He should have gone straight to the Theatre. He might have found some quiet time to write before the rest of the company came in and began rehearsing for the day's play.
Instead, though, he wandered south and east, away from the suburbs beyond the wall and down towards the river. He didn't know-or rather, didn't care to admit to himself-where he was going till he got there.
By the time he neared the lowland by the Thames, the fog hung a little above the ground.
But even the thickest fog would have had a hard time concealing the Tower of London. Its formidable gray stone wall and towers shouldered their way into the air. People said Julius Caesar had first raised the Tower. Shakespeare didn't know whether that was true or not, though he'd used the conceit in a couple of plays. The Tower surely seemed strong and indomitable enough to have stood since Roman days.
However strong it seemed, it hadn't kept the Spaniards out of London. And now, somewhere in there, Queen Elizabeth sat and brooded and waited for-deliverance? Can I help to give it her? Or give I but myself to death?
V
After Christmas mass, Lope de Vega and Baltasar Guzman happened to come out of the church of St. Swithin together. Lope bowed to his superior. " Feliz Navidad, your Excellency," he said.
Guzman, polite as a cat, returned the bow. "And a happy Christmas to you as well, Senior Lieutenant," he replied. "I have a duty for you."
De Vega wished he'd ignored courtesy. "On the holy day?" he asked, dismayed.
"Yes, on the holy day." Captain Guzman nodded. "I am sorry, but it is necessary, and necessary that you do it today." He didn't sound sorry. He never sounded sorry. He was stubborn as a cat, too; he went on, "I want you to take yourself to the church of St. Ethelberge"-another English name he massacred-"and ask the priest there if this poet friend of yours, this Shakespeare, has come to partake of our Lord's body and blood on the anniversary of His birth."
"Ah." However much Lope wished otherwise, Captain GuzmA?n was right here, as he had been with going after John Walsh-this was a necessary duty. "I shall attend to it directly. And if he has not?"
"If he has not, make note of it, but do no more now," GuzmA?n replied. "Then we watch him closely ten days from now. If he celebrates Christmas by the old calendar, the forbidden calendar, we shall know him for a Protestant heretic."
"Yes, sir." Lope sighed. "Heretic or not, we surely know him for a splendid poet."
"And if his splendid poetry serves Satan and the foes of Spain, isn't he all the more dangerous for being splendid?" Guzman said.
And he was right about that, too. Again, Lope wished otherwise. Again, he sighed. But, because Captain GuzmA?n was right, de Vega asked, "How do I find this church of St. Ethelberge?" He had almost as much trouble with the name as his superior had done, and added, "Where do the English find such people to canonize? Swithin here, Ethelberge there, and I hear there is also a St. Erkenwald in this kingdom.
Truly I wonder if Rome has ever heard of these so-called saints."
"I have plenty of worries, but not that one," Baltasar GuzmA?n said. "If the Inquisition and the Society of Jesus found these saints were fraudulent, the churches dedicated to their memories would not stay open."
He's right yet again, Lope thought, surprised and a little resentful. Three times in a row, all of a Christmas morning. He'd better be careful. If he keeps that up, I may have to start taking him seriously. He wouldn't like that, and I wouldn't, either. Since GuzmA?n hadn't answered him the first time, he tried again: "How do I find St. Ethelberge's church, Captain?"
"It's Shakespeare's parish church,? Shakespeare lives in Bishopsgate? Go to Bishopsgate. You know the way there?" Guzman waited for Lope to respond. He had to nod, for he did know the way to and through that district: it led out of London proper to the Theatre. "All right, then," the captain told him. "Go to Bishopsgate. If you find the church yourself, fine. If you don't, ask someone. Who wouldn't tell a man how to get to a church on Christmas morning?"
He was, of course, right yet again. "I go," Lope said, and hurried off toward Bishopsgate as much to escape Captain GuzmA?n and his alarmingly sharp wits as to find out whether Shakespeare had been to Mass. Even though the day was gloomy, London's houses and public buildings made a brave show, being decorated with wreaths and strands of holly and ivy, now and then wound up with broom. Many of the ornaments had candles burning in them, too. In the first couple of years after the coming of the Armada, such signs of the season had been rare. Elizabeth and her heretic advisors discouraged them, as they'd discouraged so many observances from the ritual year. But, with the return of Catholicism, the customs that had flourished before Henry VIII broke with Rome were also coming back to life.
Many doors stood open, the rich odors of cookery wafting out warring with those of garbage and sewage. From Advent, the fourth Sunday before the Nativity, to Christmas Eve, people restricted their diets. On Christmas Eve itself, meat, cheese, and eggs were all forbidden. But Christmas. Christmas was a day of release, and also of sharing. Only skinflints closed their doors against visitors on Christmas Day.
A man in what looked like a beggar's rags with a roast goose leg in one hand and a mug of wine in the other came up the street toward Lope. By the way he wobbled as he walked, he'd already downed several mugs. But he gave Lope an extravagant bow all the same. "God bless you on the day, sir," he said.
"And you, sir," de Vega replied, returning the bow as if to an equal. On Christmas, as on Easter, were not all men equal in Christ?
Lope did have to ask after St. Ethelberge's church. But people indeed proved eager to help him find it.
He got there just when a Mass was ending. And he got his answer without having to ask the priest, for with his own eyes he saw Shakespeare coming out of the church in a slashed doublet of black and crimson as fancy as anything Christopher Marlowe might wear.
Lope thought about waving and calling out a greeting. He thought about it for a heartbeat, and then thought better of it. He ducked around a corner instead, before Shakespeare spotted him. What excuse could he offer for being in Bishopsgate on Christmas morning, save that he was spying on the English poet? None, and he knew it.
He got back to the barracks in the center of town without asking anyone for directions. That left him proud of himself; he was strutting as he made his way to Captain Guzman's office. And he'd been right, and GuzmA?n, for once, wrong. That added to the strut. He looked forward to rubbing his superior's nose in it.
Whatever he looked for, he didn't get it. When he opened the door, Guzman wasn't there. His servant, Enrique, sat behind his desk, frowning in concentration over a quarto edition of one of Marlowe's plays.
He read English better than he spoke it, though still none too well.
He didn't notice the door opening. Lope had to cough. "Oh!" Enrique said in surprise, blinking behind his spectacles. "Good day, Senior Lieutenant."
"Good day," Lope replied politely. "Where's your principal?"
"He was bidden to a feast, sir," Guzman's servant replied. "He left me behind here to take your report.
Did the priest at this church with the name no sane man could pronounce see Senor Shakespeare at Mass today?"
"What do you do if I tell you no?" de Vega asked, trying not to show how angry he was. GuzmA?n could send him off to Bishopsgate on Christmas morning, but did the noble stay around to hear what he'd found? Not likely! He went off to have a good time. And if I'd been here, maybe someone would have invited me to this feast, too.