"Aii, thou'lt tear out my heart like the savage men of New Spain!" Lope cried. She only waited. He thought about the risks of breaking a bargain with a bruja--thought about them and found them formidable. Though his lips still glowed from the touch of hers, he bowed stiffly. "Farewell," he echoed, and, spinning on his heel, strode out of her room and out of the lodging-house.

Storming away, he almost ran into--almost ran over--another man heading for the Widow Kendall's house: a broad-shouldered fellow with a smooth face and with hair cut short. Lope took a step past the man, then froze, remembering what Walter Strawberry had told him. "Marlowe!" he said, and his sword seemed to leap from its sheath into his hand.

Christopher Marlowe whirled. He too wore a rapier. It flashed free. "The fig of Spain!" he shouted. His obscene gesture matched the words.

"Put up!" Lope said. "Put up and give over. You're caught. Even an you beat me, you're known to be in London. How can you hope to win free? Yield you now."

"I will not." Marlowe sighed and shook his head. "Base fortune, now I see, that in thy wheel there is a point, to which when men aspire they tumble headlong down." He seemed to speak more to himself than to de Vega. "That point I touched, and seeing there was no point to mount up higher, why should I grieve at my declining fall?" With no more warning than that, he thrust at Lope's heart.

Lope beat the blade aside. His hand had more to do with his answering stroke than did his brain, though perhaps he remembered his fight with Don Alejandro de Recalde. His point took Marlowe not in the right eye but above it. The English poet let out a shriek that faded almost at once to a rattling gurgle. He fell down in the street, dead as a stone.

A big, rough-looking blond man wearing a disreputable cap smiled at Lope, showing a couple of missing teeth. "Gramercy, your honor," he said, and touched the brim of that cap. "You just saved me a bit o'

work, that you did." Before the Spaniard could ask him what he meant, he hurried away.

Another man said, "I shall fetch a constable hither." He too hurried off.

"Yes, do, and yarely," Lope called after him. "An you come on a Spanish patrol, fetch them likewise." He looked down at his rapier. The last couple of inches of the blade had blood on them, blood and Christopher Marlowe's brains. He stabbed the sword into the ground to clean it, as he had after slaying Don Alejandro.

Lope was still waiting by Marlowe's body for the constable and for his own countrymen when bells began to chime, first at one church far away, then at another and another and another, till after no more than a minute or two the bronzen clangor filled all the streets of London. "What signifies that?" someone asked. Someone else shrugged. But Lope knew what it meant, what it had to mean, and ice and fire ran through him.His Most Catholic Majesty, King Philip II of Spain, after so long dying, at last was dead. And Lope de Vega, standing there bare blade in hand, burst into tears like a little boy.

A DAPPER LITTLE gamec.o.c.k of an officer rapped out a question in Spanish. Shakespeare looked to Lope de Vega, who translated it into English: "Captain Guzm?n would know why Christopher Marlowe was bound for your lodging when we chanced each upon the other. I own, I too am fain to know the same."

"As am I," Shakespeare said. If his voice trembled, who could blame him? The dons had come for him at dawn, as he was about to leave the Widow Kendall's for the Theatre, and marched him here to their barracks instead. If they misliked the answers he gave them, he was a.s.suredly a dead man--nor was he all that would die. He went on, "Methought Kit was fled abroad."

Had anybody who could recognize Marlowe seen him and Shakespeare together? If someone gave him the lie . . . He refused to dwell on that. If someone gave him the lie there, the Spaniards wouldn't merely question him. They would put him to the question, an altogether different and more painful business.

But all de Vega said was, "Plainly not."

You fool's zany, you stood close by him at Cambyses and knew him not, Shakespeare thought.

Captain Guzm?n flung more Spanish at him. Again, Lope de Vega did the honors: "He asks, how is't Constable Strawberry knew Marlowe was returned to London whilst you remained deep-sunk in ignorance?"

d.a.m.n Constable Strawberry. But Shakespeare knew he had to have a better answer than that. He said, "Belike the constable will have ears 'mongst the masculine wh.o.r.es of's bailiwick. Knowing Kit's pleasures, they'd learn he was in these parts or ever the generality heard it."

De Vega spoke in excited Spanish to his superior. Captain Guzm?n's reply sounded anything but convinced. Lope spoke again, even more pa.s.sionately. Guzm?n answered with a shrug.

