Ruled Britannia

by Harry Turtledove

  Shakespeare nodded. "Just so."

  "It hath the ring of truth," Lope said, and began to read:

  " Stay, Spanish brethren! Gracious conqueror,

  Victorious Parma, rue the tears I shed,

  A mother's tears in passion for her land:

  And if thy Spain were ever dear to thee,

  O! think England to be as dear to me.

  Sufficeth not that I am brought hither

  To beautify thy triumphs and thy might,

  Captive to thee and to thy Spanish yoke,

  But must my folk be slaughter'd in the streets,

  For valiant doings in their country's cause?

  O! if to fight for lord and commonweal

  Were piety in thine, it is in these.' "

  "Will it serve?" Shakespeare asked anxiously.

  "Most excellent well," Lope replied at once. "It is, in sooth, a fine touch, her pleading for mercy thus.

  How came you to shape it so?"

  "I bethought me of what she might tell King Philip himself, did he come to London, then made her speak to his general those same words," Shakespeare said.

  "Ah." Sitting, Lope couldn't bow, but did take off his hat and incline his head to show how much the answer pleased him. "Most clever. And then the Duke of Parma's reply is perfect-perfect, I tell you." He read again:

  " At mine uncle's bidding, I spare your life,

  For mercy is above this sceptr'd sway:

  'Tis mighty in the mightiest; it becomes

  The throned monarch better than his crown;

  It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,

  And blesseth him that gives and him that takes.' "

  "If it please you, I am content," the Englishman murmured.

  "Please me? You are too modest, sir!" Lope cried. While Shakespeare-modestly-shook his head, the Spaniard went on, "Would King Philip might read these wondrous words you write in his behalf. As I live, he'd praise 'em. Know you the Escorial, outside Madrid?"

  "I have heard of't," Shakespeare said.

  " 'Twill be his Most Catholic Majesty's monument forevermore," Lope said. "And your King Philip, meseems, will live as long."

  "May he have many years," Shakespeare said in a low voice. "May this play remain for years unstaged."

  Lope crossed himself. "Yes, may it be so, though I fear me the day will come sooner than that." He tapped the sheet of paper with a fingernail. "I shall take back to my superiors a report most excellent of this."

  "Gramercy," the Englishman told him.

  "No, no, no." De Vega wagged a hand back and forth. " 'Tis I should thank you, seA±or. Again, you prove yourself the poet Don Diego knew you to be."

  Will Kemp sidled up to them. "What business have you put in for a clown?" he asked in a squeaky whine.

  "It is a play on the death of a great king," Lope said coldly; he did not like Kemp.

  "All the more reason for japes and jests," the clown said.

  "You are mistaken," de Vega said, more coldly still.

  To his surprise, Shakespeare stirred beside him. "No, Lieutenant, haply not," he said, and Lope felt betrayed. Shakespeare went on, "Sweeten the posset with some honey, and down it goes, and sinks deep. Without the same. " He shook his head.

  "I have trouble believing this," Lope said.

  "Then who's the fool?" Will Kemp said. He went on, " A was the first that ever bore arms.' " A sudden shift of voice for, " a€?Why, he had none.' " Back to the original: " What? art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says, Adam digged; could he dig without arms? I'll put another question to thee. If thou answerest me not, confess thyself-' "

  "Confess thyself a blockhead," Lope broke in. "What is this nonsense?"

  Quietly, Shakespeare said, "It is from my Prince of Denmark, sir, the which you were kind enough to praise not long since."

  Kemp bent and took Lope's head in both hands. The Spaniard tried to twist away, but could not; the clown was stronger than he looked. Solemnly-and, Lope realized after a moment, doing an excellent imitation of Richard Burbage-Kemp intoned, " a€?Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him.' "-as if Lope's head were the skull of the dead clown in the play. " a€?I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.' " He kissed Lope de Vega on the mouth and let him go.

  Furious, Lope sprang to his feet. His rapier hissed free. "Whoreson knave! Thou diest!" he roared.

  "Hold!" Shakespeare said. "Give over! He made his point with words."

