Murther, the which were to be demonstarted."

"Who'd do such a heinous deed?" Burbage said. Again, Shakespeare knew, or thought he knew, all too well. Ingram had looked the sort to be handy with a knife.

"Master Burbage, sir, I know that not. This while, I know that not," the constable said gravely. "I put it to you--ay, to all of ye--what manner of enemies had he, of foes, of rivals, of opposants, and other suchlike folk who wished him not well? Never set I mine eyne upon the man till overlooking his dead corpse, so haply you will have known him better than I."

Behind Shakespeare, someone murmured, "Vere legitur, lex asinus est."

"What's that?" Strawberry said sharply. "What's that? If you know somewhat of the case, speak out! An you know not, keep a grave silence, like to Master Martin's keeping the silence of the grave. If you be lukewarm of knowing, spew nothing out of your mouths."

"Truly, you are a revelation to us," Will Kemp said.

"Doth any man here know who might have been the prime motion of the said Master Geoffrey Martin's untimely coming to dust?" the constable asked.

Shakespeare felt Richard Burbage's eye on him. Misery roweled him. I meant it not to come to this,tolled in his mind again and again, like a great iron bell. Before G.o.d, I meant it not. But come to this it had, whether he'd meant it or not. He couldn't even be surprised. Had he not embarked on treason, or what Isabella and Albert and their Spanish props would reckon treason, no one would have slain poor Geoff Martin. And treason and murther ever keep together, as two yoke-devils sworn to either's purpose.

Walter Strawberry looked from one player to another, searching the faces of men and boys, making them search their consciences. Shakespeare had never known the tiring room so silent.

He did not break the silence. Neither did Burbage.

"Well," the constable said at last. "Well and well and well, and yet, not so well. A man is murthered. His blood crieth out for revengeance. I had fondly hoped you might make the way more simpler--"

"Fondly, quotha," someone said in a penetrating whisper.

Strawberry stared, but did not spy the miscreant. He coughed and repeated himself: "I fondly hoped you might make the way more simpler, but an't be no, 'tis no. Whosoever the wretch that strook him down may be, I purpose discovering him. And what I purpose, I aim at. Give you good morrow." He turned on his heel and ponderously strode away.

That clotted silence held the tiring room for another minute or two, till the players were sure the constable was out of earshot. Then almost everyone started talking at once. Almost everyone: Shakespeare held aloof, listening without speaking. One wild guess followed another: footpads? an outraged husband? a creditor? a debtor?

"Methinks our prize poet done it," Kemp put in, "for that Master Geoffrey was ever changing his precious verses."

That roused Shakespeare to speech: "Did I slay on such account, you had been years dead, and more deserving of't than our poor prompter."

"Ah, but I make you better," the clown said smugly.

"Enough!" Richard Burbage's roar filled the room, startling everyone into momentary silence once more.

He pointed first at Kemp, then at Shakespeare. "Too much, by G.o.d! Give over, else you quarrel with me."

Shakespeare nodded. After a moment, so did Will Kemp. Shakespeare wondered how long the truce would last. From what he knew of the clown, not long. And, of course, Burbage could throw wood on the fire, too. And so can you, Shakespeare reminded himself.

More quietly, Burbage went on, "We need a new man to perform the office of playbook-keeper and prompter as soon as may be, for we shall make proper ninnies of ourselves without him. Know ye of a man able to do't and at liberty?"

n.o.body said anything. At last, Jack Hungerford spoke up: "I'll nose about. Players, now, players come and go, but we who tread not the boards incline more towards finding one place and holding it."

"We'll find someone," Burbage said with the air of a man trying to sound confident. "But meanwhile, we all must needs watch our fellows' backs. Any one of us may of a day be dull. If a player have forgot his part and be out, let him not go even to a full disgrace. Whisper to him--give him the words he wants. All will go forward, and all for the best."Hungerford said, "Till we have our new man, it were better to give plays we have done before many a time and oft, that by familiarity we feel as little as may be the lack."

Burbage nodded to the tireman. "Well said." He eyed Hungerford in a speculative way. "Until this exigency be past, could you, Jack, undertake some of what Master Martin did, your helpers taking your place with costumes and the like?"

Hungerford looked unhappy. "I'd be scarce a 'prentice in's trade, as my helpers are scarce more than 'prentices in mine. 'Twould make us weaker all around than we are."

