Ruled Britannia

by Harry Turtledove

  "Is what true?" he asked, confused.

  "Are you. Sir William?"

  He nodded. "I am. But how knew you that?"

  Before his landlady answered, she took him in her arms, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on the cheek.

  With her blasting and scandalous breath, he would rather have had a kiss from Will Kemp's lips. He didn't say so. He would have had no chance anyhow, for she was off: "Why, I had it from Lily Perkins three doors down, who had it from her neighbor Joanna Ball, who had it from Peg Mercer, who had it from her husband Peter, who had it in his shop in Bishopsgate Street from a wight returned to London from the Theatre. Naught simpler."

  "I see," Shakespeare said, and so, in a way, he did. Rumor ran so fast, before long it would likely start reporting things before they happened. As well it did not with Boudicca, he thought, else the dons had found some way to thwart us.

  "Sir William," the Widow Kendall repeated, fluttering her eyelashes at him. "To have a knight dwelling in mine own house-dwelling so that he may pay his scot, I should say."

  "Fear not, Mistress Kendall," Shakespeare said. "Whilst I be no rich man, still I am not poor, neither.

  Have I ever failed to pay what's owed you?"

  "Never once-the proof of which being you dwell here yet," his landlady replied. Shakespeare hid a sigh.

  She loved him for his silver alone.

  The door to Cicely Sellis' room opened. Out came the cunning woman, with a round-faced matron with a worried expression. Almost everyone who came to see her had a worried expression. Who that was not worried would come to see a cunning woman? Mommet bounded out and started sniffing Shakespeare's shoes, which to his nose must have told the tale of where the poet had been.

  "Rest you easy. All will be well," Cicely Sellis told her client. "That which you dread shall remain dark-"

  "God grant it be so!" the other woman burst out.

  "It shall remain dark," Cicely Sellis said soothingly, "an you betray yourself not by reason of your own alarums internal."

  "I would not," the woman said. "I will not. God's blessings upon you, Mistress Sellis." Out she went, seeming happier than she had a moment before.

  Shakespeare wondered what she didn't want revealed. Had she collaborated with the Spaniards? Or had she simply taken a lover? He was unlikely to find out. If he were putting this scene in a play, though, what would he choose?

  If he were putting this scene in a play, he would be hard pressed to find a boy actor who could reproduce the terror and loathing on Jane Kendall's face as she stared at the cunning woman.Whore, she mouthed silently. Witch. But she said not a word aloud. Cicely Sellis paid her rent on time, too.

  She nodded now to Shakespeare. "God give you good even, Sir William."

  The Widow Kendall jerked. That proved too much for her to bear. "How knew you of's knighthood, hussy?" she demanded. "These past two hours, were you not closeted away with bell, book, and candle?"

  She had that wrong. Bell, book, and candle were parts of the ceremony of excommunication, not the tools of the witch who might deserve it. Shakespeare knew as much. By the glint of amusement in Cicely Sellis' eye, so did she. She didn't try to tell her landlady so. All she said was, "Did you not call Master Shakespeare Sir William just now? And did not Lily Perkins bring you word of the said knighthood, clucking like a hen the while? I am not deaf, Mistress Kendall-though betimes, in your disorderly house, I wish I were."

  After a moment to take that in, Jane Kendall jerked again. Shakespeare looked down at Mommet to hide his smile. The cunning woman had got her revenge for the Widow Kendall's mouthed whore. When his face was sober again, he nodded to her and said, "Good den to you as well, Mistress Sellis."

  "I do congratulate you, you having done so much the honor to deserve," Cicely Sellis said.

  "My thanks," Shakespeare answered.

  "May your fame grow, and your wealth with it, so that, like any rich and famous man, you may build your own grand house and need no longer live in any such place as this," the cunning woman told him.

  Jane Kendall jerked once more. "Naught's amiss here!" she said shrilly. "An you find somewhat here mislikes you, Mistress Sellis, why seek you not other habitation?"

  "For that I can afford no better," Cicely Sellis said. "The same holds not for Master Shakes-for Sir William."

  "No better's to be found," Jane Kendall asserted. Cicely Sellis said nothing at all. Her silence seemed to Shakespeare the most devastating reply of all. And so it must have seemed to his landlady, too, for she yelped, "Why, 'tis true!" as if the cunning woman had called her a liar to her face.