  Kemp seemed too stupid to care whether he lived or died. Pointing to Lope, he jeered, "He hath no words, and so needs must make his with the sword." With a mocking bow, he added, "Fear no more kisses. I'm not so salt a rogue that you shall make a Bacon of me."

  "All the contagions of the south light on you!" Lope said. But he did not thrust at the hateful clown.

  He regretted his restraint a moment later, for Kemp bowed once more, and answered, "Why, here you are."

  "Go to, both of you!" Shakespeare said. "Give over! Master de Vega, this once I will pray pardon in the clown's name, for-"

  "I want no pardon, not from the likes of him," Kemp broke in, which almost got him spitted yet again.

  "Silence! One word more shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee," the English poet told him.

  Shakespeare turned back to Lope. "I will pray pardon in's name, sir, for how else but by clowning shall a clown answer?"

  Breathing heavily, de Vega sheathed his blade. "For your sake, Master Shakespeare, I will put by my quarrel."

  But it was not for Shakespeare's sake, or not altogether, that he took it no further. Shakespeare gave him an honorable excuse, yes, and he seized on it. But Will Kemp- demons of hell torment him, Lope thought-had been right, and had proved himself right, no matter how offensively he'd done it. Lope wouldn't admit that to the clown, but couldn't help admitting it to himself.

  "I thank you," Shakespeare said.

  "Not I." Kemp minced away, sticking out his backside at every step.

  Through clenched teeth, Lope said, "Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool nowhere but in his own house."

  "In sooth, he's wise enough to play the role," Shakespeare answered with a sigh, "and to do that well craves a kind of wit."

  "He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit-but not much like it," de Vega said. "And what passes for his wit likes me not much."

  With another sigh, Shakespeare said, "Have you not betimes seen it with players, that differences 'twixt whom they play and who they are smudge even in their own minds?"

  "I have." But Lope would not leave it alone. "If this be so with Kemp, send him to. How is the place whither you send distraught and lunatic people called?"

  "To Bethlem, within Bishopsgate," Shakespeare replied at once.

  "To Bethlem, Gracias, " Lope said. "Let him live there when not upon the stage, and make a spectacle for the general even when he plays not." The English poet only spread his hands, as if to ask, What can you do? And, since Kemp's foibles truly weren't Shakespeare's fault, de Vega spread his hand, too, silently answering, Nothing at all. Aloud, he went on, "I shall take my superior, as I say, a good report of your progress, which will also, I doubt not, shortly reach Don Diego's ear."

  "I am glad it pleases you," Shakespeare said. "And, I warrant you, once Master Kemp hath the lines wherewith to work his foolery, he'll make a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day; a most lovely, gentleman-like man."

  "God grant it be so." Lope knew he didn't sound convinced. He bowed. "I go."

  When he got back to the Spanish barracks, Enrique wouldn't let him in to see Captain GuzmA?n till he'd recited and translated Shakespeare's lines for Elizabeth and the Duke of Parma. When he'd finished, GuzmA?n's servant kissed his bunched fingertips like a lovesick youth. "Again, Senior Lieutenant, I envy you your fluency i
n English. If only I spoke better, I would be with you at the Theatre every moment until my principal beat me with sticks to hold me to his service."

  Lope believed him. "His Excellency would beat you to get you not to do something," he observed. "With Diego. " He didn't go on. Enrique was clever enough-more than clever enough-to draw his own pictures. "And now that I have sung for the privilege, be so kind as to take me to your principal."

  "Of course. If you will do me the favor of accompanying me. "

  Baltasar GuzmA?n listened attentively to Lope. When de Vega started to quote the English, though, his superior held up a hand. "Spare me that. I don't know enough of the language to follow. Give me the gist, en espaA±ol."

  "Certainly, your Excellency," Lope said, and obeyed.

  When he'd finished, Guzman nodded. "This all sounds well enough, Lieutenant. I have one question, though." Lope nodded, too, looking as if he awaited nothing more eagerly. Captain Guzman asked,

  "Can you be sure no treason lurks here, that an Englishman would hear but you do not? You have harped on Shakespeare's subtlety before."

