His--guide?--took him through the maze of palaces and other state buildings. He heard Spanish in the lanes and hallways almost as often as English; Westminster was the beating heart of the Spanish occupation of his country. The mere word made him queasy--it was often used of a man's lying with a woman. And, indeed, through his soldiers King Philip had thrown down Queen Elizabeth, thrown down all of England, and. . . .

"Bide here a moment," the Englishman with the deep voice said, and ducked into an office. He soon came back to the doorway and beckoned. "Come you in." Turning to the man behind the large, ornate desk, he spoke in Spanish: "Don Diego, I present to you Se?or Shakespeare, the poet." Shakespeare had little Spanish, but followed him well enough to make sense of that. The Englishman gave his attention back to Shakespeare and returned to his native tongue: "Master Shakespeare, here is Don Diego Flores de Vald?s."

Shakespeare made a leg to the Spaniard. "I am honored beyond my deserts, your Excellency," he said.

In fact, he was more nearly appalled. Diego Flores commanded all of King Philip's soldiers in England.

What knows he?

Instead of translating, as Shakespeare had expected, his guide politely inclined his head to the Spanish grandee and withdrew. Flores proved to speak good if accented English, saying, "Please seat yourself, Se?or Chakespeare." He waved to a stool in front of the desk. Like most Spaniards, he made a hash of the sh sound at the start of Shakespeare's name and p.r.o.nounced it as if it had three syllables.

"Thank you, my lord." Shakespeare perched warily on the stool. He would sooner have fled. Evenknowing flight would doom him made it no less tempting. He took a deep breath and forced some player's counterfeit of calm on himself. "How may I serve you today?"

Don Diego Flores studied him before answering. The Spanish commandant was in his fifties, his beard going gray, his hooked nose sharper in his thin face than it might have seemed when he was young. When he said, "I am told you are the best poet in England," he sounded like a man not in the habit of believing what he was told.

"Again I say, your Excellency, you do me too much honor."

"Who surpa.s.seth you?" Flores asked sharply, the Spanish lisp making his English sound old-fashioned.

When Shakespeare did not reply, the officer laughed. "There. You see? Honor p.r.i.c.ks you on, more than you think. This I understand. This I admire. If it be a sin to covet honor, I myself am the most offending soul alive." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "And so--for this were you summoned hither. Because you are the best."

"What would you of me? Whatever sort of poet I be, I am a poet of English. I know not the Spanish tongue."

"Claro que s?-," Don Diego said, and then, seeing Shakespeare's puzzled expression, "But of course.

You are desired because you write English so well." Shakespeare was sure he looked more puzzled than ever. Flores continued, "Have you not heard that King Philip, G.o.d love him, fails in regard to his health?"

Was that a trap? Ought I to claim ignorance? Shakespeare wondered. After some thought, he rejected the idea: the King of Spain's decline was too widely known to make such knowledge dangerous.

Cautiously, the poet said, "Ay, your Excellency, I have heard somewhat of't."

"Muy bien. Very good." The Spaniard again translated for himself, though this time Shakespeare followed him perfectly well. Crossing himself, Flores went on, "Soon the good Lord will summon to his bosom the great King."

"May King Philip live and reign for many years." Shakespeare saw no way to say anything else, not to Philip's commandant in England.

"May it be so, s?-, but Philip is a mortal man, being in that like any other." Flores sounded impatient; perhaps he knew more of the state of Philip's health than was common gossip in London. "To make for him a memorial, a monument: it is for this I summoned you hither."

"My lord?" Shakespeare still felt at sea. "As I told you, I am a poet, a player, not a stonecutter."

The Spanish grandee snorted. One unruly eyebrow rose for a moment. He forced it down, but still looked exasperated; plainly, Shakespeare struck him as something of a dullard. That suited Shakespeare well enough; he wished he struck Flores as a mumbling, drooling simpleton. The officer gathered himself.

"May the memorial, the monument, you make prove immortal as cut stone. I would have from you, se?or , a drama on the subject of his Most Catholic Majesty's magnificence, to be presented by your company of actors when word of the King's mortality comes to this northern land: a show of his greatness for to awe the English people, to make known to them they were conquered by the greatest and most Christian prince who ever drew breath, and to awe them thereby. Can you do this thing? I promise you, you shall be furnished with a great plenty of histories and chronicles wherefrom to draw your scenes and characters. What say you?"

Do I laugh in his face, he'll hold me lunatic--and stray not far from truth. How can I do't? Another thought immediately followed that one: how can I say him nay? Shakespeare did his best: "May't pleaseyour Excellency, I find myself much engaged in press of business, and--"

Don Diego Flores de Vald?s waved that aside with a dry chuckle. "For his Most Catholic Majesty, himself the best, none save the best will serve. We bind not the mouths of the kine who tread the grain.

