Ruled Britannia

Another man said, 'I shall fetch a constable hither.' He too hurried off.

'Yes, do, and yarely,' Lope called after him. 'An you come on a Spanish patrol, fetch them likewise.' He looked down at his rapier. The last couple of inches of the blade had blood on them, blood and Christopher Marlowe's brains. He stabbed the sword into the ground to clean it, as he had after slaying Don Alejandro.

Lope was still waiting by Marlowe's body for the constable and for his own countrymen when bells began to chime, first at one church far away, then at another and another and another, till after no more than a minute or two the bronzen clangor filled all the streets of London. 'What signifies that?' someone asked. Someone else shrugged. But Lope knew what it meant, what it had to mean, and ice and fire ran through him.

His Most Catholic Majesty, King Philip II of Spain, after so long dying, at last was dead. And Lope de Vega, standing there bare blade in hand, burst into tears like a little boy.

A dapper little gamecock of an officer rapped out a question in Spanish. Shakespeare looked to Lope de Vega, who translated it into English: 'Captain GuzmA?n would know why Christopher Marlowe was bound for your lodging when we chanced each upon the other. I own, I too am fain to know the same.'

'As am I,' Shakespeare said. If his voice trembled, who could blame him? The dons had come for him at dawn, as he was about to leave the Widow Kendall's for the Theatre, and marched him here to their barracks instead. If they misliked the answers he gave them, he was assuredly a dead man-nor was he all that would die. He went on, 'Methought Kit was fled abroad.'

Had anybody who could recognize Marlowe seen him and Shakespeare together? If someone gave him the lie. He refused to dwell on that. If someone gave him the lie there, the Spaniards wouldn't merely question him. They would put him to the question, an altogether different and more painful business.

But all de Vega said was, 'Plainly not.'

You fool's zany, you stood close by him at Cambyses and knew him not, Shakespeare thought.

Captain Guzman flung more Spanish at him. Again, Lope de Vega did the honors: 'He asks, how is't Constable Strawberry knew Marlowe was returned to London whilst you remained deep-sunk in ignorance?'

Damn Constable Strawberry. But Shakespeare knew he had to have a better answer than that. He said, 'Belike the constable will have ears 'mongst the masculine whores of's bailiwick. Knowing Kit's pleasures, they'd learn he was in these parts or ever the generality heard it.'

De Vega spoke in excited Spanish to his superior. Captain Guzman's reply sounded anything but convinced. Lope spoke again, even more passionately. GuzmA?n answered with a shrug.

To Shakespeare, de Vega said, ' 'Twas even so Strawberry got wind of't-thus he told me when I inquired of him.'

'Well, then.' Shakespeare dared risk indignation. 'This being so, wherefore tax you me o'er that which I wist not of?'

After de Vega rendered that into his own language, Baltasar GuzmA?n growled something that sounded angry. 'Thus saith my captain,' Lope replied: 'You standing on the edge of so many swamps of treason, how do your feet stay dry?'

'I am no traitor,' Shakespeare said, as he had to. 'Were I such a caitiff rogue, could I have writ King Philip?'

Once more, Lope translated his words into Spanish. Once more, he did not presume to answer himself, but waited for his superior to respond. Captain Guzman spoke a curt sentence in Spanish. 'That is what we seek to learn-if the worm of treason still begnaw your soul,' was how de Vega put it in English.

' Still,' is't?' Shakespeare knew he was fighting for his life, and could concede his foes nothing. 'My duty to your captain, Master Lope, and say this most precisely: by this word he assumes me treacherous, and proves himself no honest judge. He must forthwith retract it, as slanderous to my honor.'

And how would Captain Guzman respond to that? By letting him defend his honor with a sword? If so, he was a dead man. He had no skill at swordplay, whereas a Spanish officer was all too likely to be a deadly man of his hands. Lope de Vega had certainly shown himself to be such a man, at any rate.