To Shakespeare, de Vega said, " 'Twas even so Strawberry got wind of't--thus he told me when I inquired of him."

"Well, then." Shakespeare dared risk indignation. "This being so, wherefore tax you me o'er that which I wist not of?"

After de Vega rendered that into his own language, Baltasar Guzm?n growled something that sounded angry. "Thus saith my captain," Lope replied: "You standing on the edge of so many swamps of treason, how do your feet stay dry?"

"I am no traitor," Shakespeare said, as he had to. "Were I such a caitiff rogue, could I have writ King Philip?"

Once more, Lope translated his words into Spanish. Once more, he did not presume to answer himself, but waited for his superior to respond. Captain Guzm?n spoke a curt sentence in Spanish. "That is what we seek to learn--if the worm of treason still begnaw your soul," was how de Vega put it in English.

" 'Still,' is't?" Shakespeare knew he was fighting for his life, and could concede his foes nothing. "My duty to your captain, Master Lope, and say this most precisely: by this word he a.s.sumes me treacherous, and proves himself no honest judge. He must forthwith retract it, as slanderous to my honor."And how would Captain Guzm?n respond to that? By letting him defend his honor with a sword? If so, he was a dead man. He had no skill at swordplay, whereas a Spanish officer was all too likely to be a deadly man of his hands. Lope de Vega had certainly shown himself to be such a man, at any rate.

But Guzm?n nodded and then bowed low. He spoke in Spanish. "You have reason, quotha," Lope said. "Naught against you is proved, nor should he have spake as if it were. He cries your pardon therefor." Shakespeare bowed in return; he hadn't expected even so much. The Spaniard spoke again, this time harshly. "Naught against you is proved, saith he, but much suspected. We will have answers from you."

"I have given all I can," Shakespeare said, "and so shall I do. Ask what you would."

They pounded him with questions about Marlowe, about Nick Skeres, about Ingram Frizer, and about the late Sir William Cecil. They had most of the pieces to the puzzle, but did not know how--or even if--they fit together. Shakespeare told them as little as he could. He admitted having heard Marlowe and Nicholas Skeres knew each other. That wouldn't hurt Marlowe now, and Skeres remained safely out of the dons' hands.

When Shakespeare said he was thirsty, they gave him strong sack to drink. He wished he'd kept his mouth shut; the wine was liable to make him trip over his own tongue and fall to his doom. But he could not refuse it, not after he'd complained. He sipped carefully, never taking too much.

After some endless while, someone knocked on the door to Captain Guzm?n's office. Guzm?n snarled a Spanish curse. He pointed to the door. Lope de Vega opened it. In came a skinny, pockmarked Englishman wearing spectacles: Thomas Phelippes.

Shakespeare didn't know whether to rejoice or to despair. The Spaniards had not said a word about Phelippes, for good or ill. Did that mean the dusty little man had succeeded in covering his tracks? Or did it mean Phelippes was their man, a spy at the very heart of the plot?

Whatever he was, he spoke in Spanish far too quick and fluent to give Shakespeare any hope of following it. Before long, Baltasar Guzm?n answered him sharply. Phelippes overrode the officer.

Shakespeare caught the name of Don Diego Flores de Vald?s, the Spanish commandant in England.

He caught the name, yes, but nothing that went with it. Captain Guzm?n spoke again. Once again, Thomas Phelippes talked him down. Guzm?n looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon.

At last, Lope de Vega returned to English: "Don Diego being satisfied you are a true and trusty man, Master Shakespeare, you are at liberty to get hence, and to return to your enterprises theatrical. After King Philip be put before the general . . . then we may delve further into such questions as remain."

"Gramercy." Shakespeare could honestly show relief here. "And gramercy to you as well, Master Phelippes."

"Thank me not." Phelippes' voice came blizzard-cold. " 'Tis my princ.i.p.al's mercy upon you, not mine own. Don Diego hath a good and easy spirit. Mine is less yielding, and I do wonder at his wisdom, obey though I must. Get hence, as saith Master Lope, and thank G.o.d you have leave to go."

"By my halidom and hope of salvation, sir, I do thank Him." Shakespeare crossed himself. "For G.o.d shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet." He crossed himself.

