She cast herself down to death. When Shakespeare heard groans, when he heard women weep-yes, and some men, too-he knew that, regardless of what happened outside the Theatre, he'd done all he could in here.
Meanwhile, among the Romans who besieged the Britons' stronghold, Will Kemp's Marcus declared,
"Love no more great ladies, is what I say;
No going wrong then, for they hold no sport.
All's in the rustling of their snatch'd-up silks;
They're made but for handsome view, not handling,
Their bodies of so weak and soft a temper
A rough-pac'd bed'll shake 'em all to pieces;
No, give me a thing I may crush."
He illustrated, with great lascivious gestures. The crowd, which had mourned the death of poor ravished Epona, now laughed lewdly at a soldier relishing more rape.
But, a moment later, the groundlings cheered when Caratach and a last host of Iceni sallied. Caratach cut down Marcus-and Richard Burbage likely enjoyed killing Kemp, if only in the play. After that victory, Caratach said,
"My hope got through fire, through stubborn breaches,
Through battles that were hard to win as heaven,
Through Death himself in all his horrid trims,
Is gone forever, ever, now, my friends.
I'll not be left to scornful tales and laughter."
He threw himself at the Romans surrounding Suetonius and died fighting.
Inside the fortress of the Iceni, hope died, too. As the Romans below besieged them, Boudicca and Bonvica stood on the battlement where Epona had killed herself. Bonvica asked, "Where must we go when we are dead?"
"Strange question!" Boudicca told her younger daughter.
"Why, to the blessed place, dear! Eversweetness
And happiness dwells there."
"Will you come to me?"
"Yes, my sweet girl," Boudicca answered.
"No Romans? I should be loath to meet them there."
"No ill men," Boudicca promised,
"That live by violence and strong oppression,
Are there; 'tis for those the gods love, good men."
"Dearest mother, then let us make an end," Bonvica said. "Have you that dram from the kindly Druid?"
They drank poison together. Bonvica died at once. Boudicca, who'd let her daughter have the greater share to be sure of death, lasted till the Romans, led by Suetonius, burst into the fortress and up onto the battlement. "You fool," she told the general.
"You should have tied up death when you conquer'd;
You sweat for me in vain else: see him here!
He's mine, and my friend; laughs at your pities.
And I will be a prophet ere I die.
Look forward now, a thousand years and more.
A royal infant, — heaven shall move about her!-
Though in her cradle, yet doth promise
Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be-
Though none now living will behold that goodness-
A pattern to all princes living with her,
And all that shall succeed: Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue
Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces
With all the virtues that attend the good,
Shall still be doubled on her; truth shall nurse her.
She shall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own shall bless her;
Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn.
In her days every man shall eat in safety;
Her honour and the greatness of her name
Shall grow, and make new nations. She shall flourish
In all the plains about her. Our children's children
Shall see this, and bless heaven."
"Thou speakest wonders," Suetonius said, awe in his voice.
"She will be your true and natural Queen,
Bred, born, and brought up amongst you. So will
You most naturally, like British men,
Defend her, fight for her, and not only
Guard her with danger of your lives, but also
Aid her with your hands and livings. You will
Fight for your country, your dearest country,
Wherein you shall be nourished. It will be
Your native soil, and therefore most sweet, for
What may be more belov'd than your country?"
Dying Boudicca managed a feeble nod, and sent her last words out to a breathlessly silent Theatre:
"E'en so; 'Tis true. Oh! — I feel the poison!
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."
She fell back and lay dead.
Shakespeare strode forward, to the very front edge of the stage. Into more silence, punctuated only by sobs, he said,
"No epilogue here, unless you make it;
If you want your freedom, go and take it."
He stood there, waiting, for perhaps half a dozen heartbeats. This was even harder than when he'd spoken the prologue. If he'd failed here. Suddenly, without warning, silence shattered-not into applause, but into a great roar of rage at all that England had endured in the ten years since the Spaniards came and forced Isabella and Albert onto the English throne. Had Shakespeare been the foreign Queen or King, that roar would have made him tremble.
Being who he was, he stared out in wonder at the audience. Everything they'd held in for these ten long years now loosed itself at once. Crying, "Spaniards' dogs!" and other things, far worse, the groundlings turned on a handful of their own number known to like the invaders too well. Up in the galleries, several real fights broke out-more of the upper classes, those who could afford such places, favored the Spaniards and Isabella and Albert.
More struggling men, and a couple of shrilly shrieking women, too, fell or were flung down amongst the groundlings. Their hurtling bodies sent the folk below sprawling, and must have badly hurt some. The groundlings punched and pummeled and kicked-and, no doubt, robbed-the richer folk who'd, literally, fallen into their hands. They assumed anyone who was cast down loved the dons. Shakespeare wondered if they were right.
In the middle gallery, the fanciest in the Theatre, an aristocrat in a fine doublet of glowing white silk made his voice rise above the din: "To the Tower! To the Tower, to free the Queen!" He was a handsome man a few years younger than Shakespeare, with dark hair, a sandy beard scanty on the cheeks but long on the chin and cut square at the bottom, and red, red lips. "To the Tower, and I will lead you!" As if on cue, a sunbeam gleamed from the rapier he brandished.
"To the Tower! To the Tower! To free the Queen!" One man with firm purpose was plenty to fire all the others. When the aristocrat descended, the groundlings swarmed up to him and raised him on their shoulders.
"Who's yon gentry cove?" Shakespeare asked the players on the stage behind him. They'd come out to take their bows, but the crowd, full of a greater passion, had all but forgotten them.
"Why, know you not Sir Robert Devereux?" Richard Burbage sounded surprised. Shakespeare only shrugged. He'd never worried much about recognizing aristocrats by sight. He left that to Burbage, a socially more ambitious man-indeed, a climber if ever there was one.
And then Edward the tireman's assistant, now a budding actor who still wore his "Roman" helmet and corselet, raised his sword as Devereux had done. "To the Tower!" he cried. "To the Tower, to free the Queen!" He ran past Shakespeare, jumped down off the stage, and joined the roaring throng pouring out of the Theatre.