After tenderly kissing Cicely Sellis goodbye, Lope de Vega stopped in a nearby ordinary for his dinner and a cup of wine with which to celebrate his conquest. The cup of wine became two, then three, and then four: a conquest like that deserved a good deal of celebrating. By the time he started off towards the Spanish barracks, the clock had already struck one. That didn't worry him. As far as he could remember, he had nowhere else he needed to be.
As far as he could remember. Others, though, might remember further. He'd just turned into St. Swithin's Lane when a startled shout came from up ahead: "Lieutenant de Vega! Madre de Dios, senor, what are you doing here at this hour?"
"Oh, hello, Enrique," Lope said. "I'm coming back to the barracks, of course. What else should I be doing now?"
He meant it for a joke. But Captain GuzmA?n's servant stared at him and answered, "What else should you be doing? SeA±or, aren't you going to play, shouldn't you be playing, Don Juan de Idiquez in Shakespeare's King Philip less than half an hour from now? I was going up to the Theatre to see you.
By God and all the saints, sir, I never expected to find you here."
"Don Juan de Idiquez. " Lope gaped. He said the name as if he'd never heard it before in his life.
Indeed, for a moment that seemed to be true. But then it was as if a veil were torn from in front of his eyes. Memory, real memory, came flooding back: memory of why he should have been at the Theatre, and memory of why he'd gone to Cicely Sellis' lodging-house-to Shakespeare's lodging-house! — in the first place.
He crossed himself, not once but again and again. At the same time, he cursed as foully as he knew how-magnificent, rolling, guttural obscenity that left Enrique's eyes wider than ever and his mouth hanging open. De Vega didn't care. He wanted a bath, though even that might not make him feel clean again. He wondered if anything would ever make him feel clean again.
"That bruja, that whore-she bewitched me, Enrique, she bewitched me and she swived me and she sent me on my way like a. like a. like an I don't know what. And that means, that has to mean-"
"I don't understand, senor," Enrique broke in. "I don't understand any of this."
"Do you understand treason? Do you understand black, vile, filthy treason? And treason coming soon-soon, by God! — or she never would have. " De Vega didn't waste time finishing. He whirled and started back up St. Swithin's Lane.
"Where are you going?" Enrique cried after him.
"First, to kill that puta," Lope snarled. "And then to the Theatre, to do all I can to stop whatever madness they're hatching there." Even in his rage, he realized he might not-probably would not-be able to manage that by himself. He stabbed out a finger towards Enrique. "As for you, go back to Captain GuzmA?n. Tell him to send a troop of men up to the Theatre as quick as he can. Tell him it's bad, very bad, as bad as can be. Run, damn you!"
Enrique fled as if ten million demons from hell bayed at his heels. Lope started up towards Bishopsgate at a fast, purposeful stride, halfway between a walk and a trot. Black fury filled him. He'd never imagined a woman could use him so. Mercenaries like Catalina IbaA±ez he understood. But what Cicely Sellis had done to him was ten, a hundred, a thousand times worse. Not only had she stolen a piece of him, she'd taken her pleasure with him afterwards to waste more of his time and to make sure he didn't get that piece back.
And I wouldn't have, either, if I hadn't run into Enrique, he thought savagely. But I am myself again, and she'll pay. Oh, how she'll pay! His hand closed hungrily on the hilt of his rapier.
He'd just turned onto Lombard Street and passed the church of St. Mary Woolnoth when he spied a Spanish patrol ahead of him. "You men!" he called, and gave them a peremptory wave. "Come with me!"
Their sergeant recognized him. "What do you want with us, Lieutenant de Vega? We have places we need to check, and we're running late."
Lope set his hands on his hips. "And I have a bruja to catch and treason to put down," he rapped out.
"Which carries the greater weight?"
Gulping, the sergeant stiffened to attention. "I am your servant, senor!"
"You'd better be. Come on, and my God come with us!"
The bells of St. Mary Woolnoth rang out two o'clock. All across London, dozens, hundreds, of church bells chimed the hour. De Vega cursed. He should have been up at the Theatre. Lord Westmorland's Men should be presenting King Philip. Were they? If they weren't, what were they giving instead? He didn't know. He couldn't know. But he could guess, and all his guesses sent ice racing along his spine.
And then, all at once, he had more things to worry about than Lord Westmorland's Men. Someone on a rooftop flung a stone or a brick at the patrol. It clanged off a soldier's morion. The man staggered, but stayed on his feet. "You all right, Ignacio?" the sergeant asked.
"Yes, thanks be to God-I've got a hard head," the soldier replied. "But where's the cowardly son of a whore who threw that? I'll murder the bastard."
Before the sergeant could answer, a chamber pot sailed out of a second-story window-not just the stinking contents, but the pot, too. It shattered between two Spaniards, spattering the whole patrol with filth. And then, while they were still cursing that, a pistol banged. With a howl of pain, a soldier slumped to the ground, clutching his leg. Crimson blood streamed out between his fingers.
High and shrill and blazing with excitement, a voice cried out in English: "Death to the dons!"
And, as if that one voice were a burning fuse leading to a keg of powder, a whole great chorus took up the shout. "Death-Death-Death to the dons!" In a heartbeat, the cry echoed up and down the streets of London. "Death-Death-Death to the dons!"
Lope's mind went clear and cold as the ice he'd imagined he felt. Suddenly, the patrol that had seemed so reassuringly strong felt tiny and helpless as a baby. He nodded to the sergeant. "This is it. They are going to rise." His own voice held eerie certainty.
The sergeant tried to peer up at all the windows overlooking the street. Smoke still eddied in front of one.
The shot had come from there, but what odds the pistoleer still lingered? Slim, slim. He didn't order his men after the assassin, as he would have without that daunting cry. Instead, nodding to Lope, he asked,
"And what do we do now, senor?"
"We win or we die-it's that simple," de Vega answered. But it wasn't, quite. He looked around, too, as the sergeant had, trying to see every which way at once. Plainly, the patrol would never get to the Theatre, nor even to Bishopsgate. He wished that soldier hadn't been wounded. He couldn't bear to leave the fellow behind, but bringing him along would hamper them. "We'd better get back to the barracks," he said reluctantly. "We'll have numbers on our side there."
"Yes, sir." The sergeant sounded relieved. Now that he had orders, he knew what to do with them.
"JosA©, Manueclass="underline" bandage Pedro's leg and get him up with his arms over your shoulders."
Both soldiers knelt to do as he told them, but one said, "We can't do much fighting that way, Sergeant."
"We'll worry about that later. Quick, now!" To punctuate the underofficer's words, another stone thudded down into the street. It hit no one, but could have smashed a skull if it had. Seeing it, hearing it, made Lope acutely aware he wore a felt hat with a jaunty plume, not a high-combed morion.
Pedro howled again when they hauled him upright. And the sergeant proved cleverer than de Vega had suspected: one of the soldiers supporting the wounded man was lefthanded, so they both had their swords free even with his arms draped over them.
"Let's get moving," Lope said, and they started back the way they had come.
"Death-Death-Death to the dons!" The cry seemed to come from everywhere at once, from near and far. More stones and more reeking waste flew out of windows. A furious trooper fired his arquebus at one of their tormentors, but only a mocking laugh rewarded him. And then the patrol had to pause while he reloaded: an empty arquebus was nothing but an awkward club.