Your fee is an hundred pound. I pay it now, and desire you to set to work at once, none of us knowing what G.o.d's plan for King Philip may be." He took from a drawer a fat leather sack and tossed it to Shakespeare. Chuckling again, he added, "And what say you now of this business of yours?"

Dizzily, Shakespeare caught the sack. Gold clinked sweetly. Nothing else could be so heavy in so small a s.p.a.ce, for Flores would scarcely try to trick him with lead. An I live, I am rich. But how can I live, with Burghley and the Spaniard both desiring plays of me? He had no answer to that. "I am your servant," he murmured once more.

"S?-, es verdad." Don Diego didn't bother translating that. He pointed to the door. "You may go. I look for the play in good time."

Shakespeare rose. He left--almost staggered from--the commandant's chamber. The big Englishman with the deep voice waited outside to take charge of him. As they walked down the hall, Shakespeare saw Thomas Phelippes writing in a nearby room. Did Phelippes have anything to do with this? If so, did that make it better or worse? Again, Shakespeare had no answer.

IV.

"SHAKESPEARE WILL WRITE a play on the life of his most Catholic Majesty?" Lope de Vega dug a finger in his ear, as if to make sure he'd heard correctly. "Shakespeare?"

Captain Baltasar Guzm?n nodded. "Yes, that is correct. You seem surprised, Senior Lieutenant."

"No, your Excellency. I seem astonished. With the Archbishop of Canterbury and, it appears to me, everyone else in the world suspecting him of treason, why give him such a plum? He is, without a doubt, a fine writer--"

"And you are, without a doubt, naive." Guzm?n smiled. Lope made himself smile back, in lieu of picking up his stool and braining his arrogant little superior with it. That supercilious smile still on his face, Captain Guzm?n continued, "If Shakespeare is well paid, he may be less inclined to treason. This has been known to happen before. If he writes a play praising King Philip, he may be too busy to get into mischief." He ticked off points on his fingers as he made them.

"But what sort of play will he write?" Lope asked. "If he is a traitor--I don't believe it, mind you, but if he is--won't he slander the King instead of praising him?"

"Not with the Master of the Revels looking over his shoulder every moment," Guzm?n replied. "If the Master finds even a speck of slander in the play, it will not go on the stage--and Se?or Shakespeare will answer a great many pointed questions from the English Inquisition, from Queen Isabella and King Albert's intelligencers, and from Don Diego Flores de Vald?s. Shakespeare may be a poet, but I do not think him a fool. He will know this, and give us what we require."

Lope didn't care for the way Captain Guzm?n eyed him. You are a poet, and I do think you a fool,the n.o.bleman might have said. But what he had said made more than a little sense. "It could be," de Vega admitted reluctantly.

"Generous of you to agree. I am sure Don Diego will be relieved," Guzm?n said. Lope stiffened. He was more used to giving out sarcasm than to taking it. Guzm?n pointed at him. "And one more thing will help keep us safe against any danger from Se?or Shakespeare."

"What's that, your Excellency?"

"You, Senior Lieutenant."

"Your Excellency?"

"You," Baltasar Guzm?n repeated. "Shakespeare is writing about King Philip of Spain. You are a Spaniard. You are also mad for the English theatre. What could be more natural than that you tell the Englishman what he needs to know of his Most Catholic Majesty, and that you stay with his troupe to make sure all goes well? He will be grateful for it, don't you think?"

"What I think," Lope said, "is that you may be committing a sin under the eyes of G.o.d by making me enjoy myself so much."

Captain Guzm?n laughed. "I will mention it to the priest the next time I confess. I think my penance will be light."

"I hope you're right. . . . You order me to go to the Theatre, sir?" de Vega asked. His superior nodded.

Lope wondered how much liberty he'd just received. "This will be the whole of my duty till the play goes before an audience?"

Guzm?n nodded again. The pleasure that shot through Lope was so intense, he thought he would have to add it to his next confession. But then the n.o.bleman said, "This is for the time being. It may change later. And if any emergency or uprising should occur--"

"G.o.d forbid it!"

"G.o.d forbid it, indeed. But if it should, you will help meet it as I think best."

"Of course, your Excellency. This goes without saying. I am, first of all, a servant of his Most Catholic Majesty, as is every Spanish man in this dark, miserable land."

"Muy bien. I did want to make sure we had everything clear." Something flickered in Baltasar Guzm?n's eyes. Amus.e.m.e.nt? Malice? Perhaps a bit of both: "And with you, Senior Lieutenant, I was not sure anything went without saying. Buenos d?-as."

