"Thou jolthead, seest thou not she's the poet's?" Phelippes hissed. Shakespeare didn't think he was supposed to catch that, but he did.
Skeres kept rubbing at the injured ankle, but his face cleared. "I cry your pardon, Sir William-I knew not," he said.
Shakespeare waved it aside. Kate brought him his goblet of sack, saying, "Supper in a moment." He nodded, watching Skeres. Skeres watched the serving woman. Shakespeare nodded again, this time to himself. He'd expected nothing else. He trusted Kate. Skeres? He didn't think anyone would ever be able to trust Sir Nicholas Skeres.
He raised his goblet. "Your good health, gentlemen," he said, "and God save the Queen!"
They all drank. "God hath saved her indeed," Phelippes said. "Likewise hath He saved this her kingdom, that all feared lost for ever to the dons and to the priests."
Kate set Shakespeare's bowl of stew before him. This time, Skeres' gaze didn't light on her bosom or her haunches. The newly minted knight lifted his glass of wine. "Here's to the Cecils, father and son," he said.
"Without 'em-" He shook his head.
" Sine quibus non," Thomas Phelippes said. Shakespeare nodded. Without the Cecils, there would have been no uprising. He and Skeres and Phelippes drank.
"A pity Lord Burghley lived not to see his grand scheme flower," Shakespeare said. "He was Moses, who led his folk to the Promised Land, but to whom it was not given to enter therein."
"But he died well pleased in his son, the which was not given to Philip of Spain," Phelippes replied. A Philip still ruled Spain, of course, but not the Philip. Philip II would always be the Philip. "This I know full well, having seen the King's despatches to Don Diego Flores de Valdas. Philip III speaks no French.
He prefers to stay indoors, playing the guitar. He hath not learned the use of arms, nor knows he naught of matters of state. So spake his father, the King."
"God grant it be so, that Elizabeth may the more readily outface him." Shakespeare finished his goblet of sack and waved for another. Kate brought it to him. The knife he used to skewer chunks of meat was the one he'd got from the Roman soldier at the Theatre.
"Having regained her throne, she hath, methinks, outfaced him," Thomas Phelippes said. "For how shall he again bring England under the yoke? Why, only by another Armada. Hath he the will? E'en with the will, hath he the means? By all I've seen, nay and nay."
That was so reasonable, so plausible, and so much what Shakespeare wanted to hear, he wouldn't have argued with it for the world. Nick Skeres saw something else: "Without the dons to back 'em, we'll revenge ourselves on the damned howling Irish wolves, too."
"Ay." Shakespeare nodded. He remembered-how could he forget? — the shivers Isabella and Albert's Irish mercenaries had always raised in him. "Let them have their deserts for bringing terror to honest Englishmen." What England had done in Ireland never entered his mind. He thought only of what England might soon do in Ireland once more.
Phelippes also nodded, wisely. "That lieth already in train," he said.
"Good." Shakespeare and Skeres spoke together. They might fall out on many things. Concerning Irishmen, they were of one mind.
Kate brought more sack several times. Shakespeare knew his head would pound come morning.
Morning would be time enough to worry about it, though. Meanwhile. Meanwhile, Nick Skeres emptied his goblet one last time, got to his feet, and burst into song:
"The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner and his mate
Loved Moll, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate.
For she had a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, go hang!
She loved not the savor of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a. poet might scratch her wherere she did itch,
Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!"
Several people in the ordinary laughed. A couple of men clapped their hands. Shakespeare spoke to Thomas Phelippes: "Get this swabber hence forthwith, ere he swab the floor." He clenched his fists. He'd had enough wine to be ready to brawl if Phelippes said no.
But Phelippes answered, "And so I shall, Sir William." He turned to Skeres. "Come along, good Sir Nicholas. You've taken on too much water; your wit sinks fast."
"Water?" Skeres shook his head. "No, by God. 'Twas finest Sherris-sack."
"All the worse-wine'll sink what floats on water." Phelippes steered him towards the door. He nodded once more to Shakespeare. "Give you good night, Sir William."
"And to you, Sir Thomas, so that you get him away," Shakespeare said. Skeres started singing again.
Phelippes pushed him out the door and into the street.
Kate came over to Shakespeare. "That Sir Nicholas is truly a knight?" she asked.
"Methinks he is a knight indeed," Shakespeare answered. "I trust not his word alone, but Master Phelippes-Sir Thomas-I do credit. Whate'er Skeres might do, he'd not lie about such business."
The serving woman shook her head in bemusement. "A strange new world, that hath such people in't."
"Ay, belike." But after that careless agreement passed Shakespeare's lips, he realized Kate's remark held more truth than he'd first seen. Newly free after ten years under Spanish dominion, England could hardly help being a strange place. Those who'd served the dons were paying for it; those who'd suffered under them were raised high. Few had dared trust very far under Isabella and Albert, and a good many might not dare trust very far under Elizabeth, either.
Kate's thoughts stayed on the personal. "He had no call to sing of me so," she said, "nor of you, neither."
"He's a cunning cove, Nick Skeres, but not so cunning as not to think himself more cunning than he is,"
Shakespeare said.
He watched Kate work through that and smile when she got to the bottom of it. She went off to bring supper to a couple of men at another table. He waited patiently, sipping wine, till the last of the other customers went home. Then, Kate carrying a candle, they walked up the stairs to her room. As she began to undress by that dim, flickering light, she turned away from him, all at once shy. Her voice low and troubled, she said, "A player may love a serving woman, but shall a knight?"
In that cramped chamber, one step took him to her. He caught her in his arms. Under his hands, her flesh was soft and smooth and warm. He bent close to her ear to answer, "Assuredly he shall, an't please her that he do."
She twisted around towards him. Her kiss was fierce. "What thinkest thou?" she said.
His mouth trailed down the side of her neck to her bared breasts. He lingered there some little while. She murmured and pressed him to her. "Ah, sweet, there's beggary in the love that can be reckoned," he said.
He couldn't have told which of them drew the other to her narrow bed.
Afterwards, though, she fought tears while he dressed. When he tried to soothe her, she shook her head.
"Thou'rt grown a great man," she said. "Wilt not find a grand lady to match thee?"
"Why, so have I done," he replied, and kissed her once more.
"Go to!" She laughed, though the tears hadn't gone away. "Thou'rt the lyingest knave in Christendom, and I love thee for't." She got out of bed to put on her own warm woolen nightgown. "Now begone, and may thou soon come hither again, sweet Sir William."
"Alas that I go," he said, and took the candle stub to light his way downstairs.
He was almost back to his lodging-house before pausing to wonder how his wife would greet the news of his knighthood. When he did, he wished he hadn't. Anne's first worry, without a doubt, would be over how much money it was worth. He shrugged. What with one thing and another, she wouldn't need to fret about that. He had plenty to send back to Stratford. She and his daughters would not want. Past that.