After Lope explained whom he sought, and why, Norris shrugged and said, "I fear me you'll not lay hands on him, sir: he's surely fled. These past two days, we've had a carrack put to sea bound for Copenhagen, a galleon bound for Hamburg, and some smaller ship--I misremember of what sort--bound for Calais. An he had the silver for to buy his pa.s.sage, he'd be aboard one or another of 'em."

"I fear me you have reason, Sheriff," Lope said. No, he wasn't altogether sorry, however much he tried to keep that to himself.

"It sorrows me he hath escaped you. A b.u.g.g.e.r's naught but gallows-fruit," Norris said. "And you have come from London on a bootless errand, which sorrows me as well."

He sounded as if he meant it. Lope wondered if he would have seemed so friendly had the chase been for a traitor rather than a sodomite. The Spaniard had his doubts, but didn't have to test them . . . this time. He said, "For your kindness, sir, may I stand you to a stoup of wine?"

Norris touched the brim of his hat. "Gramercy, Don Lope. Eleanor Bull's ordinary, close by in Deptford Strand, hath a fine Candia malmsey."

The ordinary proved a pleasant place in other ways as well. It had a garden behind it that would prove more enjoyable when the plants came into full leaf. The proprietress showed Sheriff Norris, Lope, and his soldiers into a room with a bed, a long table, and a bench next to the table. De Vega and the Englishmen sat side by side. The Spanish soldiers sprawled here, there, and everywhere.

As Norris had said, Eleanor Bull's malmsey was excellent. Sipping the sweet, strong wine, Lope asked, "Can you find for me the names of the ships wherein Marlowe might have fled?"

"Certes. I'll send 'em in a letter," Peter Norris said. Lope nodded. Maybe the sheriff would, maybe he wouldn't. Either way, de Vega had enough for a report that would satisfy his own superiors. Norris hesitated, then asked, "This Marlowe . . . Seek you the poet of that name?"

" 'Tis the very man, I fear me," Lope replied."Pity," Norris said. "By my halidom, sir, his art surpa.s.seth even Will Shakespeare's."

"Think you so?" Lope said. "I believe you are mistook, and right gladly will I tell you why." He and Sheriff Norris spent the next couple of hours arguing about the theatre. He hadn't expected to be able to mix business and pleasure so, and was sorry when at last he did have to go back to London.

SHAKESPEARE HAD NEVER imagined that one day he might actually want to find Nicholas Skeres, but he did. Skeres had a way of appearing out of thin air, most often when he was least welcome, and throwing Shakespeare's days, if not his life, into confusion. Now Shakespeare found himself looking for the smooth-talking go-between whenever he went outside, looking for him and not seeing him.

Skeres found him one day when spring at last began to look as if it were more than a date in the almanac, a day when the sun shone warm and the air began to smell green, a day when redb.r.e.a.s.t.s and linnets and chaffinches sang. He fell into stride beside Shakespeare as the poet made his way up towards Bishopsgate. "Give you good morrow, Master Will," he said.

"And you, Master Nick," Shakespeare told him. "I had hoped we might meet."

"Time is ripe." Skeres didn't explain how he knew it was, or why he thought so. Shakespeare almost asked him, but in the end held back. Skeres' answer would either be evasive or an outright lie. Smiling, the devious little man went on, "All's well with you, sir?"

"Well enough, and my thanks for asking." Shakespeare looked about. If Skeres could appear from nowhere, a Spanish spy might do the same. That being so, the poet named no names: "How fares your princ.i.p.al?"

"Not so well. He fails, and knows himself to fail." The corners of Nick Skeres' mouth turned down.

"Despite his brave spirit, 'tis hard, sore hard--and as hard for his son, who shall inherit the family business when G.o.d's will be done." He too was careful of the words he spoke where anyone might hear.

"Sore hard indeed," Shakespeare said. He had seen for himself in the house close by the Spanish barracks that the shadow of death lay over Sir William Cecil. That formidable intellect, that indomitable will--now trapped in a body ever less able to meet the demands they made on it? Shakespeare shivered as if a black cat had darted across the street in front of him. When my time comes, Lord, by Thy mercy let it come quickly. Till meeting Lord Burghley, he'd never thought to make such a prayer. But dying by inches, knowing each inch lost was lost forever . . . He shook his head. He feared death less than dying.

And well you might, bethinking yourself of the death the Spaniards or the Inquisition would give you. All at once, he wanted to do as Marlowe had done, to take ship and flee out of England. I would be safe in foreign parts, with no dons nor inquisitors to dog me. Speaking with Nick Skeres brought home the danger he faced.

