Ruled Britannia

thousand demons from hell, de Vega, what are you doing with my woman?'

Had de Recalde come in a few minutes earlier, he would have seen for himself what Lope was doing. By Catalina's delighted response, the nobleman would have learned something, too. This seemed neither time nor place for that discussion. Lope

drew his own sword. But he gave as mild an answer as he could:

'Talking about the theatre.'

'Liar! Dog! Son of a dog!' Don Alejandro shouted, and roared down on him like an avalanche. Steel clattered from steel. Sparks flew. Catalina screamed. 'Shut up, you little puta!' Don Alejandro shouted.

'You're next!'

His first long, abrupt thrust almost pierced Lope's heart; de Vega barely managed to beat the blow aside.

He couldn't counter. Fast as a striking serpent, Don Alejandro thrust for his belly. Only a hasty backwards leap saved him from owning a second navel. And any puncture a couple of inches deep probably meant death, either from bleeding or, more slowly and painfully, from fever.

Don Alejandro de Recalde was a picture fencer, with a style as pure as any Lope had ever seen. He kept his blade in front of his body and poised to strike at every moment, and he was quick and strong.

He might have stepped out of a swordmaster's school and straight into the King of Scotland's yard. For their first few exchanges, Lope wondered how he could possibly come through the fight alive. And then, as he managed a thrust at Don Alejandro's belly and the nobleman beat his blade aside with a perfect parry, he suddenly smiled a most unpleasant smile.

His next thrust wasn't at Don Alejandro's midriff-it was at his face. Catalina's keeper turned that one, too, but not so elegantly, and he jerked his head back in a way no fencing master would have approved.

Lope's smile grew wider and nastier. 'Don't do a lot of real righting, you say?' he panted.

'I say nothing to you, de Vega,' de Recalde snarled, and bored in again. 'Nothing!' Clang! Clang!

Clang! went their swords, as if they were battling it out up on stage.

But swordplay in real fighting was different from what went on with the groundlings cheering down below. It was different from what the fencing masters taught, too. Lope thrust at Don Alejandro's face again. This time, his foe didn't jerk away fast enough. The point pierced his cheek. The nobleman howled in pain. Blood ran down the side of his jaw. Catalina Ibanez shrieked.

'They don't show you that in school, do they?' Lope jeered. He knew perfectly well they didn't. Nobody included blows to the face in fencing exercises. They were too dangerous. Swordmasters who slaughtered their students or scarred them for life weren't likely to get much new business.

Don Alejandro tried to answer him, but blood poured from his lips instead of words. De Recalde was game. He kept on doing his best to skewer Lope. His best was alarmingly good-but not quite good enough.

Lope thrust at his head again, this time pinking his left ear. More blood flew. Don Alejandro shook his head and kept fighting. Both he and Lope ignored Catalina's screams.

Once more, Lope thought. He gave this thrust all the arm extension he had. His point pierced his opponent's right eye, pierced the flimsy bone behind, and penetrated deep into de Recalde's brain. With a grunt that seemed more surprise than pain, Don Alejandro toppled to the grass like a kicked-over sack of clothes. His rapier fell from fingers that could hold it no more. His feet drummed briefly, then were still.

A sudden stench said his bowels had let go. Catalina screamed one last time. She gulped to a stop, tears streaming down her face.

'Stupid bastard,' Lope said wearily, tugging his sword free and plunging it into the ground to cleanse it.

'You never really tried to kill anyone before, did you? Well, by God, you won't try again, that's certain sure.'

He wished he'd never killed anyone himself. But he'd fought his way to London after the Armada's army came ashore; if he hadn't killed a few Englishmen, they would most assuredly have killed him. He wished their souls a kind judgment from God-as he did now for Don Alejandro de Recalde's-but they were dead and he was alive and that was how he wanted it to be.

He turned to Catalina Ibanez. 'Come on,' he told her. 'We have to let the authorities know what happened here. You are my witness I slew in self-defense.'

She nodded. 'You are my hero, my champion.' she said. 'You killed for my sake, for. for me.' Tears still wet on her cheeks, she gave him a glance full of animal heat. Lope had never had a woman look at him that way for that reason. He hoped to heaven he never would again.

The night before, Shakespeare had fallen asleep to Jack Street's snores. Now he woke to them.

As he yawned and got out of bed, he wondered if he would ever be able to go to sleep without the glazier's racket after a couple of years of it. He'd got so very used to it, he had his doubts.

Sam King lay asleep in the third bed in their common bedchamber. Street's snoring had stopped bothering him, too. Shakespeare got out of his nightshirt and into doublet and hose. The early-morning sun leaking through closed shutters gave him plenty of light by which to dress. In summer, day swallowed half the night, not the other way round. He reveled in the daylight, and reveled in it more because he knew it would dwindle again as the seasons spun through their never-ending cycle.

A kettle of porridge bubbled over a low fire on the hearth. Shakespeare dipped out a bowlful to break his fast. He poured a mug of ale from a pitcher on the counter, then sat down to eat.

Cicely Sellis came out of her room a couple of minutes later, with Mommet walking around and between her feet. 'Give you good day, Master Shakespeare,' she said, and got herself breakfast, too. As she sat down on a stool across the table from the poet, the cat puddled himself on top of her shoes.

'Give you good morrow as well,' Shakespeare answered. 'I hope the world wags well for you?'

'Passing well,' she said. 'How fares your friend, the Spaniard de Vega?'

'These past few days, I've seen him not,' Shakespeare said. Then he started violently. He had all he could do not to sign himself with the cross. 'How knew you we have an acquaintance?' What witch's trick told you so? was what he meant. As with crossing himself, though, he lacked the nerve for that.

But Cicely Sellis laughed a merry laugh. 'No bell, book, and candle: by God I give you my oath.' She showed no fear about using the holy sign herself. She never had. Laughing still, she went on, 'For one thing, you have in my hearing spake his name, though peradventure you recall it not. For another, not long since I met the man himself in Bishopsgate Street-I daresay Mommet on my shoulder drew his eye. A man of much charm and wit, and much an admirer of yours.'

Shakespeare only half heard her, even less after she showed she hadn't used the black arts to learn of Lope de Vega. Normally, he would have savored praise, and savored Cicely Sellis' company, too. Now he scraped his bowl clean, gulped his ale, mumbled, 'I must away,' and all but fled the lodging house.

She'd convinced him she hadn't used witchcraft this time. She hadn't come close to convincing him she was no witch.

Someone two houses down flung the contents of a very full chamber pot from an upstairs window out into the street. Even though it didn't come close to splashing Shakespeare, the stench made him wrinkle his nose. That stench also took the edge off his pleasure in the fine day. He hurried up towards Bishopsgate, hoping he'd get no more unpleasant surprises.

People streamed into London from the tenements outside the walls, to look for work, to buy and sell, or to drink. Fewer folk went in the other direction. 'Whither away so early, now?' an Irish gallowglass asked as Shakespeare headed out. He made as if to step forward and bar the poet's path.

'I'm for the Theatre,' Shakespeare answered.

'Faith, are you indeed?' the Irishman said. 'Riddle me why, then. I'm after knowing these plays run of afternoons.'

'In sooth, they do,' Shakespeare agreed. 'But we needs must practice or ever we play, else were the show not worth the seeing.'

The Irishman scratched at his red whiskers. He scratched hard, caught something, and squashed it between