my love. You'll learn everything you ever wanted to know, I promise you that.'
'You are a monster! An animal!' Catalina said shrilly.
De Vega inclined his head. 'At your service,
'My service!' she said. 'The best service you could give me would be never to see me again.'
'If that's how you would have it, so shall it be.' Lope got to his feet. He swept off his hat and bowed low.
'Pity a man died over so small and passing a thing as your affection, but such is life. But even if we are quits, do bear in mind that I shall know if you go telling lies about me to those in authority. You may think you can ruin me. You may even be right. But I promise you, I will have my revenge. Do you doubt it?'
Catalina Ibanez looked as if she would have liked nothing better than to do exactly that. But all she said was, 'N-n-n-no'-as frightened a stammer as he'd ever heard.
He had no idea whether to believe her. He refused to worry about it either way. If she did go to the authorities with her lies, they might or might not take her seriously. Whether they did or not, honor demanded that he avenge the slight. He would do it, too, at whatever cost to himself. She had to know that. She wasn't wise in the ways of book learning, but she was shrewd.
With another bow, Lope said, 'Farewell, my former dear. I shall remember you in my dreams-and, if God is kind, nowhere else.' He strode out of the wineshop. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him Catalina staring after him, her eyes enormous in a face gone pale and yellow as goat's-milk cheese.
He went out into the street just in time to see Sir William Cecil's funeral procession pass by, carrying deposed Elizabeth's great counselor from Westminster to his final resting place in St. Paul's cathedral in London. De Vega hadn't thought any Englishman, especially one of such dubious loyalty, could be buried with so much pomp. But, when he saw how many people lined the street for a last glimpse of Lord Burghley's earthly remains even here in Westminster, a stronghold of Isabella and Albert and the Spaniards, he realized the powers that be hadn't dared say no to this procession, for fear of riots or worse.
Four white horses draped in black velvet decorated with Sir William's coat of arms drew the bier through the streets. More velvet, this of a deep purple hue, covered the coffin that held Cecil's corpse. Above the coffin was an effigy of the dead English nobleman, his arms folded over this chest in the shape of the cross. A canopy of black velvet, again picked out with the Cecil coat of arms, shielded the effigy from the August sun.
In the wake of the bier walked Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley's son. The pale little man with his twisted back seemed out of place in that robust sun; the black velvet of mourning he wore only accented his pallor. Just for a moment, his eyes met Lope's. He nodded, as if to a friend, and kept on walking.
Behind him came several other prominent Englishmen, of his generation and his father's. Lope recognized Francis Bacon, who, being Lord Burghley's nephew, could hardly be blamed for mourning his passing.
Some of the others, though, surprised de Vega. Sir William Cecil had had more friends than he'd believed among the men who ran the country for Queen Isabella and King Albert.
Many of those men, no doubt, would have been as glad to run England for Elizabeth the heretic. Lope's eyes flicked east, towards the Tower where she remained. In an odd way, killing Mary Queen of Scots might have saved Elizabeth's life. Not wanting to be a regicide himself, King Philip hadn't imitated her and had let her live.
Catalina Ibanez came out of the wineshop. Seeing Lope standing there watching the funeral procession move on towards London, she snarled something that would have made a grizzled muleteer blush, then stalked away. I don't suppose I'll see her again, de Vega thought with a sigh. I don't need to waste any worries on her, though. She's bound to land on her feet or on her back or wherever will do her the most good. But even so. He sighed again.
Beside him, someone spoke in English-accented Spanish: 'There's a dangerous foe of Isabella and Albert dead.'
Lope started. 'Oh. Buenos dias, Senor Phelippes. My head must have been in the clouds, for I noted you not when you came up. I am most sorry.' He bowed in apology.
Thomas Phelippes politely returned the bow. 'Nothing to worry about, Senior Lieutenant.' He continued to speak Spanish, where Lope had replied mostly in English.
'Tell me,' de Vega said, 'what think you of Robert Cecil, Lord Burghley's son and heir?'
To answer that, Phelippes returned to English himself, as if he couldn't be scornful enough in Spanish:
'Small curs are not regarded when they grin. He is as full of quarrel and offense as my young mistress'
dog. An untaught puppy, by my troth: you shall see him heave up his leg, and make water against a gentlewoman's farthingale.'
Lope laughed in delight at the unexpectedness of that. 'Not the man his father was, then, by your reckoning?'
'Not half the man, sir, not in any particular,' the Englishman answered. 'Not in height nor in girth, not in years nor in wisdom, not in paunch nor in pizzle: a dear manikin, such a dish of skim milk as the world hath not seen the likes of since Nero's day.'
'You ease my mind,' Lope said. 'I shall take your opinion to Captain GuzmA?n, who hath some concern o'er the son of such a father.'
'Far from fearing such as Robert Cecil, your good captain may set all plain sail and dread naught,'
Thomas Phelippes said. 'I have told Don Diego Flores de ValdA©s the same.'
'By God, sir, this is good to hear,' de Vega said. 'I grieve only that his Most Catholic Majesty will not long outlive the foe he in's mercy spared.'
'The Lord moves in mysterious ways, blessed be His name.' Phelippes crossed himself. Lope did the same. The pockmarked, bespectacled little Englishman continued, 'I had me the privilege of writing out the parts from Shakespeare's
'Mine own thought is much the same,' de Vega agreed.
Phelippes bowed again. 'May that production come not soon,' he said. 'And now, sir, your pardon, but I must away.' He hurried off in the direction-Lope thought it was the direction-of the palace where he and Don Diego helped administer the Spanish occupation of England. Lope had intended to go back to London, but Lord Burghley's funeral procession would surely clog the Strand for some time to come.
With Catalina Ibanez gone, he ducked back into the wineshop instead.
Whenever Shakespeare left his lodging-house or the Theatre these days, the first thing he did was anxiously peer in all directions. He didn't want to see Nick Skeres coming his way with more bad news. And he especially didn't want to see Ingram Frizer, who might come his way with death.
He was supping on boiled beef and marrow bones stewed with barley and parsnips and mushrooms when Thomas Phelippes walked into the ordinary. By then, he'd come into the place often enough that Kate called to him: 'A cup of the Rhenish, sir, as you've drunk before?'
'If you'd be so kind, mistress,' Phelippes replied. He pulled up a stool at Shakespeare's table and sat down, saying, 'Give you good even.'
Shakespeare had raised a bone to his lips. He sucked out the rich, delicate marrow with a small, almost involuntary, sound of pleasure. Then he set the bone back in the bowl; this was no low dive, nor was he a rustic or a ruffian, to throw his refuse on the floor. 'God give you good den as well, Master Phelippes,'
he said grudgingly. Was the pockmarked little man a companion any safer than Skeres or Frizer? He had his doubts.
The serving woman brought Phelippes his wine. He set a penny on the table. She scooped it up. He eyed her as she walked off with it; candlelight glinted from the lenses of his spectacles. 'A likely wench,' he remarked.
'Think you so?' Shakespeare said, as neutrally as he could. He sprinkled some salt from the saltcellar into his stew. 'What would you?' he asked in a low voice. 'You came not, meseems, for to praise the lady's beauty, however praiseworthy she be.'
Phelippes nodded. 'There you speak sooth, sir.' He pointed to the pewter spoon Shakespeare had brought to the ordinary. 'Eat up, quick as you may. I'd have you come with me.'
'What? Tonight? Now?' Shakespeare yelped. Thomas Phelippes nodded again. 'Whither? Wherefore?'
the poet demanded. 'I'd purposed work of mine own this even. The one commission and the other both being
