Being a man whose face many saw, Shakespeare had that happen fairly often. He almost made a leg to the 'prentice, to acknowledge he was who the young man thought he was. But something in the fellow's tone made him hold back. The apprentice hadn't just recognized him; by the way he sounded, others were looking for Shakespeare, too. He didn't care for that at all.
Sure enough, though, another man and a woman pointed him out to their friends on his way back to his lodgings. And, when he got there, Jane Kendall was in a swivet. "Oh, sweet Jesu!" she exclaimed. "First Master Foster, now you! Whatever shall I do?"
"What mean you, Madam?" he asked, thinking, What will you do? Find more lodgers; what else? But if they pursue me as they pursue Peter Foster, whatever shall I do? He doubted whether running to Stratford would help him. They'd track him down there. Could he get over the border to Scotland? Have they got theatres in Scotland? Might a player live there, or would he slowly starve?
"Why, Master Shakespeare, the fellow asking after you, he looked a right catchpole, he did," his landlady answered. "Had a great gruff deep voice, too, enough to make anybody afeard. Oh, Master Shakespeare, what have you done?"
"Naught," Shakespeare answered. And that was true, or something close to true. He'd set down not a word on paper. The closest thing to evidence anyone might find among his possessions was the translation of Tacitus' Annals. But it wasn't the only work of history in his trunk, and he hadn't so much as dogeared the relevant page. As far as proof went, they'd be on thin ice.
But how much would that matter? The bastinado, the rack, thumbscrews, the water torture the English Inquisition favored. If they hauled him away and began tormenting him, how long could he hold out?
He shuddered. Sweat sprang out on his forehead. He was no hero, and knew it too well. If they tortured him, he would tell all he knew, and quickly, too.
Doing his best not to think of such things, he went to the ordinary for supper and for work. All he knew about what he ate was that it cost threepence. He did notice Kate's smile, and absentmindedly gave it back. After she took away his wooden trencher, he got to work on Love's Labour's Won. Tonight, the writing went welclass="underline" better than it had for a fortnight, at least. He dipped his quill in the bottle of ink again and again; it raced across the page.
Kate knew better than to talk to him when the words tumbled forth like the Thames at flood. When at last she came over to his table, it was only to warn him: "Curfew's nigh."
"Oh." He didn't want to stop, but he didn't want to be caught out, either, not if they were looking for him anyway. As he gathered up his pens and papers and ink, he came back to the real world. Now the smile he gave the serving woman was sheepish. "Another time, I fear me."
She nodded, not much put out. "When I saw you writing so, I knew that would be the way of't." Her voice softened. "God keep thee."
"And thee." Shakespeare pushed his stool back from the table. He couldn't have gone on much longer, anyhow; the candle was burnt almost to the end. With an awkward nod-almost the nod a youth might have given a pretty maid he was too shy to court-he hurried out of the ordinary.
He rose the next morning in darkness; in December, the sun stayed long abed. Porridge from the pot on the hearth and a mug of the Widow Kendall's ale broke his fast. And he wasn't the first lodger up; Jack Street went out the door while he was still eating.
When Shakespeare followed the glazier out of the lodging house, a big man stepped from the shadows and said, "You are Master William Shakespeare." He had to be the fellow who'd spoken to Jane Kendall; his voice came rumbling forth from deep in his chest.
"And if I be he?" Shakespeare asked. "Who are you, and what business have you with me?"
"You are to come with me to Westminster," the man replied. "Forthwith."
"But I'm wanted at the Theatre," Shakespeare said.
"You're wanted in Westminster, and thither shall you go," the big man said implacably. "The wind lies in the east. Come-let's to the river for a wherry. 'Twill be quicker thus." He made the sign of the cross.
"God be my witness, Master Shakespeare, you are not arrested. Nor shall you be, so that you do as you are bid. Now come. Soonest there, soonest gone."
"I am your servant," Shakespeare said, ever so glad he was not-or apparently was not-the other man's captive.
Morning twilight had begun to chase the dark from the eastern sky when they got down to the Thames.
Even so early, half a dozen boatmen shouted at them, eager for a fare. "Whither would you go, my lord?"
one of them asked after the fellow sent to fetch Shakespeare set a silver groat in his hand.
"Westminster," the big man answered.
"I'll hie you there right yarely, sir," the boatman said. He proved good as his word, using both sail and oars to fight his way west against the current. The wind did indeed blow briskly from the east, which helped speed the small boat to Westminster. They got there faster than Shakespeare would have cared to walk, especially when he still would have had trouble seeing where to put his feet.
His-guide? — took him through the maze of palaces and other state buildings. He heard Spanish in the lanes and hallways almost as often as English; Westminster was the beating heart of the Spanish occupation of his country. The mere word made him queasy-it was often used of a man's lying with a woman. And, indeed, through his soldiers King Philip had thrown down Queen Elizabeth, thrown down all of England, and.
"Bide here a moment," the Englishman with the deep voice said, and ducked into an office. He soon came back to the doorway and beckoned. "Come you in." Turning to the man behind the large, ornate desk, he spoke in Spanish: "Don Diego, I present to you SeA±or Shakespeare, the poet." Shakespeare had little Spanish, but followed him well enough to make sense of that. The Englishman gave his attention back to Shakespeare and returned to his native tongue: "Master Shakespeare, here is Don Diego Flores de ValdA©s."
Shakespeare made a leg to the Spaniard. "I am honored beyond my deserts, your Excellency," he said.
In fact, he was more nearly appalled. Diego Flores commanded all of King Philip's soldiers in England.
What knows he?
Instead of translating, as Shakespeare had expected, his guide politely inclined his head to the Spanish grandee and withdrew. Flores proved to speak good if accented English, saying, "Please seat yourself, Senor Chakespeare." He waved to a stool in front of the desk. Like most Spaniards, he made a hash of the sh sound at the start of Shakespeare's name and pronounced it as if it had three syllables.
"Thank you, my lord." Shakespeare perched warily on the stool. He would sooner have fled. Even knowing flight would doom him made it no less tempting. He took a deep breath and forced some player's counterfeit of calm on himself. "How may I serve you today?"
Don Diego Flores studied him before answering. The Spanish commandant was in his fifties, his beard going gray, his hooked nose sharper in his thin face than it might have seemed when he was young. When he said, "I am told you are the best poet in England," he sounded like a man not in the habit of believing what he was told.
"Again I say, your Excellency, you do me too much honor."
"Who surpasseth you?" Flores asked sharply, the Spanish lisp making his English sound old-fashioned.
When Shakespeare did not reply, the officer laughed. "There. You see? Honor pricks you on, more than you think. This I understand. This I admire. If it be a sin to covet honor, I myself am the most offending soul alive." He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "And so-for this were you summoned hither. Because you are the best."