Most of the men who came to see the Spaniards showed them a certain respect. Anyone who'd fought in war knew misfortune could befall even the finest soldiers. The women were worse. They jeered and mocked and generally made Lope think the guardsmen were protecting his countrymen and him from them rather than the reverse.
And then, one drizzly day, he saw a black-haired, black-eyed beauty on an English nobleman's arm. The nobleman stared at the Spaniards as if at so many animals in a cage. So did his companion, who laughed and murmured in his ear and rubbed against him and did everything but set her hand on his codpiece right there in front of everyone. And he only strutted and swaggered and slipped his arm around her waist, displaying to the world the new toy he'd found.
Slowly and deliberately, Lope turned away. He might have known Catalina IbaA±ez would make the best of whatever happened in England. He could have told that nobleman a thing or two, but what point?
Besides, sooner or later the fellow would find out for himself.
De Vega did hope Catalina didn't recognize him. By now, the beard was dark on his cheeks and jawline as well as his chin. To her eye, he should have been just one more glum and grimy prisoner among so many. Having her gloat over his misery would have been more than he could bear. He watched her out of the corner of his eye.
She gave no sign she knew him: a tiny victory, but all he'd get in here. She laughed again, a sound like tinkling bells, and stood on tiptoe to kiss her new protector on the cheek. Chuckling indulgently, he patted her backside. Lope prayed for a bear, or even for mastiffs. God must have been busy somewhere else, for Catalina and the Englishman strolled out of the arena together.
XV
As it had on that fateful afternoon six weeks earlier, absolute silence reigned in the Theatre. Into it, Joe Boardman once more spoke Boudicca's final lines:
"We Britons never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when we do first help to wound ourselves.
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Naught shall make us rue,
If Britons to themselves do rest but true."
The Queen of the Iceni died again.
As he had then, Shakespeare strode for ward past Boudicca's body. As he had then, he ended the play:
"No epilogue here, unless you make it;
If you want your freedom, go and take it."
And, as he had then, he stood there at the front of the stage and waited for whatever came next.
What came, this time, was applause, wave after wave of it, from groundlings and galleries alike.
Shakespeare's eyes went to the velvet-upholstered chair that had been set up in the middle gallery. He bowed low to Queen Elizabeth.
She inclined her head by way of reply. She had once more the outward seeming of a Queen: her gown glimmering with pearls, her great ruff starched and snowy, pale powder banishing the years from her face, a coronet in place in her curly red wig. Yet to Shakespeare's mind she'd never been more queenly than when she spoke, all unadorned, from the window in the Tower.
Behind the poet, the players who'd acted in Boudicca came forward to take their bows. At the earlier performance, they hadn't got the plaudits they deserved. The play had aimed at firing the audience against the Spanish occupiers, and met its aim even better than Shakespeare dared hope. That meant the players, though, went all but forgotten.
Not now. The audience clapped and stamped their feet and shouted and roared. Lord Westmorland's Men bowed again and again, but the tumult would not die. Robert Cecil-now Sir Robert-who sat beside Elizabeth, leaned towards her and spoke behind his hand. Shakespeare saw her smile and nod.
Then she rose to her feet and blew the company a kiss. Along with everyone else, Shakespeare bowed once more, lower than ever. The din in the Theatre redoubled.
At last, after what seemed forever, it began to ebb. A trumpeter behind Elizabeth's seat winded his horn.
The sharp, clear notes drew everyone's attention. Elizabeth rose once more and said, "Lord Westmorland being a proved traitor and Romish heretic who hath fled with the dons, and the name of a former company of players having fallen into misfortunate disuse, it is my pleasure to ordain and declare that the players here before me assembled shall be known henceforward and forevermore as the Queen's Men, betokening my great favor which for most excellent reason they do enjoy."
That drew even more applause than the play had. Once again, Shakespeare bowed very low. So did all the members of the company behind him. When laughter mingled with the applause, Shakespeare looked over his shoulder. There was Will Kemp, turning his reverence to the Queen into a silly caper. Burbage looked horrified. When Shakespeare glanced up towards Elizabeth in the gallery, she was laughing.
Maybe that said Kemp knew her humor better than Burbage did. Maybe-perhaps more likely-it said the clown couldn't help clowning, come what might.
The trumpeter blew another flourish. He had to blow it twice before the crowd heeded him and quieted.
Elizabeth said, "Be it also known that I purpose rewarding the players of the Queen's Men with more than the name alone, the which is but wind and air, good for vaunting but little else. Your valor in giving this play when the foul occupiers of our land would vilest treason style it shall of a surety be not forgot.
That I am Queen again over more than mine own chamber I am not least through your exertions, nor shall I never forget the same."
Cheers rang out again, some of them hungry: not so much envious as speculative. They shall have favor and wealth. How can I dispossess 'em of those, taking them for mine own? Shakespeare could all but hear the thoughts behind the plaudits. Had he been standing amongst the groundlings or even in the galleries, such thoughts might have run through his head, too. Consumption of the purse is so often incurable, who'd not seek a remedy therefrom?
One more trumpet flourish rang out. Trailed by Robert Cecil, the Queen descended from the middle gallery. Instead of leaving the Theatre, though, she made her way through the groundlings towards the stage. They parted before her like the Red Sea before Moses. In black velvet, the younger Cecil might have been her shadow behind her.
"How may I ascend?" she asked Shakespeare, who still stood farthest forward of the company.
He pointed back towards the right. "Thitherward lies the stair, your Majesty."
With a brusque nod, she used the stairway to come up onto the stage. Sir Robert remained at her heel.
Fear gnawed Shakespeare. If anyone in the audience meant her ill, he had but to draw a pistol and.
But no one did. Elizabeth's confident, even arrogant stride said she was certain no one would. Perhaps that confidence helped ensure that no one would. Perhaps. Shakespeare remained nervous even so.
The Queen walked up beside him. She looked out over the audience for a moment, again seeming almost to defy anyone to strike at her. Then she said, "Know, Master Shakespeare, you are much in my mind and heart for writing this Boudicca in despite of the Spaniards, showing forth no common courage in the doing."
I was more afeared of Ingram Frizer's knife than of the dons, Shakespeare thought. Sometimes, though, not all the truth needed telling. Here, he could and did get by with a murmured, "Your Majesty, I am your servant."
Elizabeth nodded again. "Just so. And you served me right well, in a way none other might have matched." Shakespeare knew a stab of grief for Christopher Marlowe. But even Kit had said he was best suited for this business. Then the Queen added another sharp word, one that cast all thoughts of Marlowe from his mind: "Kneel."