That danger would only get worse after William Cecil died, too. Crookbacked Robert was naturally a creature of the shadows, and had thrived for years in the enormous shadow his great father cast. Once that shadow vanished, could Robert Cecil carry on in full light of day? He would have to try, but it wouldn't be easy for him.

"What seek you of me?" Skeres asked.

"Know your masters that my commission for them is complete?" Shakespeare asked in return.

Nicholas Skeres nodded. "Yes. They know. 'Twas on that account they sent me to you. I ask again:what need you of them, or of me?"

"The names of certain men," Shakespeare said, and explained why.

"Ah." Skeres gave him another nod. "You may rely on them, and on me." He hurried away, and soon vanished into the crowd. Shakespeare went on towards Bishopsgate. He knew he could rely on the Cecils; they would do all they could for him. Relying on Nick Skeres? Shakespeare shook his head at the absurdity of the notion and kept on walking.

At the Theatre that day, Lord Westmorland's Men offered The Cobbler's Holiday, a comedy by Thomas Dekker. It was a pleasant enough piece of work, even if the plot showed a few holes. Most of the time, Shakespeare--a good cobbler of dramas himself--would have patched those holes, or found ways for Dekker to do it himself, before the play reached the stage. He hadn't had the chance here, not when he was busy with two of his own.

It might have gone off well enough even so. Such plays often did. Good jests (even more to the point, frequent jests) and spritely staging hid flaws that would have been obvious on reading the script.

Not this time. Among the groundlings were a dozen or more Oxford undergraduates, come to London on some business of their own and taking in a play before or after it. The university trained them to pick things to pieces. They jeered every flaw they found and, as undergraduates were wont to do, went from jeering flaws to jeering players. Even by the rough standards groundlings set, they were loud and obnoxious.

Richard Burbage, who played the cobbler, went on with his role as if the Oxonians did not exist. Will Kemp, ideally cast in the role of the t.i.tle character's blundering, befuddled friend, had a thinner skin.

Shakespeare tried to calm him when he retreated to the tiring room during a scene in which he didn't appear: "This too shall pa.s.s away."

"May the lot of them pa.s.s away," the clown growled, "and be buried unshriven."

"Tomorrow they'll be gone," Shakespeare said. "Never do they linger."

"Nay--only the stink of 'em," Kemp said. But Shakespeare thought he'd soothed the other man's temper before Kemp had to go out again.

And then one of the university wits noticed an inconsistency Dekker had left in the plot and shouted to Kemp: "No, fool, you said just now she'd gone to Canterbury! What a knavish fool thou art, and the blockhead cobbler, too!" His voice was loud and shrill. The whole Theatre must have heard him. Giggles and murmurs and gasps rose from every side.

Burbage started into his next speech. Will Kemp raised a hand. Burbage stopped, startled; the gesture wasn't one they'd rehea.r.s.ed. Kemp glared out at the undergraduates. "Is it not better," he demanded, "to make a fool of the world as I have done, than to be fooled of the world as you scholars are?"

Their jeers brought the play to a standstill, as he must have known they would. "Wretched puling fool!"

they shouted. "Thou rag! Thou dishclout! Spartan dog! Superst.i.tious, idle-headed boor!"

Kemp beamed out at them, a smile on his round face. "Say on, say on!" he urged them. "Ay, say on, you starveling popinjays, you abject anatomies. Be merry my lads, for coming here you have happened upon the most excellent vocation in the world for money: they come north and south to bring it to our playhouse. And for honors, who is of more report than d.i.c.k Burbage and Will Kemp?"

He bowed low. A moment later, Burbage swept off his hat and did the same. The groundlings whoopedand cheered them. A couple of the university wits kept trying to mock Kemp and the other players, but most fell silent. They lived a hungry life at Oxford. Had it been otherwise, they would have paid more than a penny each to see The Cobbler's Holiday.

Will Kemp bowed again. "Have we your leave, gentles, to proceed?"

"Ay!" the groundlings roared. The same shout came from the galleries.

"Gramercy," he said, and turned back to Burbage. "I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways. Therefore tremble and depart." As effortlessly as he'd stepped out of character, he returned to it.

"G.o.d keep thee out of my sight," Burbage retorted, and the play went on. The Oxford undergraduates troubled it no more. Kemp had outfaced them. Shakespeare hadn't been sure anyone could, but the clown had brought it off.

Afterwards, in the tiring room, everyone made much of Kemp. He was unwontedly modest. As he cleaned greasepaint from his cheeks, he said, "Easy to be bold, bawling out from a crowd like a calf--a moon-calf--seeking his dam's teat. But they went mild as the milk they cried for on seeing me bold in my own person, solus, from the stage."

