"Nay-only the stink of 'em," Kemp said. But Shakespeare thought he'd soothed the other man's temper before Kemp had to go out again.
And then one of the university wits noticed an inconsistency Dekker had left in the plot and shouted to Kemp: "No, fool, you said just now she'd gone to Canterbury! What a knavish fool thou art, and the blockhead cobbler, too!" His voice was loud and shrill. The whole Theatre must have heard him. Giggles and murmurs and gasps rose from every side.
Burbage started into his next speech. Will Kemp raised a hand. Burbage stopped, startled; the gesture wasn't one they'd rehearsed. Kemp glared out at the undergraduates. "Is it not better," he demanded, "to make a fool of the world as I have done, than to be fooled of the world as you scholars are?"
Their jeers brought the play to a standstill, as he must have known they would. "Wretched puling fool!"
they shouted. "Thou rag! Thou dishclout! Spartan dog! Superstitious, idle-headed boor!"
Kemp beamed out at them, a smile on his round face. "Say on, say on!" he urged them. "Ay, say on, you starveling popinjays, you abject anatomies. Be merry my lads, for coming here you have happened upon the most excellent vocation in the world for money: they come north and south to bring it to our playhouse. And for honors, who is of more report than Dick Burbage and Will Kemp?"
He bowed low. A moment later, Burbage swept off his hat and did the same. The groundlings whooped and cheered them. A couple of the university wits kept trying to mock Kemp and the other players, but most fell silent. They lived a hungry life at Oxford. Had it been otherwise, they would have paid more than a penny each to see The Cobbler's Holiday.
Will Kemp bowed again. "Have we your leave, gentles, to proceed?"
"Ay!" the groundlings roared. The same shout came from the galleries.
"Gramercy," he said, and turned back to Burbage. "I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways. Therefore tremble and depart." As effortlessly as he'd stepped out of character, he returned to it.
"God keep thee out of my sight," Burbage retorted, and the play went on. The Oxford undergraduates troubled it no more. Kemp had outfaced them. Shakespeare hadn't been sure anyone could, but the clown had brought it off.
Afterwards, in the tiring room, everyone made much of Kemp. He was unwontedly modest. As he cleaned greasepaint from his cheeks, he said, "Easy to be bold, bawling out from a crowd like a calf-a moon-calf-seeking his dam's teat. But they went mild as the milk they cried for on seeing me bold in my own person, solus, from the stage."
"Three cheers!" someone called, and they rang from the roof and walls. Will Kemp sprang to his feet and bowed, as he had after subduing the university wits. That set off fresh applause from the crowd around him.
The noise made Shakespeare's head ache. He soaped his face and splashed water on it from a basin.
The sooner he could leave the Theatre today, the happier he would be. He wanted to work on King Philip. The sooner that piece was done, the sooner he could start thinking of his own ideas once more.
They might bring less lucre than those proposed by English noble or Spanish don, but they were his.
His face was buried in a towel when someone spoke in a low voice: "A word with you, Master Shakespeare, an I may?"
He lowered the linen towel. There stood the company's new book-keeper and prompter, the late Geoffrey Martin's replacement. Having compassed the one man's death, Shakespeare dared not ignore the other. "What would you, Master Vincent?" he asked.
"I'd speak with you of your latest, Master Shakespeare, whilst other business distracts the company."
Thomas Vincent nodded towards the crowd of people still hanging on Will Kemp's every word, still sniggering at his every smirk. He had the sense not to name Boudicca; as usual after a performance, not all the folk in the tiring room belonged to Lord Westmorland's Men.
And, for aught I know, we have our own spying serpent amongst us, as Satan did even in Eden, Shakespeare thought. "I attend," he told Vincent.
"A scribe shall make your foul papers into parts the players shall use to learn their lines," the prompter said.
"Certes." Shakespeare nodded. "My character, I know, can be less than easy to make out."
Thomas Vincent nodded, too, relief on his face. "I would not offend, sir, not for the world, but. You knowing of the trouble, I may speak freely."
"By all means," Shakespeare said. Vincent was more polite about it than poor Geoff Martin had been.
Had Shakespeare believed all the late prompter's slanders, he would never have presumed to take pen in hand.
Even if Vincent was polite, he pressed ahead: "And, were your hand never so excellent, your latest still causeth. ah, difficulties in choosing a scribe."
Every time a new pair of eyes saw Boudicca, the risk of betrayal grew. Vincent did his best to say that without actually saying it. Shakespeare didn't need it spelled out. He knew it all too well, as he had since Thomas Phelippes first drew him into the plot. If a scribe writing out fair copies for the players took them to the Spaniards. If that happened, everyone in Lord Westmorland's Men would die the death.
But the poet said, "Fear not." Hearing those words coming from his mouth almost made him laugh out loud. Only when he was sure he wouldn't did he go on, "Haply I may name you a name anon."
"May it be so," Vincent said, and Shakespeare had to remember not to cross himself to echo that sentiment.
IX
It was the middle of a fine, bright morning. When Lope de Vega walked into his rooms in the Spanish barracks, he found his servant curled into a ball under the covers, fast asleep. De Vega sighed.
Diego had been almost unnaturally good and obedient these past few weeks. More surprising than his backsliding was how long it had taken.
Lope shook him, not at all gently. "Wake up! By God and St. James, you're not the best boy in Spain."
Diego muttered something that had no real words in it. Lope shook him again, even harder this time.
"Wake up!" he repeated.
His servant yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Oh, hello, seA±or. I didn't-"
"Expect you," de Vega finished for him, his tone sour. "You're supposed to do your job whether I'm here or not, Diego."
"I know, I know," Diego said sulkily. He yawned again, though he did get out of bed before Lope started screaming at him. "I'm sorry. I'm very sorry. It's only that. I get tired."
He meant it. He was the picture of rumpled sincerity. That he could mean it made Lope marvel. "And the less you do, the more tired you get, too," Lope said. "If you did nothing at all, you would sleep all day long and all night long as well-and you would love every moment of it. Are you a man or an oyster?"
"I am a man who likes oysters," Diego replied with dignity. "Now that you've got me up, what is it that's so important for me to do?"
" El mejor mozo de Espana," Lope told him. "You may not be the best boy in Spain, or even England, but you're damned well in The Best Boy in Spain, and it's time to rehearse. Come on. Get moving. Do you want Enrique to give you the horse laugh?"
"You think I care about that maricA?n?" Diego said. "Not likely. If his arsehole isn't wider than the Thames-"
"Enough of your filth!" Lope exclaimed. "You've said it before, but you've got no proof. None. Not a farthing's worth. Not a flyspeck's worth. So keep your mouth shut and don't make trouble. It'll turn out worse for you than for the people you're trying to hurt, and you can bet on that."
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes." Diego struck a pose more dramatic than any he was likely to take in The Best Boy in Spain. "When an ordinary fellow says anything about a nobleman's servant, he's always wrong. Even when he's right, he's wrong."