Ruled Britannia

When he walked into the Theatre the next morning, he found Lieutenant de Vega already there, in earnest conversation with Richard Burbage. Burbage was bowing and nodding. Seeing Shakespeare, de Vega bowed, too. 'Be there proclamation made throughout the city,' he said, 'that Lord Westmorland's Men shall offer King Philip on Tuesday of the week following this now present, the thirteenth day of October, marking a month to the day of his Most Catholic Majesty's departure from this life for a better place.'

The Spaniard crossed himself; Shakespeare and Burbage made haste to imitate him. He went on, 'So saith Don Diego Flores de ValdA©s, commander of our Spanish soldiers in England. Shall all be in readiness for the said performance?'

'Ay, Master Lope, so long as you show forth Juan de IdiA?quez as he should be seen,' Shakespeare answered.

'I already told you ay, Master de Vega,' Burbage said heavily. 'That being so, you need not seek the scribbler's assurances besides mine own.'

As head of the company, he was, of course, quite right. All the same, the bold way he said it might have offended Shakespeare. Not today. His heart pounded. At last, the date was set. Without a word, he bowed to Burbage and to Lope de Vega.

For his life, Shakespeare could not have said which play Lord Westmorland's Men put on that afternoon, though he had a role in it. He came back to himself on his way home from the Theatre, when a little hunchbacked beggar, filthy and clad in rags, came up to him and whined, 'Alms, gentle sir? God's mercy upon you for your grace to a poor, hungry man.'

Instead of walking past him or sending him on his way with a curse, Shakespeare stopped and stared.

Where he had not known the visage, he recognized the voice: there before him, ingeniously disguised, stood Robert Cecil. Lord Burghley's son grinned-grinned a little maniacally, in fact-at the look on Shakespeare's face. Gathering himself, the poet whispered, 'What would you, sir?'

'Why a penny, of your kindness,' Robert Cecil said, and Shakespeare did give him a coin. Under cover of capering with delight, Cecil went on, also in a low voice, 'You shall not give King Philip come Tuesday next, but your Boudicca. If all follow well from that and other matters now in train, England her liberty shall regain. Till the day, be of good cheer and dread naught.'

Off he went, begging from others in Shoreditch High Street. Shakespeare walked on towards the Widow Kendall's, and his dread grew with every step he took.

Seeing the bright sun that shone down on London on the appointed day, Lope de Vega couldn't have been more delighted. When his servant came into his inner chamber, he beamed sunnily himself.

'What a grand day, Diego! It might be spring, not autumn,' he said. 'The heavens do all they can to make King Philip well received.'

' Si, senor.' Diego sounded altogether indifferent. 'That English constable, that Strawberry, is waiting outside. He wants to talk with you about something.'

'Today? Now? Oh, for the love of God!' Lope felt like tearing his hair. 'I have no time to deal with him.

I need to go to the Theatre to rehearse. What can he want?'

Diego shrugged. 'I don't know. I don't speak English.'

'By all the saints, neither does he!' Lope calmed himself. 'I can't escape him, I see. Bring him in. I'll deal with him as fast as I can.'

Walter Strawberry's solid bulk seemed to fill the little chamber to overflowing. 'God give you good morrow, sir,' he rumbled.

'And to you as well, Constable,' de Vega answered. 'What's toward? Be quick, if you can; I must away to the Theatre anon.'

'Ay, sir. Quick I am, and quick I'll be. And, being quick, I'll tell you somewhat or ever I die.'

Whenever Lope listened to Strawberry, he felt himself going round in dizzying circles. Keeping a tight grip on his patience, he nodded. 'Say on.'

'Know you, sir, that Master Shakespeare hath ta'en to talking to buggers in the street?'

'Buggers?' De Vega scratched his head. 'Surely you are mistook, Christopher Marlowe being dead.'

The constable looked as bewildered as Lope felt. 'Marlowe? Who said aught of Marlowe? I speak of buggers with palms for alms outstretched, amongst the which is a little dancing crookbacked wight who bears a passing verisimilitude unto Master Robert Cecil.'