"Weaker in the whole of the fabric, yes, but without the rent this garment our company would otherwise suffer," Burbage said. "And only for a brief s.p.a.ce of time, till we find the man can take poor Geoffrey's place."

Burbage usually thundered like Jove, browbeating, pushing the company along the path he wanted by force of will. Here, though, he roared as gently as any sucking dove, cajoling the tireman into doing what he wanted. In truth, Jack Hungerford needed little cajoling. "I'll do't," he said, "but only for a little while, mind."

"Gramercy," Burbage said, and made a leg. The tireman chuckled in embarra.s.sed pleasure.

"Gramercy," Shakespeare echoed, moving his lips without sound. Had Hungerford stayed stubborn in his refusal, Burbage's eye likely would have fallen on him next. Who would do better for a makeshift prompter than the man who'd penned many of the plays in the first place and might reasonably be expected, therefore, to know everyone's lines?

And I have not the time in which to do't, he thought desperately. Two plays to write, not a word set down on either . . . and he still had to act, too. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to lock himself in a room with nothing but his books and do nothing but set words on paper. He could have none of what he wanted.

They got through the afternoon's performance without disgracing themselves. As Shakespeare left the Theatre afterwards, Richard Burbage came up beside him. His shoulders sagged in a silent sigh, but he wasn't really surprised. Burbage said, "Sad for poor Martin's family. He had a new babe, I believe, o' the lady he wed after his first wife perished in the fire that marked him."

"Most piteous sad indeed." Shakespeare trudged down Sh.o.r.editch High Street towards filthy, crowded London: towards his home.

Burbage matched him stride for stride. After a while, he said, "Will . . ."

Shakespeare didn't answer. He just kept walking.

"Will . . ."

"What is't?" Shakespeare snapped. "Are you sure you want to know?" This time, Burbage was the one who didn't say anything. He only waited. After a moment, Shakespeare realized what he was waiting for.

"G.o.d be my judge, d.i.c.k, I devised his death not."

"I thought naught other. There's none o' the killing blood in you--else, as you say, Will Kemp were long since sped." But Burbage's smile quickly faded from his fleshy lips. "That you devised it not, I believe with all my heart. That it grieved you, I believe also. That it amazed you, as it amazed us . . ." He shook his head. "No.""Why say you so?" Shakespeare asked.

"For that you spake of Martin his Popery as hurtful to a . . . a certain enterprise," Burbage answered.

"Was't the second Henry who cried out, 'Who will rid me of this turbulent priest?'--and behold! there's Becket dead."

Shakespeare laughed uneasily. That shot struck much too close to the center of the target. Trying to lead Burbage away from the truth he'd found, the poet said, " 'Tis treason or folly or both together to set alongside a king's my name."

Burbage, however, was not so easily distracted. "An I hire me another Popish prompter, will he too lie dead in a ditch the day after?"

"I know not," Shakespeare said.

"What think you?" the player persisted.

"I think . . . I think a great ship is setting sail. I am thereon, haply, one small sail. If the wind blow foul, 'twill tear me to ribbons--and they'll haul me down in a trice, and raise in my place another . . . and the ship'll sail on as before. Are you answered, d.i.c.k?"

"I am answered," Burbage said heavily. "And I'll inquire of those with whom I speak how they stand with Rome."

"Softly! Softly!" Shakespeare warned. "If they wonder why you put such questions, 'twere better never to have asked at all."

"You take me for a fool," Burbage said. "He's the other wight."

"Heh," Shakespeare said. "Another one who's fain to j.a.pe on's own."

"We're not on the boards now, Will."

"Think you not?" Shakespeare shook his head. "Till this . . . enterprise go forward, if it go forward, we are players everywhere, players always. Forget it at your peril."

Burbage chewed on that for a few paces. By the sour face he pulled, he did not like the taste. He pointed ahead. "There's Bishopsgate." He hurried on alone, flinging words back over his shoulder: "If you have the right of't, best not to be seen with you."

That hurt. It would have hurt worse had Shakespeare not been convinced he was right--which made Burbage right to avoid his company. The player pa.s.sed through the gate and disappeared. Shakespeare followed more slowly. He felt he ought to ring a bell like a leper, to warn folk of his presence. His touch was liable to prove as deadly as any leper's. That he knew too well.

