Ruled Britannia

He kept looking around the tiring room for Christopher Marlowe, especially after the company had given one of the other poet's plays. Kit had had the chance to flee abroad ahead of Spanish vengeance. He'd had it, and he hadn't taken it. Zany, Shakespeare thought. Marlowe did seem to have the sense to stay away from this chamber, where his disguise could not hope to hold up.

Shakespeare was about to slip out of the tiring room himself, out of the tiring room and out of the Theatre, when Walter Strawberry pushed his way towards him through the crowd. 'Good day to you, Master Shakespeare,' the constable boomed. 'Good day.'

'And the same to you, sir,' Shakespeare answered.

'Your performance this day was ghastly, passing ghastly indeed,' Strawberry said.

By his smile, that was evidently intended for praise. Shakespeare dipped his head in what he hoped would pass for modesty. 'I thank you for your gracious kindness,' he murmured. He didn't ask Strawberry what he wanted. If he didn't ask, maybe the constable would prove not to have wanted anything and leave him alone.

Forlorn hope. Strawberry planted his wide frame in front of Shakespeare and said, 'Know you, in his last hours under this earth, Matt Quinn spake traitorously? It be so, a certain witness hath demurred to me.'

'I knew this not, sir,' Shakespeare lied, and did his best to spread confusion wherever he could: 'But if he were a traitor, then belike he who slew him loved his country.'

'Think you so, eh?' Constable Strawberry said. 'Well, I have my suppositions on that. Ay, some suppositious coves yet run free, a murtherer's blood adrip from their fingers.'

'Surely it were the blood of them that were murthered,' Shakespeare said.

'The which is what I said, not so?'

'God forbid I should quarrel with your honor.'

'God forbid it? God forbid it indeed! For I tell you, sir, them as quarrel with me have cause to beget it afterwards,' the constable declared.

'I doubt not you speak sooth,' Shakespeare said soberly.

'Mark it well, then,' the constable said, 'for the day of beckoning draws nigh.'

'I shall keep your words ever within my mind.' Shakespeare hesitated, then asked, 'What sort of treason spake this Matthew Quinn?'

'Vile, unlawful treason: most vile. Know you another sort?'

'Might you make yourself more clear, more plain?'

'Why, sir, I aim to be as clear as the nose on my face, as plain as a peacock,' Strawberry said. 'And so I shall exculpate more upon this matter. The said Quinn did speak insultingly on the King of Spain, dislikening him to a common bawd.'

'A bawd?' Shakespeare said, frowning.

Walter Strawberry nodded. 'The very same, sir: a bawd which hath two debauched daughters. An this be not treason, what name shall you give it?'

Shakespeare didn't answer right away; he was trying to make the pieces fit together. And then, with sudden, frightening ease, he did. Whoever had given Strawberry the story must have misheard bawd for Boudicca, substituting a familiar word for the unfamiliar name. And the Queen of the Iceni had had two daughters the Romans had ravished. A good thing whatever witness the constable-and the Spaniards? — had found seemed to know nothing of Roman history, or he would have given a clearer picture of Matt Quinn's folly. From the report that had come back to the Theatre through Will Kemp, Quinn had said far more than Walter Strawberry knew.

'Be this not treason?' Strawberry repeated. 'If it be not treason, what name would you give it? Would you call it plum pudding?'

'Treason indeed. I'd not deny it,' Shakespeare said. 'Haply his end came at the hand of some bold soul whose overflowing choler would not suffer him to hear good King Philip reviled so.' Again, he did his best to lead the constable away from the true trail.

And, again, he did not get so far as he would have wanted. Constable Strawberry said, 'This Ingram Frizer I have aforementioned is villain enough and to spare for murther and felonious absconding with his periwig both. By my halidom, I do believe him to be the perpetuator against Matthew Quinn.'

Since Shakespeare believed the same thing, he had to tread with the greatest of care. He said, 'Your honor will know better than I, for I have not met the gentleman you name.'

'No gentry cove he, but a high lawyer and rakehell,' Strawberry said. Once more, Shakespeare agreed.

Once more, he dared not let Strawberry see as much. The constable went on, 'Curious you twain should hold friends in common. Passing curious, I call it. How say you?'

'I say Nick Skeres is no friend of mine. I have said the same again and again. Will you not heed me, sir?'

Shakespeare showed a little anger. Were he honest, he thought he would have done so. And it helped hide his fear.

Before Constable Strawberry could answer, another man came up to Shakespeare: an older man, jowly and leaning on a stick. Strawberry bowed to him. 'Give you good day, Sir Edmund.'

'And you, Constable,' Sir Edmund Tilney answered. 'Give me leave to speak to Master Shakespeare here, if you please.'

'Certes, certes. Shall I gainsay the Master of the Revilements?' Walter Strawberry bowed again and withdrew.

Shakespeare too made a leg at Sir Edmund. 'Good morrow, sir. What would you?'

The Master of the Revels looked around to make sure Strawberry was out of earshot before murmuring,

'That man will trip to death on's own tongue.'

'Nothing in his life'd become him like the leaving of it,' Shakespeare said.

'He is an annoyance, but surely not so bad as that,' Tilney said.

'His vexatiousness knows no bounds.' With a sigh, Shakespeare added, 'But it will be what it is, an I rail at it or no. I ask again, sir: how may I serve you?'

'In the matter o'er which I come hither, I am your servant, Master Shakespeare,' the Master of the Revels replied. 'I speak of your King Philip.'

'Ah. Say on, sir. Whatsoe'er the play in your view wants, I shall supply. Direct me, that I may have the changes done in good time, his Most Catholic Majesty failing by the day.' Shakespeare crossed himself.

So did Sir Edmund. His awkward motion told how full of years he'd been before the success of the Armada brought Catholicism and its rituals back to England. He said, 'No need for change here, not by the standards of mine office. By the standards of dramaturgy. The purpose of playing was and is to hold, as 'twere, the glass up to nature. Methinks you have held it here most exceeding well.'

'For the which you have my most sincerest thanks.' Shakespeare meant every word of that. If all went as Robert Cecil hoped, King Philip would never be staged. Even so, the poet had worked as hard and as honestly on it as on Boudicca. He had no small pride in what he'd achieved. That the Master of the Revels-a man who'd likely seen the scripts for more plays than anyone else alive-should recognize its quality filled him with no small pride.

'You have earned your praises,' Tilney said now. Shakespeare bowed. The Master returned the gesture.

Then he asked, 'Wherefore doth Master Strawberry make inquiry of you?'

'He is Sir Oracle, and, when he opes his lips, let no dog bark!' Shakespeare said sourly. Sir Edmund chuckled. But Shakespeare realized his answer would not do. Tilney could ask the constable himself.

Better to lull him than to let Strawberry fan his suspicion to flame. The poet went on, 'He seeks him who murthered Geoffrey Martin and Matt Quinn.'

'He cannot believe you are the man?' Tilney said.

'No, sir, for which I thank God. But, quotha, the man he suspects and I both are known to the same man. From this I seem to lie under reflected suspicion, so to speak.'

'Whom have you in common?' the Master of the Revels asked.

Shakespeare wished he would have picked a different question. 'One Nicholas Skeres, sir,' he said, again knowing Walter Strawberry could give the answer if he didn't.

'Nick Skeres?' Tilney said. Shakespeare nodded. ' 'Sblood, I've known Nick Skeres these past ten years, near enough,' Sir Edmund told him. 'A friend of Marlowe's, Nick Skeres is. I'd not dice with him, I'll say that: he hath no