"Three cheers!" someone called, and they rang from the roof and walls. Will Kemp sprang to his feet and bowed, as he had after subduing the university wits. That set off fresh applause from the crowd around him.

The noise made Shakespeare's head ache. He soaped his face and splashed water on it from a basin.

The sooner he could leave the Theatre today, the happier he would be. He wanted to work on King Philip. The sooner that piece was done, the sooner he could start thinking of his own ideas once more.

They might bring less lucre than those proposed by English n.o.ble or Spanish don, but they were his.

His face was buried in a towel when someone spoke in a low voice: "A word with you, Master Shakespeare, an I may?"

He lowered the linen towel. There stood the company's new book-keeper and prompter, the late Geoffrey Martin's replacement. Having compa.s.sed the one man's death, Shakespeare dared not ignore the other. "What would you, Master Vincent?" he asked.

"I'd speak with you of your latest, Master Shakespeare, whilst other business distracts the company."

Thomas Vincent nodded towards the crowd of people still hanging on Will Kemp's every word, still sn.i.g.g.e.ring at his every smirk. He had the sense not to name Boudicca; as usual after a performance, not all the folk in the tiring room belonged to Lord Westmorland's Men.

And, for aught I know, we have our own spying serpent amongst us, as Satan did even in Eden, Shakespeare thought. "I attend," he told Vincent.

"A scribe shall make your foul papers into parts the players shall use to learn their lines," the prompter said.

"Certes." Shakespeare nodded. "My character, I know, can be less than easy to make out."

Thomas Vincent nodded, too, relief on his face. "I would not offend, sir, not for the world, but . . . You knowing of the trouble, I may speak freely."

"By all means," Shakespeare said. Vincent was more polite about it than poor Geoff Martin had been.

Had Shakespeare believed all the late prompter's slanders, he would never have presumed to take pen inhand.

Even if Vincent was polite, he pressed ahead: "And, were your hand never so excellent, your latest still causeth . . . ah, difficulties in choosing a scribe."

Every time a new pair of eyes saw Boudicca, the risk of betrayal grew. Vincent did his best to say that without actually saying it. Shakespeare didn't need it spelled out. He knew it all too well, as he had since Thomas Phelippes first drew him into the plot. If a scribe writing out fair copies for the players took them to the Spaniards . . . If that happened, everyone in Lord Westmorland's Men would die the death.

But the poet said, "Fear not." Hearing those words coming from his mouth almost made him laugh out loud. Only when he was sure he wouldn't did he go on, "Haply I may name you a name anon."

"May it be so," Vincent said, and Shakespeare had to remember not to cross himself to echo that sentiment.

IX.

IT WAS THE middle of a fine, bright morning. When Lope de Vega walked into his rooms in the Spanish barracks, he found his servant curled into a ball under the covers, fast asleep. De Vega sighed.

Diego had been almost unnaturally good and obedient these past few weeks. More surprising than his backsliding was how long it had taken.

Lope shook him, not at all gently. "Wake up! By G.o.d and St. James, you're not the best boy in Spain."

Diego muttered something that had no real words in it. Lope shook him again, even harder this time.

"Wake up!" he repeated.

His servant yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, h.e.l.lo, se?or . I didn't--"

"Expect you," de Vega finished for him, his tone sour. "You're supposed to do your job whether I'm here or not, Diego."

"I know, I know," Diego said sulkily. He yawned again, though he did get out of bed before Lope started screaming at him. "I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. It's only that . . . I get tired."

He meant it. He was the picture of rumpled sincerity. That he could mean it made Lope marvel. "And the less you do, the more tired you get, too," Lope said. "If you did nothing at all, you would sleep all day long and all night long as well--and you would love every moment of it. Are you a man or an oyster?"

"I am a man who likes oysters," Diego replied with dignity. "Now that you've got me up, what is it that's so important for me to do?"

"El mejor mozo de Espa?a ," Lope told him. "You may not be the best boy in Spain, or even England, but you're d.a.m.ned well in The Best Boy in Spain, and it's time to rehea.r.s.e. Come on. Get moving. Do you want Enrique to give you the horse laugh?"

"You think I care about that maric?n?" Diego said. "Not likely. If his a.r.s.ehole isn't wider than the Thames--""Enough of your filth!" Lope exclaimed. "You've said it before, but you've got no proof. None. Not a farthing's worth. Not a flyspeck's worth. So keep your mouth shut and don't make trouble. It'll turn out worse for you than for the people you're trying to hurt, and you can bet on that."

