Even Shakespeare, not the boldest of men, looked about for a Spaniard to assail, though he was not sorry to discover none.
"I am not so base minded that fear of any living creature or prince should make me afraid to do that were just," Elizabeth said when she could make herself heard again. "I am not of so low a lineage, nor carry so vile a wit. You may assure yourselves that, for my part, I doubt no whit but that all this tyrannical, proud, and brainsick invasion and occupation of my beloved England will yet prove the beginning, though not the end, of the ruin of that kingdom which, most treacherously, even in the midst of treating peace, began this wrongful war. Spain hath procured my greatest glory that meant my sorest wrack, and hath so dimmed that light of its sunshine, that who hath a will to obtain shame, let them keep its forces company. And contrariwise, who seeketh vengeance for great wrongs done, and requital for the burthens borne in our long captivity, let them go forward now, with me, and God defend the right!"
She stepped away from the window. For a moment, Shakespeare thought she cared nothing for the plaudits of the crowd. As a man of the theatre, he knew what a mistake that was. But then the door behind the English soldiers at the base of the Bell Tower opened. There stood Elizabeth, still in that simple, colorless shift.
How they all roared, there in the dying day that suddenly seemed a sunrise! Sir Robert Devereux dashed forward, past the armored guardsmen, to stand beside the Queen. Bowing low, he murmured something to her, something lost in the din to Shakespeare. Whatever it was, Elizabeth nodded. And then the poet saw, then everyone saw, what it meant. Devereux stooped, lifted her as lightly as if she were a toddling babe, and set her on his bull-broad shoulders. Cheers and shouts redoubled. Shakespeare had not dreamt they could.
From that unsteady perch, Elizabeth once more raised a hand. Slowly, quiet gained on chaos. The Queen said, "My loving people, I might take heed how I commit myself to armed multitudes. I might, but I shall not. I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field as we overthrow and utterly cast down the vile usurpation which hath oppressed this my kingdom these ten years past. I know already for your forwardness you deserve rewards and crowns; and I do assure you, in the words of a prince, they shall be paid you."
Another roar, this time coalescing into a fresh shout of, "Elizabeth! Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" From Devereux's shoulders, she waved again. Little by little, a new cry replaced her name:
"Death-Death-Death to the dons!" And the smile stretching itself across Elizabeth's face when she heard that would have chilled the blood of any Spaniard every born.
Shakespeare shouted with everybody else. As he shouted, rewards and crowns ran through his mind. He hadn't undertaken Boudicca in hope of reward. Looking back, he couldn't recall just why he had undertaken it, save from fear of being slain should he refuse. But he'd already been handsomely paid (and paid by the Spaniards, too, for the play that never was). If now Elizabeth herself should look on him with favor.
If now this uprising triumphed, which was as yet anything but assured. Sir Robert Devereux strode into the crowd, crying, "Forward now! Forward, for St. George and for good Queen Bess!"
People swarmed forward, not against the Spaniards but towards him and Elizabeth, to call out to her, to touch her, simply to see her at close quarters. Devereux pushed on, irresistible as if powered by a millrace, to take Elizabeth from the Tower where she'd languished so long and into her kingdom once more.
Someone bumped Shakespeare: Will Kemp. The clown made a leg-a cramped leg, in the crush-at him.
"Give you good den, gallowsbait," he said cheerfully.
"Go to!" Shakespeare said. "Meseems we are well begun here."
"Well begun, ay. And belike, soon enough, we shall be well ended, too." Kemp jerked his head to one side, made his eyes bulge, and stuck out his tongue as if newly hanged.
With a shudder, Shakespeare said, "If the wind of your wit sit in that quarter, why stand you here and not with the Spaniards?"
"Why?" Kemp kissed him on the cheek. "Think you you're the only mother's son born a fool in England?"
He slipped away, wriggling through the crowd like an eel, making for the Queen. Shakespeare didn't follow. He simply stood where he was. Too much had happened too fast.
As things chanced, Elizabeth passed within a couple of feet of him. Their eyes met for a moment. She had no idea who he was, of course. How could she, when he'd come to London only months before she was locked away? But she nodded to him as if they'd been close for years. Anyone might have done the same. But only a few, only the greatest players, could do it and make the people at whom they nodded feel they'd been close for years. Shakespeare was sadly aware he didn't quite have the gift. Richard Burbage did. So too, in his twisted way, did Will Kemp. And so did Elizabeth.
"Death to the dons!" Shakespeare shouted, and followed the little old woman who was his Queen out of the Tower, out into London.
XIV
When Lope De Vega first came to himself, he didn't think he was awake at all. He thought he had died, and found himself in some stygian pit of hell. Slowly, so slowly, he realized he lived and breathed, but he feared he was blind. Then he saw that the blackness all around lay in front of his eyes, not behind them. Such blackness had a name. He groped for it and, groping, found it. Night. This was night.
He groaned and tried to sit up. That was a mistake. Motion fanned the throbbing agony in his head. His guts churned. He heaved up whatever his stomach held. Only little by little did he also notice sharper pain from his left arm, as from a cut. Had he been wounded there? He couldn't remember, not at first.
At first, he had trouble remembering his name, let alone anything else. He had no idea why he lay in the middle of some London street-yes, this was London; that much he knew-covered in blood and, now, puke. He had no idea who the corpses under him and around him and sprawling across his legs were, either. But that they were corpses he did not doubt; no living man's flesh could be so cold.
More cautiously this time, he tried again to sit. The pain forced another moan from him, but he succeeded. Crossing himself, he wriggled away from the dead body on him. But he could not escape them all. They were too many, and he too weak to move far yet.
Why such slaughter? Who were these slain? The why he could not recall, not with bells of torment clanging in his head. The who? There not far away, face pale and still in the moonlight, lay the sergeant who'd told him Captain GuzmA?n was down. He remembered that. How GuzmA?n had come to fall, though, remained beyond him.
And not just Guzman. " Madre de Dios, " Lope whispered softly, and crossed himself again. The corpses piled around him were all Spaniards, scores of Spaniards. He shuddered. His guts knotted anew, though now he had nothing left in him to give back.
Even as the spasm wracked him, what had to be cold truth slid into his clouded wits. They threw me here because they thought I was dead, too. At the moment, he rather wished he were. But then he saw a body with a slit throat gaping wide like a second mouth, and another, and another. They'd made sure of a lot of men. They hadn't bothered with him. He breathed. His heart beat-his temples thudded each time his heart beat. His eyes fell on another cut throat. No, he didn't-quite-feel like dying yet.
They? The English. It had to be the English. They'd risen. They must have risen. But why still eluded him.
Everything had been peaceful, as far as he could remember. He should have played Juan de IdiA?quez in King Philip at the Theatre. Had he? He didn't think so.