Ruled Britannia

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'I shall ask once more, have you other news we should hear?' Cecil, this time, sounded as if he meant the question, not as if he were asking it for form's sake alone.

But Shakespeare shook his head. When next I see Kit, I must tell him both sides'd fain know the color of's blood, he thought. He didn't know he'd see Marlowe again, but found it all too likely. Icarus flew nigh the sun, and perished thereby. Kit outdoth him in folly, first helping kindle the flame that now will burn him.

Phelippes pointed towards the door. 'We are in Paternoster Row, by St. Paul's,' he said. 'Knowing so much, can you wend your way homeward?'

'I can, an I be not robbed or murthered faring thither,' Shakespeare answered. Nicholas Skeres had told him London's miscreants were ordered to leave him alone. He'd seen some signs it might be so. But he still remained far from sure Skeres' word was to be trusted. And, on a night as dark as this, even an honest footpad might make an honest mistake and fall on him.

The night wasn't so dark when he left the house as it had been when he got there: the third-quarter moon, looking like half a glowing gold angel or mark, had climbed up over the rooftops to the northeast. In fact, it made a pretty fair guide for Shakespeare as he hurried back towards Jane Kendall's lodging-house.

He was out after curfew. Twice he had to duck into shadowed doorways as a Spanish patrol-always several men together, as single Spaniards weren't safe on the streets past sunset-marched by. Once, somebody else out late didn't disappear fast enough. A Spaniard called out. The Englishman ran instead of coming forward. Shouting and cursing, the dons pounded after him. One of them fired a pistol. No scream followed, so Shakespeare supposed the ball missed. He waited till the soldiers had rounded a corner, then went on his own way.

He got home with no more trouble. He even got a little writing done. Sleep? He might have got a little that night. He wasn't sure.

XII

Lope De Vega and Cicely Sellis stood just outside the door to the cunning woman's room. As she set her hand on the latch, she said, 'We are friends, mind you, Master de Vega, not lovers. I trust you'll recall as much when we go within, and seek not to paw me or do me other such discourtesies.'

'God forbid it,' Lope exclaimed, making the sign of the cross to show his sincerity. Then he let out a melodramatic sigh to show he wasn't so sincere as all that. She made a face at him. He winked and blew her a kiss, saying, 'Teach not thy lips such scorn, for they were made for kissing, lady, not for such contempt. And my kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.'

She rolled her eyes. 'Love is merely a madness, and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do. Now-swear and swear true, or stay without my door.'

'As you wish, so shall it be,' Lope said solemnly. 'This I swear.' And if, once they were inside and alone together, she wished for something other than that he keep his distance, he would gladly oblige her. And if he could persuade her to wish for something other than that, why then, he would.

Something in Cicely Sellis' expression said she knew perfectly well what lay in his mind. That irked Lope; he didn't like women seeing through him. She is a cunning woman, after all, he reminded himself, and then, not for the first time, reminded himself of the other, shorter, name for a cunning woman: witch.

Some things he might try with other women he would perhaps be wise to forget with this one.

'I shall take you at your word,' she said, and opened the door. 'Enter, an't please you.'

He did, curious not least to see what a witch's room was like. It seemed ordinary enough: bed, stool, chest of drawers with basin and pitcher atop it, undoubtedly a chamber pot under the bed. The only thing even slightly strange was a box half full of raw, uncombed wool. That puzzled Lope till Mommet stuck his head out of the box and mewed.

'A clever nest,' the Spaniard said.

'It suits him.' Cicely Sellis waved to the stool. 'Sit you down.' She herself perched on the edge of the bed.

He would rather have sat beside her, but he couldn't very well do that, not when she'd been so definite.

Mommet leaped from the box, paused to scratch behind an ear, and wandered over to sniff at his boots.

He stroked the cat. It purred, then snapped. He jerked his hand away. Mommet went right on purring.

'Faithless beast,' he muttered.

'He is a cat,' the cunning woman said. 'From one moment to the next, he knows not what he'd have. Is he then so different from those who go on two legs?'

'Treason's in his blood,' de Vega said.

'Is he then so different.?' Cicely Sellis didn't repeat all of her last question, only enough to make it plain.

In doing so, she gave Lope an opening. 'Know you of any such?' he asked, keeping his tone as light and casual as he could. 'For surely you must hear all manner of fearful and curious things.'

'The confessional hath its secrets,' she said. 'No less my trade. Who'd speak to a cunning woman, knowing his words were broadcast to the general? No less than a priest, I hear of adulteries and fornications and cozenings and, as you say, all manner of proof Adam's get be a sinful lot.'

A cunning woman, of course, lacked the immunity of a priest hearing confession. Lope didn't mention that. She had to know it only too well. And, while she'd mentioned several kinds of things she heard about, she hadn't said a word about treason. If he pressed her on it, he would make her suspicious.

Instead, he changed the subject, or seemed to: 'How I envy you, lodging here cheek by jowl with Master Shakespeare. Hath he told you aforetime what his next play's to be?'

Cicely Sellis shook her head. 'Nay, nor hath he spoke treason in my hearing, neither.'

Lope's ears burned. He hadn't been so subtle there as he would have wished. If he acknowledged the hit, though, she would think him more interested in spying on her than interested in her. He was interested in spying on her, but that didn't mean he wasn't interested in her: on the contrary. 'Right glad I am to know it, then,' he said. 'Ears so sweet as yours should hear no base, no gross, no disgusting thing.'

She laughed. The cat sat up on its haunches like a begging dog, staring at her. 'What should they hear, then?'

'Why, how beautiful thou art,' he answered at once. 'Thou dost teach the torches to burn bright-beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.'

That made her laugh again. 'Said I not, we are friends? Say you so to all you hold in friendship?'

'I do not,' Lope said. 'But, whilst we are friends, I'd fain we were more. I own it. 'Twould curd my blood to say otherwise.'

'You flatter me.' Cicely Sellis drew out a sparkling glass trinket that hung on a chain around her neck.

She let the pendant swing back and forth a couple of times; it drew Lope's eye as a lodestone draws iron. Then, smiling to herself, she tucked it back under her blouse, into the shadowed vale between her breasts. His gaze followed it till it disappeared. Seeing that made her smile wider. 'You'd say the like to any woman you found comely.'

That held some truth, but only some. 'I have seen comely women aplenty,' he said. 'I have loved comely women aplenty. And, having done it, I find loving 'em for comeliness' sake alone doth stale.' He thought of Catalina IbaA±ez, and wished he hadn't. 'I'd sooner love one who might love me in return for reasons as several and various as mine for loving her.'

'I tell you yet again, we are not lovers,' she said.

'I tell thee yet again, would we were!' Lope exclaimed. Being balked only made him burn hotter.

'You flatter me,' Cicely Sellis said once more.

'Nay, for flattery is lies, whilst I am full of truth,' Lope said.

'When this man swears that he is made of truth, I near believe him, though I know he lies,' the cunning