  The question was better, more serious, more important, than Lope had looked for. "I-" he began, and then shook his head. "No, sir, I cannot be sure of that. I am fluent in English, but not perfect. Still, the Master of the Revels will pass on the play before it appears. I may miss this or that. He will not."

  "Yes. That is so." Captain GuzmA?n nodded and looked relieved. "And Sir Edmund is most reliable." He clicked his tongue between his teeth. "I have to make sure he stays reliable, eh?"

  " Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? " de Vega remarked

  "Just so-who watches the watchmen?" GuzmA?n turned Latin into Spanish. He eyed Lope, who felt a sudden horrible fear the little nobleman might decide he ought to do that job. But Guzman shook his head, reading de Vega's thought. "You'll stay where you are. You're doing well there, and I have no one else who could take your place. So your precious Shakespeare really is writing this play, eh?"

  "He really is, your Excellency," Lope answered.

  "Good. Very good," Captain Guzman said. "One more English whore-pay him, and he does what you want."

  Shakespeare was tired of cheese and stockfish and even of fresh fish. What he wanted was a beefsteak, hot and sizzling and full of juice. When he grumbled to Kate in the ordinary, she leaned toward him and spoke in a low voice. "You can have what you crave, though not for the threepence of a common supper."

  "Ah?" He looked around. Only a couple of other men sat in the ordinary, and they were quietly arguing over some business deal. Even so, he answered in a whisper of his own: "Your master hath fitted out a close room for such dealings?"

  "So hath he done, upstairs. For a shilling. "

  With a laugh, Shakespeare shook his head. "Stockfish it shall be." Did its being forbidden make a threepenny beefsteak suddenly quadruple in worth? Not to him. And you were wise to take no chances on betraying yourself in a small way, lest you discover your larger treason, he thought.

  Kate said, "I've heard this is not truly Lent at all, the which'd make the eating of meat at this season no sin."

  "I've heard the same," Shakespeare admitted. "But the priests say otherwise, and theirs is the word of weight." He was pleased she thought he refrained from fear of sin as well as because of cost. The more he had to hide, the less he wanted anyone thinking he had anything.

  He'd almost finished his unsatisfying Lenten supper when someone who was not a regular strode into the ordinary and looked around. Shakespeare needed a moment to realize that, though he hadn't seen the fellow here before, he knew him even so. The newcomer recognized him at the same moment, and walked over towards his table. "Master Shakespeare, an I mistake not," he said.

  "Indeed, Constable Strawberry," Shakespeare answered. "Give you good even."

  "And you." The constable perched on a stool. He waved to Kate. "A cup of sherris-sack, and yarely."

  As the serving woman brought it, Shakespeare thanked heaven he hadn't brought Boudicca to the ordinary-although, he reminded himself uneasily, Walter Strawberry could also have come to the house where he lodged. Fighting that unease, he said, "What would you?"

  "I'm turning up clods, you might say," Strawberry replied gravely. He nodded, pleased with his own turn of phrase. "Aye, I'm turning up clods."

  See yourself in a glass, and you'll turn up a great one. The thought flickered through Shakespeare's mind. He bit back the urge to fling it in Strawberry's face. Will Kemp wouldn't have hesitated, but Kemp had less to lose. Wearing his polite player's mask, Shakespeare asked, "And what have you turned up?"

  "Somewhat of this, somewhat of that," Strawberry answered. "For ensample, that you and the expired prompter, to wit one Geoffrey Martin, were prompt to quarrel not long before the time of his untimely demise. Forgive me for speaking prose, but there you have it."

  "I have worked with Master Martin since coming to London and joining Lord Westmorland's Men."

  Shakespeare did his best to sound annoyed and not frightened. "We always quarrel when first I give him a play. Learned you that in your questioning?"

  Constable Strawberry solemnly nodded. "I did, sir. Indeed I did. And what's the whyfore behind it?"

  "That he would change what I would were left unchanged," Shakespeare answered. "Every man who shapes a play will quarrel thus with a company's prompter. Learned you that in your questioning?"

  "I did, sir," Strawberry repeated.

  "Then why"-Shakespeare almost said whyfore himself-"come you here?"