"Buenos d?-as," Lope echoed. He rose, bowed himself almost double, and left the captain's chamber without showing he'd felt, or even noticed, the gibe. It was either that or draw his rapier and have at Guzm?n. He didn't want to fight. For one thing, the man was his superior, and ent.i.tled to such jests. For another, although de Vega did not despise his own skill with a sword, Captain Guzm?n was something of a prodigy with a blade in his hand. Set against the requirements of honor, that shouldn't have mattered.

The world being as it was, it did.

When Lope got back to his own chamber, he found Diego snoring away. He'd expected nothing less. He didn't bother shaking his servant. He booted him instead, taking out some of the anger he couldn't spend on Captain Guzm?n.Shaking Diego was often a waste of time anyway. Kicking him worked better. "Madre de Dios!" he exclaimed, and sat bolt upright. He blinked at Lope, his eyes tracked with red veins.

"Get up, you dormouse, before I seethe you in honey," de Vega snarled. "You can't sleep away the whole day."

Diego groaned. "Not more playacting," he said. In face, under Lope's merciless direction, he had performed well as Tur?-n, the servant in La dama boba. And why not? He was a servant. All he had to do was play himself, remember his lines--and stay awake.

But Lope shook his head. "No, not more playacting for you." Ignoring Diego's sigh of relief, de Vega went on, "But I may be doing more of it--and in English, no less."

"Why has this got anything to do with me?" Diego asked around a yawn.

"I can read your mind, you rascal." Lope glared at him. "You're thinking, My master will be off acting. I can lie here and sleep till the day of Resurrection. You had better think again, wretch, or you'll sleep the sleep of a dead man. I'm going to need you more than ever."

"For what?"

"Perhaps for more acting," Lope said, and his lackey groaned again. He took no notice of that. "Perhaps to carry messages for me. And perhaps for who knows what? You are my servant, Diego. You can work for me and do as I say, or you can find out how you like things on the Scottish border."

"Madre de Dios," Diego said once more, sadly this time. "Being a servant is a hard life. Who would say otherwise? I have to obey another man's orders, my time is not my own--"

"Oh, what a pity," de Vega broke in. "You cannot sleep every blessed hour of every blessed day. Every so often, you have to stand up and earn your bread instead of having it handed to you already dipped in olive oil."

"And where have you seen olive oil in England, se?or , save in what we bring here from Spain for ourselves?" Diego said. "The English, they hate it. If that doesn't prove they're savages, what does it prove?"

"It proves you're trying to change the subject," Lope answered. "That won't work, though. That won't work, and you, by G.o.d, will."

"Life is hard for a servant with a cruel master." Diego sighed. "Life is hard for any servant, but especially for one so unlucky."

"If I were a cruel master, you would already be up on the Scottish border, or sent to Ireland, or else tied to the whipping post on account of your laziness," Lope said. "Maybe that would wake you up. Nothing else seems to."

"I do what I have to do, se?or ," Diego said with dignity.

"You do half of what you have to do, and none of what a good servant ought to do," de Vega retorted.

"Maybe you should fall in love. You'd stay awake for your lady, and you just might stay awake for me, too."

"Fall in love with an Englishwoman? Not me, se?or ." Diego shook his head so vigorously, his jowls wobbled back and forth. He didn't seem to have slept through any meals. With a sly smile, he added,"Look what Englishwomen have given you--nothing but trouble. And I don't need a woman to give me trouble, not when I've got a master."

For a moment, Lope sympathized with his servant. His own superior, Captain Guzm?n, had given him a good deal of trouble, too. But Guzm?n had also just given him the freedom of the English theatre. That made up for all the trouble he'd ever had from the c.o.c.ky little n.o.bleman, and then some. And, no matter what fat, lumpish Diego said, women had their uses, too.

RICHARD BURBAGE STARED at Shakespeare. "Tell it me again," the big, burly player said. "The dons are fain to have you make a play on the life of Philip?"

"Even so," Shakespeare said unhappily. The two stood alone on the outthrust stage of the Theatre. No apple-munching, beer-swilling, wench-pinching groundlings gaped at them from the open area around it; no richer folk peered from the galleries. It was still morning--rehearsal time. The afternoon's play would be Prince of Denmark. Burbage would play the Prince, Shakespeare his father's ghost. He'd just emerged through the trap door from the damp, chilly darkness under the stage. He'd written the lines they were practicing, but Burbage remembered them more readily than he did. On the stage, nothing fazed Burbage.