Cecil's was perhaps the only name that could have gained Lope's complete and immediate attention. 'Say you so?' he murmured, leaning towards Strawberry. 'Say you so indeed? Be you certain of this?'

'I am.' Walter Strawberry nodded. 'It hath been witnessed by witnesses thereto, and likewise by those who have seen the same. An it be not the same Robert Cecil, he hath a twin unrecked, though himself but the wreck of a man.'

'Have you any other evidence past this which your witnesses, er, witnessed?' Lope asked. 'Shakespeare denies all treasonous associations, and assuredly in the favor of Don Diego Flores de ValdA©s stands high. With reason, he having writ a splendid, yes, a most splendid, play on the life of his late Most Catholic Majesty, in which I shall have the honor of performing later this day. All this being so, you see, I am not fain to seize him without strongest proofs of's guilt.'

'What I have, sir, I have given you,' Constable Strawberry said. ' 'Tis my bounding duty, and I have bounded hither for to do it.'

'Damnation,' de Vega muttered. Strawberry had brought him just enough to alarm him, but not enough to let him act, especially not after Shakespeare had wriggled free of trouble after Christopher Marlowe's return to London. Lope stroked his little chin beard as he thought. Suddenly, he pointed at the constable.

'Have you searched his lodging? If he have done treason, he will have done't with his pen. Why else engage a poet, a maker of plays, in the enterprise? Have you, then?'

'Not having a warrant?' Strawberry seemed genuinely shocked. 'No, sir, I have not. That were beyond my bounds altogether, and beyond the bounds of any honest Englishman.'

'A plague take all bounds, you-you bounder!' Lope burst out. He stabbed a thumb at his own chest. ' I am no Englishman, for which I thank God. If I desire to search, I may search. I may- and, by the Blessed Virgin, I shall.' Secure in the power the occupiers held, he had no doubt of that whatever.

Neither did Constable Strawberry. 'You will do as you shall do. I have not the right nor the writ.' He turned to go. 'Adieu; be vigitant, I beseech you.'

Vigitant or not, Lope hurried up to Shakespeare's lodging-house. The hour was still early enough to leave him content with the world and the way it shaped. What do I do if I find proof here? he asked himself.

The answer seemed clear enough. I play in King Philip, then arrange for Shakespeare's arrest. He sighed. Arresting the poet after he'd written such a play seemed a pity, but what choice was there? None de Vega could see.

He hoped Shakespeare was already off to the Theatre. He would have a fight on his hands if he tried to search while the Englishman was still there. He touched the hilt of his sword. He didn't want a reputation for killing playwrights, but he would take that reputation if he had to.

When he got to the lodging-house, he found Cicely Sellis in the parlor saying farewell to an early client.

The man showered her with blessings as he left. The cunning woman dropped de Vega a curtsy. 'God give you good day, Master Lope,' she said. 'Why are you come here at such an hour?'

'In search of treason against his Most Catholic Majesty, the King of Spain,' Lope said harshly. Mommet had sprawled by the hearth. At Lope's tone, the cat sprang to its feet, its fur on end, its tail puffed out like a bottle brush. He ignored it, asking, 'Is Master Shakespeare here, or is he gone up to the Theatre?'

'Why, he is more than an hour gone,' Cicely Sellis answered. She cocked her head to one side and gave Lope a slow, half sad smile. Catalina IbaA±ez would have laid down her life to own a smile like that; it left the Spaniard weak in the knees. The cunning woman added, 'And here I hoped thou wert come to see me.'

'Truly?' Lope said. Cicely Sellis didn't even nod. Just by standing there, she let him know it was and could be nothing but the truth. His pulse thudded. Whatever he did now, no one would take anything of Shakespeare's from this place while he did it. He had the time. He was sure he had the time. He made a low leg at her. 'My lady, I stand ever at thy service.' And he did stand, too, or part of him did.