  And Cicely Sellis was right: he could afford finer than a one-third share of a Bishopsgate bedchamber.

  Whether he wanted to spend the money for better was a different question. He had in full measure the player's ingrained mistrust of good fortune and fear it would not last. How many men had he known who, briefly flush, spent what they had while they had it and then, misfortune striking, wished they hadn't been so prodigal? Too many, far too many.

  He didn't care to come out with that openly. And so, instead, he smiled and said, "Why, how ever should I lay me down without Jack Street's nightingale strains, as from some pomegranate tree, to soothe mine ears and weigh my eyelids down?"

  "Nightingale?" Cicely Sellis shook her head. "A jackass braying through a trump of iron might make such sounds were he well beaten whilst he blew, but assuredly no thing of feathers."

  "He's not so bad as that." The Widow Kendall did her best to sound as if she were sincere.

  "Indeed not: he's worse by far," Cicely Sellis said. "And Master Will-Sir William-lieth not behind stout doors which with distance do help the unseemly racket to abate, but in the selfsame chamber. That he be not deafened quite wonders me greatly."

  The odd thing was, Shakespeare had meant what he said. However appalling he'd found the glazier's snores when Street first moved into the lodging-house, they were only background noise to him these days.

  "Know you, Sir William, you are and shall ever be welcome here, so that you pay the rent when 'tis due."

  Not to save her soul could Jane Kendall have omitted that qualifying clause.

  "I thank you," Shakespeare said dutifully. He might have been less dutiful had he not known she would have told Ingram Frizer the same as long as whatever men the ruffian killed in the parlor were not themselves tenants of hers.

  With autumn dying and icy-fanged winter drawing nigh, night came early. Shakespeare made his way through darkness to his ordinary. "Sir William!" Kate exclaimed when he walked into the smoky warmth and light. She dropped him a pretty curtsy.

  He started to ask how she knew, as he had back at the lodging-house. Then someone at a table by the fireplace waved to him. There sat Nick Skeres and Thomas Phelippes. "Will you sup with us, Sir William?" Skeres called. By the way he slurred his speech, he'd already drained the goblet in front of him a good many times.

  Shakespeare took a stool and sat down beside Phelippes. The sallow, pockmarked little man's face was also flushed behind his new spectacles. At first, Shakespeare thought the firelight lent him color. Then Phelippes breathed wine into his face. "Is it a celebration?" the poet asked.

  "Naught less, Sir William, by my troth," Phelippes said grandly, more warmth-more expression generally-in his voice than Shakespeare was used to hearing from him. Raising his goblet, he called out to Kate: "Somewhat to drink here, prithee! My throat's parched as the Afric desert!"

  "Anon, sir, anon," she answered, as servers often did when they were in less of a hurry than their customers.

  "What sort of celeb-?" Shakespeare stopped. He pointed first at Phelippes, then at Skeres. "Do I behold, by any chance, Sir Thomas and Sir Nicholas?"

  "You do, Sir William." Nick Skeres-Sir Nicholas Skeres now-nodded and giggled.

  "Bravely done, gentlemen." Shakespeare clasped hands with Phelippes and Skeres in turn. He'd suspected the one and feared the other, whose appearances, like those of a petrel,
foretold storms ahead. But the storms had passed, and the fear and suspicion with them. They'd all been on the same side, and their side had won. That was plenty to make them a band of brothers, at least for tonight.

  Kate set bowls of beef stew before Skeres and Phelippes. "My thanks, sweetheart," Skeres said, and leered at her. Shakespeare eyed his new "brother" as Abel must have eyed Cain.

  But his jealousy passed when he saw Kate ignoring Skeres. Pointing to a bowl, he asked, "That's this even's threepenny supper?" She nodded. Shakespeare said, "I'll have the same, then, and sack for accompaniment."

  "Another penny," she warned, as if he didn't know as much already.

  "Be it so," he said.

  "I'll bring it you presently, Will-Sir William." Kate hurried off.

  "Is not our hostess of the tavern a most sweet wench?" Skeres watched her hips work as she went.

  "She's an honest woman," Shakespeare replied with some asperity.

  "She is a woman, therefore to be won." Nick Skeres ran his tongue wetly over fleshy lips. "She's beautiful and therefore to be wooed." A dull thump came from under the table. Skeres yelped and grabbed at his ankle. "Here, what occasioned that?" he said.