He threw back his head and laughed now, both hands on his comfortable belly. A couple of the tireman's a.s.sistants and an early-arriving vendor turned their heads his way, hoping they might share the jest. He waved to them, as if to say it was none of their affair. Had Shakespeare done that, they would have ignored him. Burbage they took seriously, and went back to whatever they'd been doing. Shakespeare sighed. Not by accident was Burbage a leading man.

Mirth still shining in his eyes, Burbage spoke for Shakespeare's ear alone: "Well, my duck, one thing it shows beyond doubt's shadow."

"What's that?" the poet asked.

"They suspect not your other commission."

"But how am I to do both?" Shakespeare demanded in an impa.s.sioned whisper. "Marry, how? 'Tis the most unkindest cut of all, d.i.c.k. Two plays at once? That will drive me mad, and madder till I see which be fated to journey from pen and paper to--this." His wave encompa.s.sed the painted glory of the Theatre.

"A pretty gesture," Burbage remarked. "Do you use it when appearing, thus." He crouched as if coming up through the trap door, then stood with a broader, more extravagant version of Shakespeare's wave. "

'Twill help to draw the auditory into the business of the play."

"I'll do't," Shakespeare said, but he refused to let the other man distract him. "I've not yet sounded the whole of the company on the other. After this, how can I? They'll take me for the Spaniards' dog, and think I purpose luring 'em to treason."

"Another, haply, but not you, Will." Burbage set a hand on his shoulder. "You're an honest man, none honester, which everybody knows."

"And for which I do thank you." Shakespeare's laugh rang wild enough to make curious eyes swing his way again. He wished he'd been able to hold it in, but felt as if he would burst if he tried. "But honest!

Were I honest to all here embroiled, I'd die the death i'the next instant.""By no means." Burbage shook his head and looked somber. "In sooth, you'd die the death, but as slow as those who had you could in their ingeniousness make it."

"The devil d.a.m.n thee black, thou moon-calf scroyle!" Shakespeare said, which only made Richard Burbage laugh. Still furious, Shakespeare went on, "Will Kemp'd use me so. From you, I hoped for better."

"Write your play on Philip," the actor told him. "Write it as well as ever you may, for who knows what G.o.d list? An we give't, we give't. An we put forth in its place some different spectacle--why, that too's G.o.d's will, and there's an end to it."

He would play the one as gladly as the other, reckoning the company would profit from either, Shakespeare realized. That made him no happier than he had been. If Burbage didn't care whether he strode the boards as Philip of Spain or in toga and crested helm as Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, did he truly care who ruled England? Did he truly care about anything but his own role and how the playgoers would see him? That was a question with any actor: with one who enjoyed--no, reveled in--such general acclaim as Richard Burbage, a question all the more pointed.

News of the play on King Philip's life raced through the company like wildfire. Who will stop the vent of hearing when loud rumor speaks? Shakespeare thought with sour amus.e.m.e.nt. He, from the orient to the drooping west, doth unfold the acts commenced on this ball of earth, stuffing the ears with false reports. He wished this report were false.

Will Kemp sidled up to him, still carrying the skull he'd use while playing the gravedigger come the afternoon performance. "You'll give me some words wherewith to make 'em laugh, is't not so?" he said, working the jawbone wired to the skull so that it seemed to do the talking.

"Be still, old bones," Shakespeare said.

Kemp tossed the skull in the air and caught it upside down. That only made its empty-eyed leer more appalling. "Philip's such a pompous, praying, prating pig, any play which hath him in't will need somewhat of leavening, lest it prove too heavy for digestion." The clown's voice became a high, wheedling whine.

"Here is the first I've heard you care a fig for the words I do give you," Shakespeare said tartly. "It were better that those who play own clowns speak no more than is set down for them."

Kemp's flexible face twisted into an expression so preposterous, even Shakespeare couldn't help smiling.

"But Master William, my dove, my pet, my chick, my poppet," the clown cooed, "the pith of't it is, as I've said aforetimes, the groundlings laugh louder for my words than for yours."

"I pith on you and the groundlings both." Shakespeare stood with his legs spraddled wide, as if easing himself. Will Kemp gaped at him. Forestalled, by G.o.d! Shakespeare thought. You were about to make your own p.i.s.sy quibble, and looked not for the like from me. He added, "The Devil take your laughs when they flaw the shape of my play, as I've said before. Hear you me now?"

"I hear." Kemp looked angry, angry and ugly. He started to say something more, then spun on his heel instead--for a big, bulky man, he moved, when he chose, with astounding grace--and stalked away.

Another caring more for himself than aught else. Shakespeare sighed. It was either sigh or weep from despair. Someone will sell us to the Spaniards. Sure as Pilate's men nailed Jesu to the rood, someone will think first of thirty pieces of silver and not of all of England. Someone--but who?