  "Fear not, Master Shakespeare. I draw nearer the occasion of my occasion, so I do." The constable took a scrap of paper from his wallet, peered down at it, and then put it back. "D'you ken a man named Frizer?"

  "Frizer?" the poet echoed. Strawberry nodded. Shakespeare shook his head and shrugged. "No, sir.

  That name I wot not of."

  "Ingram Frizer, he calls himself," Strawberry went on.

  Ice ran through Shakespeare. He hoped his surprise and dismay didn't show. That loud-mouthed knifeman who'd asked if Geoff Martin was causing trouble. The poet made himself shrug again. "I am none the wiser, sir."

  "Ah, well. I've said the same thing, the very same thing, many a time, so I have." The constable held up his mug and called to Kate: "Here, my dear, fetch me another, if you'd be so genderous."

  "So can she scarce help being," Shakespeare remarked.

  "Ah, in sooth? That likes me in a woman, genderosity, so it does. I thank you for learning me of it."

  Strawberry laid a finger by the side of his nose and winked. When the serving woman refilled his mug, he patted her backside.

  She poured wine in his lap. He let out a startled squawk. "Oh, your pardon, I pray you," Kate said sweetly, and went back behind the counter.

  Strawberry fumed. "Methought you said she was genderous of her person," he grumbled, dabbing at himself. "I saw no hint of that-marry, none." He sipped what was left of the wine, his expression still sour.

  "A misunderstanding, belike," Shakespeare said.

  "Ay, truly, for I understood the miss to be of her person. " The constable took another pull at the mug, set it down, and looked at Shakespeare as if just realizing he was there. "Ingram Frizer," he said again.

  "I told you, sir, I know not the man."

  "You told me. Oh, yes, you told me." Constable Strawberry nodded and then kept on nodding, as if he ran on clockwork. "But you ken a man who knows the aforespoken Frizer."

  "Not to my knowledge," Shakespeare said.

  "Ah, knowledge." Strawberry was still nodding, perhaps wisely. "I know all manner of things I have no knowledge of. But I say what I say, the which being so in dispect of the man."

  " What man?" Shakespeare demanded, hoping a show of temper would mask his growing fear. "I pray you, tell me who it is quickly and speak apace. One more inch of delay is a South Sea of discovery.

  Take the cork out of your mouth that I may drink your tidings. Pour this concealed man out of your mout
h as wine comes out of a bottle."

  "As you like it, sir, I shall. His name is Nick Skeres. Will you tell me you ken him not? Eh? Will you?"

  Shakespeare would have liked to, but dared not. Too many people had seen him with Skeres, and might give him the lie. "Yes, we've met," he admitted. "We are not friends, he and I, but we've met."

  "Not friends, is it?" Walter Strawberry leaned forward, using his bulk to intimidate. "Be ye foes, then?

  Say you so?"

  "No," Shakespeare answered. "I say we are not friends. I ken the man not well enough to call him friend-nor he me, I'd venture."

  "I see." Strawberry gave no sign as to whether he believed what the poet told him. "Know you where this Nick Skeres' locution is to be located?"

  "Where he dwells, mean you?"

  "Said I not that very thing?"

  "I dare say. Your pardon, Constable, but I know not. As I told you, we are but acquaintances, not friends."

  He waited tensely for the next question Strawberry would send his way. The constable was not bright, but he was diligent. He might-he plainly did-need longer than a more clever man would have to find his answers, but he had a chance of finding them in the end. Not tonight, though. Finishing his wine, he got to his feet. "I thank you for passing the time of day with me, Master Shakespeare, I do. Haply 'twill prove in your regard much ado about nothing. I hope it may so. Give you good den." He lumbered out of the ordinary.

  "Who was that man?" Kate asked after Strawberry closed the door behind him. "Tell me he is your friend, and you shall no more be mine."

  "God save me, no!" Shakespeare exclaimed. "He is a constable from Shoreditch, inquiring after the death of poor Geoff Martin, of which I believe I have spoke somewhat."

  "A constable? I might have known," Kate said darkly. "With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover, and prove himself an ass."

  "At bottom, he is nothing else-but an officious ass, mind."

  "I would have more to say of him than that. but let it go, let it go. Put his hands on me, would he?