Phelippes and de Vega also made the sign of the cross. So did Captain Guzm?n, when Phelippes translated Shakespeare's words. Then Guzm?n made a brusque gesture: get out. The poet had never been so glad as to obey.Outside the barracks, the day was dark and cloudy, with occasional cold, nasty spatters of drizzle. To Shakespeare, it seemed as glorious as the brightest, warmest, sunniest June. He'd never expected to see freedom again. A Spanish soldier--a fierce little man who wore his scars like badges of honor--coming into the building growled something at him, probably, Get out of the way. Shakespeare sprang to one side. The soldier tramped past him without a backwards glance.

Shakespeare hurried off towards the Theatre. "What is't o' clock?" he called to somebody coming the other way.

"Why, just struck one," the man answered.

Nodding his thanks, Shakespeare trotted on. The audience was filing into the wooden building in Sh.o.r.editch when he got there. One of the men at the cash box tried to take a penny from him. "Nay, 'tis Master Shakespeare," another man said. "Where were you, Master Shakespeare? You are much missed."

"Where? In durance vile," Shakespeare replied. "But I am free, and ready--more than ready--to give my lines with a good heart."

A cheer rose from the players when he rushed into the tiring room. Richard Burbage bowed as low as if he were a duke. Will Kemp sidled up to him and said, "We feared you'd ta'en sick o' the tisick that claimed Geoff Martin and Matt Quinn."

"Tisick?" the poet exclaimed. "You style it so?"

"Certes," Kemp said innocently. "A surfeit of iron in the gullet, was't not?"

"Away, away." That was Jack Hungerford. Even Kemp took the tireman seriously. He slouched off.

Hungerford said, "Out of your clothes, Master Will, and into costume, for the apparel oft proclaims the man."

"Have I time for the change?" Shakespeare asked, for he would appear in the second scene of Thomas Dekker's comedy.

"You have, sir, an you use it 'stead of talking back," Hungerford said severely. Without another word, Shakespeare donned the silk and scarlet the tireman gave him.

Not the smallest miracle of the day, at least to him, was that he did remember his lines. He even got laughs for some of them. When he came back on stage to take his bows after the play was done, he felt as dizzy as if he'd spent too long dancing round a maypole: too much had happened too fast that day.

Afterwards, as he exchanged the gorgeous costume for his ordinary clothes, Burbage came up to him and said, "We did fear you'd found misfortune--or misfortune had found you. Why so late?"

"De Vega yesterday slew Marlowe outside my lodging-house," Shakespeare answered wearily. "A man need not see far into a millstone to wonder why Kit was come thither. The dons this morning gave me an escort of soldiery to their barracks, that they might enquire into what matters he carried in's mind."

"Marry!" Burbage muttered. His proud, fleshy face went pale. "And you said?"

"Why, that I knew not, the which is only truth." Whose ears besides Richard Burbage's were listening?

Shakespeare let them hear nothing different from what he'd told de Vega and Guzm?n. He added, "By my troth, I knew not that poor Marlowe was returned to London.""Nor I," Burbage agreed. He too played for other ears--Shakespeare had told him Marlowe was back.

Liars both, they smiled at each other.

When Shakespeare got back to his lodging-house after the performance, the Widow Kendall gave him an even warmer welcome than his fellow players had. "Oh, Master Will, I thought you sped!" she cried.

"An the dons seize a man, but seldom returneth he."

"I am here. I am hale." Shakespeare bowed, as if to prove he'd undergone no crippling torture. " 'Twas but a misfortunate misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding, forsooth!" Jane Kendall exclaimed. "A misunderstanding like to prove your death."

She poked him with a pudgy forefinger. "And all centering on the accursed sodomite, that Marlowe, the which Mistress Sellis' Spaniard did slay in the street like a cur-dog this day just past."

Before Shakespeare could answer, the door to Cicely Sellis' room opened. Out came the cunning woman, with a plump, worried-looking Englishman. Mommet wove around her ankles. "Fear not, sir, and trust G.o.d," she told her client. "He will provide."

"May it be so, my lady," he said, as if she were a n.o.blewoman. Bobbing a nod to Shakespeare and the Widow Kendall, he hurried out into the gathering gloom.

After he'd closed the door behind him, Cicely Sellis said, "Lieutenant de Vega is not my Spaniard, Mistress Kendall. And, though he'd fain make me his Englishwoman, I am not that, neither."

Jane Kendall signed herself. "By my halidom, Mistress Sellis, I--I meant no harm," she stammered. "

'Twas but a--a manner of speaking." She brightened. "Yes, that's it--a manner of speaking."