"Oh, yes. Oh, yes." Diego struck a pose more dramatic than any he was likely to take in The Best Boy in Spain. "When an ordinary fellow says anything about a n.o.bleman's servant, he's always wrong. Even when he's right, he's wrong."

"When an ordinary fellow talks about a n.o.bleman's servant, he'd better be right," Lope said. "And you aren't, or you can't prove you are. So you'd better shut up about that."

"All right, se?or . I'll keep quiet." Diego still sounded surly. "But you'll see whether I'm right or not. In the end, you'll see. And when you do, I'm going to say, 'I told you so.' "

"Don't gloat till you have the chance," Lope said. "For that matter, remember your station in life. Whether you're right or you're wrong, you're still a servant. You're still my servant. So don't gloat too much even if you turn out to be right."

That sat none too well with Diego. Lope could see as much. But the servant put on a pair of shoes and accompanied him to the courtyard where his makeshift company was rehearsing El mejor mozo de Espa?a . Even in Spain, it would have made a spartan rehearsal ground. Here in England, where de Vega could compare it to the luxury of the Theatre and the other halls where plays were presented, it seemed more austere yet.

Austere? Lope laughed at himself. What you really mean is cheap, makeshift, shabby. He wondered what Shakespeare would think, seeing what he had to work with. Shakespeare was a gentle, courteous man. He would, without a doubt, give what praise he could. He would also, and equally without a doubt, be appalled.

As Lope had expected, Enrique was already there. He sat on the ground, his back against a brick wall, as he solemnly studied his parts. He was to play several small roles: a Moor, a page, and one of Ferdinand's friends. When he saw Lope, he sprang to his feet and bowed. "Buenos d?-as, se?or ."

Polite as a cat, he also bowed to Diego, though not so deeply. "Buenos d?-as."

"A good day to you as well," Lope replied, and bowed back as superior to inferior. Diego, still grouchy, only nodded. Lope trod on his foot. Thus cued, he did bow. Lope didn't want Captain Guzm?n's servant offended by anyone connected to him.

Enrique didn't seem offended. He seemed enthusiastic. He waved sheets of paper in the air. "This is an excellent play, se?or , truly excellent. No one in Madrid will see anything better this year. I'm sure of that."

"You are too kind," Lope murmured. He was no more immune to flattery than anyone else--he was less immune to flattery than a lot of people. When he bowed again to show his pleasure, it was almost as equal to equal. Diego looked disgusted. De Vega debated stepping on his foot again.

Before he could, Enrique asked, "Tell me, se?or , is it really true what the soldier over there says? A real woman, a real Spanish woman, is going to play Isabella? That will be wonderful--wonderful, I tell you. The wife of an officer who could afford to bring her here, he told me."

De Vega shot Diego a look that said, Would he be so happy about a woman if he didn't care for them? His servant's sneer replied, All he cares about is the play. If she makes it better, that's what matters to him. With a scowl, Lope turned back to Enrique. "A woman, yes. A Spaniard, ofcourse--could an Englishwoman play our great Queen? The wife of an officer? No. Don Alejandro brought his mistress--her name's Catalina Iba?ez--to London, not his wife. And a good thing, too, for the play. A n.o.bleman's wife could never appear on stage. That would be scandalous. But his mistress?

No trouble there."

"Ah. I see." Enrique nodded. "I did wonder. But it is Don Alejandro de Recalde's woman, then?

Corporal Fernandez had that right?"

"Yes, he did," Lope said.

Diego guffawed. "If I had a choice between bringing my wife and my mistress to this miserable, freezing place, I'd bring the one who kept me warmer, too."

"Be careful, or you'll be sorry," Enrique whispered through lips that hardly moved. "Here she comes."

Don Alejandro's mistress knew how to make an entrance. She swept into the courtyard with a couple of serving women in her wake. They were both pretty, but seemed plain beside her. She was tiny but perfect. No, not quite perfect: she had a tiny mole by the corner of her mouth.

Be careful, or you'll be sorry. De Vega knew Enrique hadn't been talking to him, and hadn't meant that kind of care when he was talking to Diego. But the servant's words might have been meant for Lope. He couldn't take his eyes off Catalina Iba?ez . . . and where his eyes went, he wanted his hands and his lips to follow.

He swept off his hat and bowed as low to her as if she really were Isabella of Castile, the first Queen of a united Spain. "Buenos d?-as, Do?a Catalina," he said. A n.o.ble's mistress didn't really deserve to be called do?a ; out of the corner of his eye, he saw status-conscious Enrique raise an eyebrow some tiny fraction of an inch.