he had at the title of 'A Man's Yard.' Before anyone could explain the English phrase to him, Kemp went on, 'And
'Thou knew'st not what a fig meant, till thy mother taught it thee,' Shakespeare retorted, giving back the gesture. 'And would thou wert a figment now.' Kemp flinched. Burbage clapped his hands. De Vega sat at the edge of the stage, smiling and waiting for the next exchange.
'By the Virgin and all the saints, my dear, I wish you had been there and understood the English,'
Lope told Catalina Ibanez. 'They might have been fighting with rapiers, save only that their words pierced again and again without slaying, however much they might make a man wish he were dead.'
Catalina shrugged. Her low-cut, tight-fitting bodice made a shrug worth watching. 'From everything I've seen, actors are always bitchy,' she said.
'No.' He shook his head. 'You make it less than it is. Could I have written this down as it was spoken, and then rendered it into Spanish-'
'It would probably sound petty and foolish,' she broke in. 'Such things always do, when they're not fresh.' She looked at him from under lowered lashes. 'Besides, Senior Lieutenant, did you bring me here to babble about mad Englishmen?'
'Certainly not, my beautiful one,' Lope answered. 'Oh, no. Certainly not.' They sat side by side on a taffeta coverlet in the leafy shade of a small grove of willows in the yard by Whitehall, the yard given over to the Kings of Scotland whenever they chose to visit. No visit from King James seemed imminent, however much the Spaniards would have liked to see him fall into their hands. But the English kept up the yard and the buildings inside even so. Lope lifted a bottle. 'More wine?'
'Why not?' Catalina answered. As he poured, a bird began to sing. She frowned. 'What's that? I don't recognize the song.'
'A seed warbler, I think,' he answered. The name, necessarily, came out in English. 'The bird does not dwell in Spain. I never heard it before I came here, either.'
Catalina IbaA±ez listened for a little while, then tossed back the wine and shivered. That, for once, had nothing to do with nasty English weather. Summer was here at last. It wasn't a patch on summer in Madrid, but it was tolerable, perhaps a bit better than tolerable. Catalina said, 'Even the birds here are foreigners. No wonder I always feel so alone.'
'Alone?' Lope set his hand on hers. 'Oh, no, sweetheart. How can you say such a thing, when you have. Don Alejandro?'
She looked over to him in surprise. She must have expected him to ask,
Lope was neither rich nor important, and doubted he ever would be. As for the other. Slowly, he raised Catalina's hand to his lips. 'What could a woman want,' he murmured, 'but to be adored?'
That was an old line, too. It didn't work precisely as he'd hoped. 'Don Alejandro is the stingiest man in the world,' Catalina went on, 'and he doesn't give me presents or take me dancing or even'-she seemed to be reminding herself-'out on nice little picnics like this.'
'Well,' Lope said, 'that is a pity.' All at once, he began to wonder whether taking her on this nice little picnic had been such a good idea. She was beautiful, yes, undoubtedly, but was she any less mercenary than a scarred German soldier who sold his sword to the highest bidder and walked away if his pay fell in arrears?
Catalina seemed to realize she might have shown a card or two too many. She swayed towards him with melting eyes and said, 'I'm so glad to go out anywhere at all, so very glad.' She leaned closer yet.
To kiss her was the work of a moment. Altogether without thought, Lope did. Had he thought, he might have wondered who was doing what with whom, and for which reasons. But he'd never been in the habit of thinking around women. He'd hardly even imagined the possibility till his chance meeting with the odd Englishwoman with the cat. And so he kissed Catalina IbaA±ez, and things went on from there.
She sighed, deep in her throat, and twisted to press herself against him. 'Ah,
'And I,' Lope said. 'Oh, yes, by God, and I.' He kissed her again. Her mouth tasted of wine, but sweeter still.
Except for the twittering birds, they were all alone. The willow branches hung down almost to the ground, shielding them from prying eyes. The grass under the taffeta coverlet was long and soft and resilient.
Catalina slapped Lope's hands away a couple of times as he began to explore her, but it was only for show, and they both knew it. She giggled when he nibbled the side of her smooth white neck. The giggle turned to a soft, almost breathless sigh as he slid down so his tongue could tease a nipple.
She sighed again, not very much later, when he poised himself above her and thrust home, as if with the rapier. Her thighs clasped his flanks. Her arms squeezed him as if she never wanted to let him go. English summer, he discovered, was more than warm enough to work up a pleasant sweat, provided one found the right company.
'Oh, Lope!' Catalina gasped, just before his moment of joy. Then she let out a little mewling cry that oddly made him think of Mommet, Cicely Sellis' cat, even though he'd never heard Mommet make a sound. Her nails, sharp as little daggers, scored his back. He drove deep and spent himself.
Her mouth twisted in regret when he pulled out of her. But she quickly started putting herself to rights. De Vega got dressed, too. He reached out to pat her bare backside as she pulled up her drawers. 'Even more than I imagined,' he told her.
'Imagined?' She raised a hand to her face, as if to hide a blush, as if to say she couldn't imagine a man hungrily imagining making love to her.
'It was all I could do,' he said. 'It was. But no more.' Had he been a few years younger, he would have laid her down on the taffeta coverlet and taken her again then and there. He sighed for lost youth. There would be other chances, though, and soon. And he would be seeing Lucy Watkins again before long. It wasn't as if he'd fallen out of love with her when he fell in love with Catalina IbaA±ez.
And what might that Englishwoman with the cat be like between the sheets? Lope hadn't thought about finding a lover older than himself since he was eighteen. For that one, he thought he would make an exception.
'We had better get you back,' he said to Catalina, shaking his mind free of the women he wasn't with.
He gave the woman he was with a quick kiss. 'I don't believe I ever enjoyed a picnic more.'
'Ishould hope not.' She drew herself up with touchy pride. Oh, yes-this one is all ice and fire, Lope thought. Never a dull moment with her around. He put the cork back in the wine bottle. He'd brought along a loaf of bread and a pot of honey, too. Honey and bread remained untouched. He smiled as he bundled them into the coverlet. I tasted better sweets than honey today.
Hand in hand, he and Catalina walked through the ankle-high grass of the yard no King of Scotland was likely to visit any time soon, towards the gate by which they'd come in. They'd gone about halfway from the willow grove when the gate opened. A tall, broad-shouldered man walked into the yard and strode purposefully towards them.
' Ay, madre de Dios! ' Catalina Ibanez yelped. She dropped Lope's hand as if it were on fire. Under her paint, her face went white as milk. 'It's Don Alejandro!'
Lope let the coverlet fall to the grass. The wine bottle clanked against the honey pot. He hoped they didn't break, but that was the least of his worries right now. His right hand fell to the hilt of his rapier.
He'd worn it as much for swank as on the off chance of trouble. Without it, he'd be a dead man now.
I may be a dead man anyhow. Don Alejandro went from purposeful walk to thudding trot. His rapier leaped free of its sheath. The long, slim, deadly blade glittered in the sun. 'De Vega!' the nobleman bellowed. 'Ten
