A clay pipe clenched between the tall man's teeth twitched. " SA-, seA±or, we're bound for Ostend," he replied in Spanish as quick and confident as his English and Dutch. To catch Lope's accent from so little, he had to have a good ear as well as a clever tongue. "As for the fare-two ducats should do."
Two ducats made ten shillings-that would swallow one of Lope's precious and irreplaceable angels. "I have English money," he said, returning to his own mother tongue. "I'll give you five shillings."
"No," the fellow said, his voice flat and hard. "A Spaniard leaving England's in no place to bargain. You'll pay what I tell you, and thank God and the Blessed Virgin it isn't more. Yes or no?"
De Vega knew he had no choice. If he stayed here, he'd be fair game, and how the Englishmen would enjoy pulling him down! Once he got to Ostend, he could hope for the charity of his own countrymen there. He nodded and choked out the word he had to say: "Yes."
"Come aboard, then, and give me your money," the blond-bearded man said around his pipe. "We're fully laden, or near enough as makes no difference. We'll weigh anchor and set sail when the tide turns."
" Alles goed, Kapitein Adams," a sailor said as Lope handed the piratical-looking skipper his gold coin.
That was close enough to English to let Lope follow it. It also surprised him. "Captain Adams?" he asked.
"You're an Englishman? I took you for Dutch."
"Will Adams, at your service," Adams said in English, and made a leg at him. "Very much at your service, now I have your angel." He flipped the coin up into the air, caught it, and stuck it in his belt pouch. "Will you go below now, or stay on deck until we sail?"
"By your leave, I'd liefer stay," de Vega answered.
"As you wish: so I told you." After that, Captain Adams went back to Dutch. The crew obeyed him as if he were one of their own countrymen. Before long, the last longshoreman scurried off the carrack. The sailors stowed the gangplank. Up came the anchors, men straining at the capstans at bow and stern. They brought in the lines that bound the Oom Karl to the wharf. As she began to slide downstream with the current, sails blossomed on her masts.
London Bridge loomed ahead. Will Adams skillfully steered the ship between two piers. Her masts missed scraping against the planking of the bridge by only a couple of feet. Had the Thames run higher, she couldn't have got free.
There beyond the bridge stood the Tower of London. Lope stared at it as the carrack glided past. Then he looked east, towards the North Sea. Soon London-soon all of England-would lie behind him. In spite of everything, he was on his way home.
Kate's eyes got big and round. "A bill of divorcement?" she whispered.
"Ay." Shakespeare nodded. "I begged it of the Queen, and she gave it me." He took her hands in his.
"That being so, art thou fain to wed me?"
"I will. With all my heart I will, dear Will. But. " She hesitated, then nodded, as if deciding the question had to be asked. "But what of your. your lady wife in Stratford? What of your daughters there?"
"They shall not want, not for nothing. The Queen hath settled on them a hundred and fifty pound."
Shakespeare didn't mention that that was part of what she'd given him. He could wish it were otherwise, but knew better than to complain. Never in all his dreams had he imagined getting so much of what he wanted.
Kate's eyes widened again. "A hundred and fifty pound? Jesu! A princely sum, in sooth. But wherein lieth the justice, they having more than thou when thou hast done so much for Elizabeth and they naught?"
"Fear not, my sweeting, for justice is done: they have not more than I," Shakespeare assured her, and her eyes went wide once more. He nodded. "By my halidom, Kate, 'tis true."
"Right glad was I to wed thee, taking thee for no richer than any other player who might here chance to sup," Kate said. "An't be otherwise. An't be otherwise, why, right glad am I."
"And I," Shakespeare said. He kissed her. The kiss took on a life of its own. They still clung to each other when the door opened and a customer came in.
The man swept off his hat and bowed in their direction as they sprang apart. "Your pardon, I pray ye. I meant not to disturb ye."
"You are welcome, sir," Kate said as the fellow sat down. "What would you have?"
"Some of what you gave your tall gentleman there'd like me well," he replied, "but belike he hath the whole of't. That failing, what's the threepenny supper this even?"
"Mutton stew."
"Is it indeed? Well, a bit o' mutton's always welcome." The man winked at Shakespeare. Kate squeaked indignantly. Shakespeare took an angry step forward. The customer raised a hand. "Nay, sir; nay, mistress. I meant no harm by it. 'Twas but a jest. For mine own part, I am one that loves an inch of raw mutton, and I am well-provided with three bouncing wenches. I'd not quarrel over a foolish quibble."
Shakespeare didn't want to quarrel, either, but he also didn't want to look like a coward in front of Kate.
He sent her a questioning glance. Only when she nodded did he give the other man a short, stiff bow.
"Let it go, then."
"Many thanks, sir; many thanks. For your kindness, may I stand you to a mug of beer? And your lady as well, certes." The stranger lifted his hat again. "Cedric Hayes, at your service. I am glad you see, sir, that where a man may fight at need, 'tis not that he needs must fight." Hayes plucked a knife from his belt.
With a motion so fast Shakespeare could hardly see it, he flung the blade. It stuck, quivering, in the planking of a window frame. An instant later, another knife thudded home just below it.
" 'Sblood!" Shakespeare said. "Any man who fought with you would soon repent of it, belike for aye."
"Ah, but you knew that not when you chose courtesy." Hayes rose, went over to the knives so he could pull them free, and sheathed them again. " 'Tis a mountebank's trick, I own, but mountebank I am, and so entitled to't."
"Might you show this art upon the stage, Master Hayes?" Shakespeare asked.
"Gladly would I show it wheresoever I be paid for the showing," the knife-thrower replied. "Who are you, sir, and what would you have me do?"
Shakespeare gave his name. Proudly, Kate corrected him: " Sir William Shakespeare."
"Ah." Cedric Hayes bowed. "Very much at your service, Sir William. I have seen somewhat of your work, and it liked me well. I ask again, what would you have me do?"
"In some of the company's plays- Romeo and Juliet and Prince of Denmark spring first to mind-your art might enliven that which is already writ. An you show yourself trusty, I shall write you larger parts in dramas yet to come."
"I am not like to a trusty squire who did run away," Hayes said. "Where I say I shall be, I shall; what I say I shall do, that likewise."
"Most excellent," Shakespeare said. "Know you the Theatre, beyond Bishopsgate?"
"Certes, sir. Many a time and oft have I stood 'mongst the groundlings to laugh at Will Kemp's fooling or hear Dick Burbage bombast out a blank verse."
Burbage wouldn't have been happy to hear Kemp named ahead of him. Shakespeare resolved never to mention that. He said, "Go you thither at ten o' the clock tomorrow. I shall be there, and Burbage as well.
We'll put you through your paces, that we may know your different several gaits."
"Gramercy, Master Shakespeare-Sir William, I should say." Hayes raised his mug. "A fortunate meeting."
"Your good health," Shakespeare said, and he drank, too.
After Cedric Hayes finished his supper, he left the ordinary. Shakespeare got out pen and ink and paper and set to work. What a relief, to be able to write without having to fear the gallows or worse if the wrong person happened to glance over his shoulder at the wrong moment!