: 'Sits the wind so?'

He'd summed it up more neatly than de Vega had on his own. 'Yes, just so,' Lope answered. 'What am I to do?'

'You are to have your lines as Master IdiA?quez by heart, even an she be heartless,' Shakespeare told him. 'Let not your honor as a man touch your honor as a player, or no player shall you be.'

'I understand,' Lope said contritely. 'You have reason, seA±or. My private woe should not unsettle this your play.'

'As for the wench, a boot in the bum may haply work wonders, as hath been known aforetimes,' Kemp said. 'And if you cannot cure her by the foot, belike you'll do't by the yard.'

He leered. Shakespeare snorted. So did the rest of the Englishmen in earshot. Lope scratched his head.

He spoke English well, but every so often something flew past him. He had the feeling this was one of those times.

'I do know my lines,' he said, ignoring what he couldn't follow. 'Hear me, if you will:?This cardinal,

Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly

Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle

He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one:

Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;

Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not,

But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.

And, to add greater honours to his age

Than man could give him, he died fearing God.' '

'In sooth, you have them,' Shakespeare agreed. 'It were better, though, to bring them forth when called for.'

'And so I shall,' Lope promised. 'Before God, I shall.'