  "Thou jolthead, seest thou not she's the poet's?" Phelippes hissed. Shakespeare didn't think he was supposed to catch that, but he did.

  Skeres kept rubbing at the injured ankle, but his face cleared. "I cry your pardon, Sir William-I knew not," he said.

  Shakespeare waved it aside. Kate brought him his goblet of sack, saying, "Supper in a moment." He nodded, watching Skeres. Skeres watched the serving woman. Shakespeare nodded again, this time to himself. He'd expected nothing else. He trusted Kate. Skeres? He didn't think anyone would ever be able to trust Sir Nicholas Skeres.

  He raised his goblet. "Your good health, gentlemen," he said, "and God save the Queen!"

  They all drank. "God hath saved her indeed," Phelippes said. "Likewise hath He saved this her kingdom, that all feared lost for ever to the dons and to the priests."

  Kate set Shakespeare's bowl of stew before him. This time, Skeres' gaze didn't light on her bosom or her haunches. The newly minted knight lifted his glass of wine. "Here's to the Cecils, father and son," he said.

  "Without 'em-" He shook his head.

  " Sine quibus non," Thomas Phelippes said. Shakespeare nodded. Without the Cecils, there would have been no uprising. He and Skeres and Phelippes drank.

  "A pity Lord Burghley lived not to see his grand scheme flower," Shakespeare said. "He was Moses, who led his folk to the Promised Land, but to whom it was not given to enter therein."

  "But he died well pleased in his son, the which was not given to Philip of Spain," Phelippes replied. A Philip still ruled Spain, of course, but not the Philip. Philip II would always be the Philip. "This I know full well, having seen the King's despatches to Don Diego Flores de Valdas. Philip III speaks no French.

  He prefers to stay indoors, playing the guitar. He hath not learned the use of arms, nor knows he naught of matters of state. So spake his father, the King."

  "God grant it be so, that Elizabeth may the more readily outface him." Shakespeare finished his goblet of sack and waved for another. Kate brought it to him. The knife he used to skewer chunks of meat was the one he'd got from the Roman soldier at the Theatre.

  "Having regained her throne, she hath, methinks, outfaced him," Thomas Phelippes said. "For how shall he again bring England under the yoke? Why, only by another Armada. Hath he the will? E'en with the will, hath he the means? By all I've seen, nay and nay."

  That was so reasonable, so plausible, and so much what Shakespeare wanted to hear, he wouldn't have argued with it for the world. Nick Skeres saw something else: "Without the dons to back 'em, we'll revenge ourselves on the damned howling Irish wolves, too."

  "Ay." Shakespeare nodded. He remembered-how could he forget? — the shivers Isabella and Albert's Irish mercenaries had always raised in him. "Let them have their deserts for bringing terror to honest Englishmen." What England had done in Ireland never entered his mind. He thought only of what England might soon do in Ireland once more.

  Phelippes also nodded, wisely. "That lieth already in train," he said.

  "Good." Shakespeare and Skeres spoke together. They might fall out on many things. Concerning Irishmen, they were of one mind.

  Kate brought more sack several times. Shakespeare knew his head would pound come morning.

  Morning would be time enough to worry about it, though. Meanwhile. Meanwhile, Nick Skeres emptied his goblet one last time, got to his feet, and burst into song:

  "The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,

  The gunner and his mate

  Loved Moll, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,

  But none of us cared for Kate.

  For she had a tongue with a tang,

  Would cry to a sailor, go hang!

  She loved not the savor of tar nor of pitch,

  Yet a. poet might scratch her wherere she did itch,

  Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!"

  Several people in the ordinary laughed. A couple of men clapped their hands. Shakespeare spoke to Thomas Phelippes: "Get this swabber hence forthwith, ere he swab the floor." He clenched his fists. He'd had enough wine to be ready to brawl if Phelippes said no.

  But Phelippes answered, "And so I shall, Sir William." He turned to Skeres. "Come along, good Sir Nicholas. You've taken on too much water; your wit sinks fast."

  "Water?" Skeres shook his head. "No, by God. 'Twas finest Sherris-sack."

  "All the worse-wine'll sink what floats on water." Phelippes steered him towards the door. He nodded once more to Shakespeare. "Give you good night, Sir William."

