"Haply he had been wiser to stay behind, so that the Spaniards might have some single hand fully apprised of all that chanced throughout London and its surround," Burbage said.
"Haply so," Phelippes agreed. "But the dons-and English soldiers, too, I'll not deny-call such a clerkly wisdom, and do otherwise dispraise it. When the blood's up in 'em, they would spill it from their foes, knowing they were reckoned white-livered cravens for hanging back. Fear of ill fame's worse cowardice yet, though they see that not."
"If Don Diego needs must away to the wars, might he not have left some other to be the head and central wit of the Spanish enterprise?" Shakespeare said.
"Why, so he did." Even without his spectacles, Thomas Phelippes managed a sly, sharp-toothed smile.
The pockmarked little man bowed slightly. "Your servant, sir."
"Ho, ho!" Burbage thundered Jovian laughter. "And how many dons went astray on that account?"
"Perhaps a few." Phelippes' chuckle, meant to be self-deprecating, somehow seemed boastful instead.
"Ay, perhaps a few."
"You are an army in one man," Shakespeare said, wondering how many other Englishmen had aided this rebellion more. Few. Very few. But would the chroniclers remember a man like Phelippes? Would anyone write a play about the way he'd helped the uprising? Shakespeare thought about that, then shook his head. Phelippes' role had been important, yes, but not dramatic in any ordinary sense of the word.
Burbage asked, "Know you where Isabella and Albert might be?"
Phelippes shook his head. "No, and would I did, for they might rally not only the dons but also Englishmen of stout Romish faith." He looked about, as if searching for the Queen and King, then laughed at himself. "They might stand beside me and I'd ken 'em not, so sorry are mine eyne without assisting lenses."
"What befell your spectacles?" Shakespeare asked.
Thomas Phelippes laughed again, this time in embarrassment. A blush brought blood to his sallow cheeks. "The most prodigious bit of bungling any man might manage, forsooth-the undone laces of mine own shoon tripped me up, whereupon I did measure my length upon the floor, and the spectacles, flying off. " He sighed. "I felt a proper fool, but no help for't, not until God grant me the leisure to seek replacement for my loss."
"May that time come soon," Burbage said, "the which would signify our final victory o'er the Spaniards and all who'd oppress us."
Shakespeare's stomach growled. He'd been running on nerves and little else since the afternoon before, and was starting to feel the lack. "Simple hunger doth oppress me," he said. "I shall famish, a dog's death."
Burbage nodded, resting both hands on his protuberant belly. "Ay, e'en so," he said. "Bread and meat and wine-food fit for heroes. Or say rather, none can long the hero play without 'em."
"I pray you'll lead me to 'em, gentles, for I am not fit to find 'em on my own," Phelippes said.
"Let's seek nourishment, then," Shakespeare said, "and with good fortune we'll soon find ourselves in our aliment."
"Give over!" Burbage's groan had nothing to do with hunger. He rolled his eyes up to the heavens, muttering, "And they took me for clot-poll Kemp!" But no more than Shakespeare could he resist a quibble, for he wagged a finger at the poet and added, "Better fortune were to find our aliment in us."
They trudged through the streets of Westminster, past an Englishman pulling the boots off a dead Spaniard, past several dogs feeding at another corpse, past an Englishman hanged from the branch of an oak. A placard tied to the hanged man's body warned, LET THEM WHO SERVED SPAIN BEWARE. Thomas Phelippes was too shortsighted to see it, and Shakespeare didn't read it to him: that might too easily have been Phelippes dangling there.
Before long, they found an open tavern. Yesterday, the proprietor had probably bowed and scraped to Spaniards and to Englishmen in their pay. Now he served out beer and cheese and brown bread with a hearty, "God bless good Queen Bess!" The hanged man swung not far away. The taverner, plainly a flexible soul, did not care to join him.
And if, as may be, the dons cast us out again, 'twill be, "Buenos dias, senores " once more, Shakespeare thought with distaste. But that distaste extended only to the man himself; his provender was monstrous fine.
Running feet in the street outside. A cry of, "Fled! They're fled! By God, they're truly fled!" A voice cracking with excitement-then several voices, as more took up the shout.
Shakespeare and Burbage leaped up from their seats. Mugs and chunks of bread still in hand, they raced out to hear more. Thomas Phelippes stumbled after them, almost tripping over a stool. "Wait!" Burbage said in a great voice, a voice that brooked no argument. "Who's fled?"
But the man who'd brought the news shook his head. "Elizabeth? No, Lord love her, she's here. 'Tis Isabella and Albert who're fled like thieves in the night. We came upon a servant who packed 'em into a boat yesternight and watched 'em fare forth down the Thames, out of Westminster, out of London, to save their reeky gore. They're fled!" — another exultant whoop.
Burbage and Shakespeare stared at each other. Slowly, solemnly, they embraced. Shakespeare reached out and put an arm around Phelippes, too. Tears stung his eyes. "Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course," he said. "Now are we graced with wreaths of victory?"
"I have great hope in that," Burbage said.
"And I," Thomas Phelippes agreed.
"And I. And even I," Shakespeare whispered. "Perfect love, saith John, casteth out fear. Now I find me hope will serve as well, or peradventure better." He yawned till the hinges of his jaw creaked. "And now, with hope in my heart, I dare rest." To Burbage, he said, "If thou canst wake me by two o' the clock, I prithee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly."
But the player shook his big head. He yawned, too. "Not I, Will. Being likewise fordone, I'd liefer lay me down beside thee."
"Sleep, the both of you, and fear not," Phelippes said. "I'll stand watch, and wake you at the hour appointed: a tiny recompense for the service you have done me, I know, but a first building stone in the edifice of gratitude. Sleep dwell upon your eyes, my friends, peace in your breasts."
"Gramercy," Shakespeare said. Not far away was a lawn on whose yellowing grass several Englishmen already sprawled in slumber. Shakespeare and Burbage lay down among them. The poet twisted a couple of times. He reached up to brush away a blade of grass tickling his nose, then yawned once more and forgot the world.
Lope De Vega stirred, muttered, and sat up. His head still ached abominably, but he was closer to having his wits about him. Glancing up at the sun, he blinked in surprise. It was close to noon. He'd slept-or lain senseless-the clock around. He shook his head, and managed to do it without hurting himself too much more. This felt restorative, not merely. blank, like his previous round of unconsciousness.
An old woman coming along the riverbank towards him let out a startled cackle. "I thought you dead till you stirred," she said, her voice mushy and hard to understand because of missing front teeth.
"Not I," Lope answered. "What news?" He was glad he spoke English. If she realized he was a Spaniard, she might try to make sure he was dead-and, in his present feeble state, she might manage it, too.
"Well, you'll know Elizabeth's enlarged?" she asked. De Vega nodded. The old woman hadn't sounded certain he would know even that. Looking down at his blood-drenched clothes, Lope supposed she'd had her reasons. Seeing him with some working wits, though, she went on, "And belike you'll also know Isabella and Albert are fled, one jump in front of the headsman."
"No!" Lope said, but then, a moment later, softly, "Yes." That boat on the Thames the night before, when he was washing his face.