And then, when he was only a couple of houses from the one where he lodged, something else occurred to him. Geoffrey Martin had proved an annoyance to those who'd framed this plot. He'd proved an annoyance, and they'd brushed him aside as casually as if he were a flea on a doublet. And if I prove an annoyance? Shakespeare shivered. But Lord Burghley styled me his strong right arm. The poet shivered again. Plenty of people in the street that chilly afternoon were shivering, so he went unnoticed. If I prove an annoyance, they'll brush me aside as yarely as poor Geoff Martin.

CAPTAIN BALTASAR GUZM?N held up a sheet of paper to Lope de Vega. "We are ordered to take special notice, Senior Lieutenant, of any who profane Lent this year by eating of foods forbidden these forty days."

"We are ordered to do all sorts of foolish things," Lope answered. "This is more foolish than most. The English, from all I've seen in my time here, break the rules as often as they keep them." He exaggerated, but not by an enormous amount. A surprising amount of meat got eaten here in the weeks before Easter.

Guzm?n waved the paper. "But this," he said portentously, "is a special year."

"How is this year special?" de Vega asked, as he knew he was supposed to do. "I know his Holiness has declared that 1600 will be a year of jubilee, but 1598?" He shrugged. "To me, it seems a year among years."

"Not so." His superior waved the paper again. Lope was getting tired of seeing it without being able to read it. Guzm?n went on, "Ash Wednesday, this year, is the fourth of February, and Easter the twenty-second of March."

"They're early," Lope remarked. "Is that enough to make it special?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Guzm?n answered. "It is, it says here, as early as Easter can come." He waved that d.a.m.ned paper one more time. "This is, of course, the twenty-second of March by the calendar Pope Gregory ordained fifteen years ago."

"Yes, ten days earlier by the old calendar the heretics still love," Lope agreed. "But Easter isn't like Christmas--we don't have one day and they another."

"Ah, but this year, we do," Captain Guzm?n said. "By their calendar, what we call the paschal full moon falls before the vernal equinox. They will count the Sunday after the next full moon as Easter--April the twenty-sixth by our reckoning, the sixteenth by theirs. Now do you understand?"

After a moment, de Vega nodded. "I think so. If their Easter is later, their Lent will begin later, too, and--"

"And they will find it no sin to eat meat during the first part of our Lent," Guzm?n broke in. "They either have to keep the fast an extra month to make themselves both safe and what they call holy, or--"

Lope interrupted in turn: "Or break the law of G.o.d and the fast. I see it now, your Excellency. You're right--this is a special year." He wouldn't have wanted to keep the Lenten fast for more than two months, and he doubted whether many stubbornly Protestant Englishmen would, either.

Baltasar Guzm?n nodded. "We can smoke out a lot of heretics who've hidden from us since the Armada landed. The sooner we get rid of the last of them, the sooner we'll have peace in the kingdom."

"Peace." Lope sighed. "It seems like one of those mirages that fool travelers lost in the desert. You follow the mirage, and what looks like water recedes before you. If we had peace here, maybe one day I could go home to Spain. I wonder if I would recognize Madrid. After so long here, I'd probably think it was beastly hot."

"One thing is certain, though," Captain Guzm?n said. "As long as there are still Protestants in England, we'll have no peace. This kingdom has to follow the holy Catholic faith. All the world, one day, will follow the holy Catholic faith. Then, truly, peace will come." He crossed himself. His eyes glowed with a Crusader's vision."Yes." De Vega crossed himself, too. But then, incautiously, he said, "We've fought the Portuguese and the French, and they're Catholic, too--after a fashion."

Guzm?n waved that aside. "When all the world is Catholic, there will be peace," he declared, as if challenging Lope to argue with him. Lope didn't. He might not have been so pa.s.sionately certain of that as Guzm?n was, but he believed it, too.

"Is there anything else, your Excellency?" he asked.

To his surprise and disappointment, Guzm?n nodded. "Yes. What do you make of the murder of, ah, Geoffrey Martin?" He made heavy going of the dead man's Christian name.

"A robber, I suppose," Lope answered with a shrug. "I hear his purse was empty when the constables found his body."

"Robbery, perhaps, but what else?" his superior persisted. "He was a good Catholic, and now he's dead.

We might have learned a great deal from him."

"Had someone approached him?" Lope asked. "If anyone had, I never knew it."