"Ay, belike." The cunning woman's words said she accepted that. Her tone said something else altogether. But then, as her cat went over to Shakespeare and rubbed against his leg, she gave him a smile full of what he thought to be unfeigned gladness. "Like Mistress Kendall, right pleased am I to see you here, to see you well, once more."

"I do own I am right pleased once more to come hither," Shakespeare answered. He wondered how Cicely Sellis could have known what he and their landlady were talking about. She had, after all, been behind a closed door. Were her ears as keen as that? Shakespeare supposed it was--just--possible. He stooped to scratch the corner of Mommet's jaw. The cat pushed its head into his hand and purred louder.

"Have a care," Cicely Sellis said. "The game is not played out." She sounded almost oracular, as she had that one time in the parlor when she didn't recall what she'd said after saying it.

"I am but a player and somewhat of a poet," Shakespeare said. "I'd not play at subtle games." He wondered if she'd remark on the difference between would and will. Instead, and to his relief, she only nodded.

He ducked into his bedchamber, got his writing tools and the new play--his own play!--he was working on, and went off to the ordinary for supper. "Will!" Kate cried when he came through the door.

"Dear-beloved Will!" The serving woman threw herself into his arms and kissed him.

"Did I know it roused such affections in thee, I'd have the Spaniards seize me every day," Shakespeare said. That made a couple of men who were already eating chuckle. It made Kate pretend to box his ears.

After he'd supped, after he'd written, after the last of the other customers had left the ordinary, she took him up to her cramped little room. They both made love with something like desperation. "Oh, fond Will,what's to become of thee?" she said. "What's to become of us?"

Wanting to give her some soothing lie, he found he couldn't. "I know not," he said. After a moment, he added, "Ere long, though, I shall. We shall." One way or another, he thought, but did not say that. He caressed her instead.

"I fear for thee," she whispered.

"I fear for me," he answered. "But I needs must go on; this road hath no turning, the which I could not use e'en an it had."

"What mean'st thou?" Kate asked.

"I will not tell thee, lest I harm thee in the telling. Soon enough, thou'lt know." Shakespeare got up and quickly dressed. As he opened the door to go, he added another handful of words: "Come what may, remember me." He closed the door behind him.

When he got back to the lodging-house, he put a couple of chunks of wood on the fire to fight the night chill. The Widow Kendall had gone to bed, and couldn't scold him. From the room where Shakespeare would eventually sleep, Jack Street's snores reverberated. The poet waited till the fresh wood was burning brightly, then sat down in front of the fire and got to work.

He wasn't unduly surprised to hear a door open a few minutes later, or to see Cicely Sellis--and Mommet--come out into the parlor. "Give you good even," he said, nodding to the cunning woman.

"Good den to you," she answered, and sat on a stool while the cat prowled the room. "Do I disturb you?"

"By your being, now and again. By your being here"--Shakespeare gave her a wry smile and shook his head--"nay. I am enough bemoiled in toils and coils to . . ." His voice trailed away. He'd already said as much as he could say--probably too much.

Cicely Sellis gave him a grave nod, as if she knew exactly what he was talking about. Perhaps she did, for she said, "The matter of the dons, and of Master Marlowe cut down like a dog in the street." It did not sound like a question.

Shakespeare eyed her. How much had she heard from Lope de Vega? Whatever she'd heard, what did she think about it? He desperately needed to know, and dared not ask. Instead, he sat silent, waiting to hear what she said next.

Her shrug was small and sad. "You mis...o...b.. me. So many on small acquaintance gladly entrust me with their all, yet you mis...o...b.. me. Alack the heavy day."

"I may do only as I do," Shakespeare answered. "Did I say more--" Now he broke off sharply, shaking his head. That was too much, too.

"Peradventure you are wiser than the many," the cunning woman said. And yet, from her expression, she'd found out most of what she wanted to know. Shakespeare wondered how much his stumbles and sudden silences had told her. She went on, "Think what you will, I mean you no harm, nor England, neither." Before he could find any sort of answer to that, she clucked to Mommet. The cat came like a well-trained dog. With a murmured, "Good night," she went back into her room.

Shakespeare got very little work done after that.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 Vald?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 Idi?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 a.s.surances 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? G.o.d'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 Sh.o.r.editch High Street. Shakespeare walked on towards the Widow Kendall's, and his dread grew with every step he took.