But Guzman nodded and then bowed low. He spoke in Spanish. 'You have reason, quotha,' Lope said. 'Naught against you is proved, nor should he have spake as if it were. He cries your pardon therefor.' Shakespeare bowed in return; he hadn't expected even so much. The Spaniard spoke again, this time harshly. 'Naught against you is proved, saith he, but much suspected. We will have answers from you.'

'I have given all I can,' Shakespeare said, 'and so shall I do. Ask what you would.'

They pounded him with questions about Marlowe, about Nick Skeres, about Ingram Frizer, and about the late Sir William Cecil. They had most of the pieces to the puzzle, but did not know how-or even if-they fit together. Shakespeare told them as little as he could. He admitted having heard Marlowe and Nicholas Skeres knew each other. That wouldn't hurt Marlowe now, and Skeres remained safely out of the dons' hands.

When Shakespeare said he was thirsty, they gave him strong sack to drink. He wished he'd kept his mouth shut; the wine was liable to make him trip over his own tongue and fall to his doom. But he could not refuse it, not after he'd complained. He sipped carefully, never taking too much.

After some endless while, someone knocked on the door to Captain Guzman's office. Guzman snarled a Spanish curse. He pointed to the door. Lope de Vega opened it. In came a skinny, pockmarked Englishman wearing spectacles: Thomas Phelippes.

Shakespeare didn't know whether to rejoice or to despair. The Spaniards had not said a word about Phelippes, for good or ill. Did that mean the dusty little man had succeeded in covering his tracks? Or did it mean Phelippes was their man, a spy at the very heart of the plot?

Whatever he was, he spoke in Spanish far too quick and fluent to give Shakespeare any hope of following it. Before long, Baltasar GuzmA?n answered him sharply. Phelippes overrode the officer.

Shakespeare caught the name of Don Diego Flores de Valdes, the Spanish commandant in England.

He caught the name, yes, but nothing that went with it. Captain Guzman spoke again. Once again, Thomas Phelippes talked him down. Guzman looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon.

At last, Lope de Vega returned to English: 'Don Diego being satisfied you are a true and trusty man, Master Shakespeare, you are at liberty to get hence, and to return to your enterprises theatrical. After King Philip be put before the general. then we may delve further into such questions as remain.'

'Gramercy.' Shakespeare could honestly show relief here. 'And gramercy to you as well, Master Phelippes.'

'Thank me not.' Phelippes' voice came blizzard-cold. ' 'Tis my principal's mercy upon you, not mine own. Don Diego hath a good and easy spirit. Mine is less yielding, and I do wonder at his wisdom, obey though I must. Get hence, as saith Master Lope, and thank God you have leave to go.'

'By my halidom and hope of salvation, sir, I do thank Him.' Shakespeare crossed himself. 'For God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.' He crossed himself.

Phelippes and de Vega also made the sign of the cross. So did Captain Guzman, when Phelippes translated Shakespeare's words. Then Guzman made a brusque gesture: get out. The poet had never been so glad as to obey.

Outside the barracks, the day was dark and cloudy, with occasional cold, nasty spatters of drizzle. To Shakespeare, it seemed as glorious as the brightest, warmest, sunniest June. He'd never expected to see freedom again. A Spanish soldier-a fierce little man who wore his scars like badges of honor-coming into the building growled something at him, probably, Get out of the way. Shakespeare sprang to one side. The soldier tramped past him without a backwards glance.

Shakespeare hurried off towards the Theatre. 'What is't o' clock?' he called to somebody coming the other way.

'Why, just struck one,' the man answered.

Nodding his thanks, Shakespeare trotted on. The audience was filing into the wooden building in Shoreditch when he got there. One of the men at the cash box tried to take a penny from him. 'Nay, 'tis Master Shakespeare,' another man said. 'Where were you, Master Shakespeare? You are much missed.'

'Where? In durance vile,' Shakespeare replied. 'But I am free, and ready-more than ready-to give my lines with a good heart.'

A cheer rose from the players when he rushed into the tiring room. Richard Burbage bowed as low as if he were a duke. Will Kemp sidled up to him and said, 'We feared you'd ta'en sick o' the tisick that claimed Geoff Martin