"Nor I," Guzm?n said. "But that does not necessarily signify. He could have been talking to the English Inquisition with us none the wiser. The inquisitors always hold their cards close to their chests--sometimes too close to play them, I think, but they are not anxious for my opinion."

"Losing the prompter is a blow to the company," Lope said. "They will have to replace him as soon as they can."

"And with whom they replace him may be interesting." Captain Guzm?n eyed de Vega. "If Shakespeare is as much an innocent as you think, he certainly has odd things happen around him."

"And if you think Shakespeare a footpad, your Excellency, you prove you do not know the man at all,"

de Vega replied.

"That is not what I said, Senior Lieutenant," Guzm?n said, a distinct chill in his voice. "Please think about what I did say. You are dismissed." To show how very dismissed he was, his superior bent his head to his paperwork with him still in the office.

Seething, Lope gave Guzm?n a salute whose perfection was an act of mockery. "Good day, your Excellency," he snarled sweetly. His about-face might almost have been a dance. He neither slammed Guzm?n's door on walking out nor shut it silently, as Enrique had. Instead, he left it open. The captain's exasperated sigh and the sc.r.a.pe of his chair on the wood floor as he pushed it back so he could get up and close the door himself were music to de Vega's ears.

He knew nothing but thanks at escaping the barracks--thanks and cold, for snowflakes fluttered on the northwesterly breeze. It's January. It could be snowing in Madrid, too, he told himself. It was true. He knew it was true. It didn't help. When he thought of Madrid, he thought of a place where the vine and the olive flourished. He tried to imagine grapes and olives growing in London, and laughed at himself. Not even a poet's imagination stretched so far.

In the street outside the barracks, a Spanish soldier and a skinny Englishwoman were striking a bargain.

He gave her a coin. She led him away. Before long, he would get relief. Lope didn't know whether to envy or pity him for being satisfied so easily.

"I'd sooner be a monk than buy a nasty counterfeit for love," he muttered. That didn't mean he enjoyedliving like a monk. He had, though, ever since his two mistresses were so inconsiderate as to run into each other outside the Southwark bear garden. Goodbye, Nell. Farewell, Martha. High time I found someone new.

He wouldn't do it by the barracks. He knew that. The Spanish soldiers stationed there drew trulls as a lodestone drew iron. De Vega didn't want women of easy virtue. He wanted women who would fall in love with him, and whom he would love . . . for a while.

He wandered down towards the Thames, past the church of St. Lawrence Poultney in Candlewick Street. Not far from the church, a woman with a wicker basket called, "Whelks and mussels! c.o.c.kles and clams! Fresh today. Whelks and mussels . . . !"

Maybe they were fresh today, maybe they weren't. In this weather, even sh.e.l.lfish stayed good for a while--one of its few virtues Lope could think of. He eyed the woman selling them. She was a few years younger than he, wrapped in a wool cloak she would have thrown out two years before if she could have afforded to replace it. The worried look on her face told how hard life could be.

"Whelks or mussels, sir?" she said, feeling his eye on her. "Clams? c.o.c.kles? Good for dinner, good for supper, good for soup, good for stew." She all but sang the desperate little jingle.

"c.o.c.kles, I think," Lope answered, "though I should be pleased to buy anything from so lovely a creature."

Her weary sigh sent fog swirling from her mouth. "I sell that not," she said, voice hard and flat.

"G.o.d forbid I meant any such thing!" Lope exclaimed, though he had, at least to test her. He swept off his hat, bowed, and told her his name, then gave her his most open, friendly smile and asked hers.

"I oughtn't to tell it you," she said.

"And why not?" He affected indignation. "What shall I do with it? Make witchcraft against you? They'd burn me, none less than the which I'd deserve. Nay, sweet lady, I want it only for to write it on the doorposts of mine heart. My heart?" He couldn't remember which was right.

The girl with the basket of sh.e.l.lfish didn't enlighten him. A tiny smile did lift the corners of her mouth for a moment, though. She said, "There's a deal of foolery in you, is't not so?"

"I know not whereof you speak," Lope said, donning a comically droll expression.

That smile was like a shy wild thing he had to lure from hiding. He felt rewarded when he saw it. "I'm Lucy Watkins, sir," she said.

"My lady!" Lope bowed again. She wasn't his lady. Maybe she never would be. But he intended to make trial of that.