  "And to you, Sir Thomas, so that you get him away," Shakespeare said. Skeres started singing again.

  Phelippes pushed him out the door and into the street.

  Kate came over to Shakespeare. "That Sir Nicholas is truly a knight?" she asked.

  "Methinks he is a knight indeed," Shakespeare answered. "I trust not his word alone, but Master Phelippes-Sir Thomas-I do credit. Whate'er Skeres might do, he'd not lie about such business."

  The serving woman shook her head in bemusement. "A strange new world, that hath such people in't."

  "Ay, belike." But after that careless agreement passed Shakespeare's lips, he realized Kate's remark held more truth than he'd first seen. Newly free after ten years under Spanish dominion, England could hardly help being a strange place. Those who'd served the dons were paying for it; those who'd suffered under them were raised high. Few had dared trust very far under Isabella and Albert, and a good many might not dare trust very far under Elizabeth, either.

  Kate's thoughts stayed on the personal. "He had no call to sing of me so," she said, "nor of you, neither."

  "He's a cunning cove, Nick Skeres, but not so cunning as not to think himself more cunning than he is,"

  Shakespeare said.

  He watched Kate work through that and smile when she got to the bottom of it. She went off to bring supper to a couple of men at another table. He waited patiently, sipping wine, till the last of the other customers went home. Then, Kate carrying a candle, they walked up the stairs to her room. As she began to undress by that dim, flickering light, she turned away from him, all at once shy. Her voice low and troubled, she said, "A player may love a serving woman, but shall a knight?"

  In that cramped chamber, one step took him to her. He caught her in his arms. Under his hands, her flesh was soft and smooth and warm. He bent close to her ear to answer, "Assuredly he shall, an't please her that he do."

  She twisted around towards him. Her kiss was fierce. "What thinkest thou?" she said.

  His mouth trailed down the side of her neck to her bared breasts. He lingered there some little while. She murmured and pressed him to her. "Ah, sweet, there's beggary in the love that can be reckoned," he said.

  He couldn't have told which of them drew the other to her narrow bed.

  A
fterwards, though, she fought tears while he dressed. When he tried to soothe her, she shook her head.

  "Thou'rt grown a great man," she said. "Wilt not find a grand lady to match thee?"

  "Why, so have I done," he replied, and kissed her once more.

  "Go to!" She laughed, though the tears hadn't gone away. "Thou'rt the lyingest knave in Christendom, and I love thee for't." She got out of bed to put on her own warm woolen nightgown. "Now begone, and may thou soon come hither again, sweet Sir William."

  "Alas that I go," he said, and took the candle stub to light his way downstairs.

  He was almost back to his lodging-house before pausing to wonder how his wife would greet the news of his knighthood. When he did, he wished he hadn't. Anne's first worry, without a doubt, would be over how much money it was worth. He shrugged. What with one thing and another, she wouldn't need to fret about that. He had plenty to send back to Stratford. She and his daughters would not want. Past that.

  Past that, Anne wouldn't care, and neither did he.

  His head did ache when he got up in the morning. A mug of the Widow Kendall's good ale with his breakfast porridge helped ease the pounding. The reticent sun of late autumn was just rising when he started for the door. Sir William he might be, but he had a play to put on at the Theatre.

  Or so he thought, till the door opened when he was still a couple of strides from it. A tough-looking fellow with a rapier on his belt came in. "Sir William Shakespeare," he said. It wasn't a question.

  Even so, Shakespeare wondered if he ought to admit who he was. After a couple of heartbeats'

  hesitation, he nodded, asking, "What would you?"

  "You are ordered to come with me."

  "Ordered, say you? By whom? Whither?"

  "By her Majesty, the Queen; to Westminster," the man snapped. "Will you come, or do you presume to say her nay?"

  "I come," Shakespeare said meekly. The Theatre would have to do without him for the morning.

  He got another surprise when he went outside: a horse waited there to take him to Westminster, yet another armed man holding its head. The beast looked enormous. Shakespeare mounted so awkwardly, the bravo who'd gone in to get him let out a scornful snort. He didn't care. He hadn't ridden a horse since hurrying back to Stratford to say farewell to his son Hamnet, and he couldn't remember his last time on horseback before that. He nodded to the tough-looking man. "Lay on, good sir, and I'll essay to follow."