"When an ordinary fellow talks about a nobleman's servant, he'd better be right," Lope said. "And you aren't, or you can't prove you are. So you'd better shut up about that."
"All right, seA±or. I'll keep quiet." Diego still sounded surly. "But you'll see whether I'm right or not. In the end, you'll see. And when you do, I'm going to say, I told you so.' "
"Don't gloat till you have the chance," Lope said. "For that matter, remember your station in life. Whether you're right or you're wrong, you're still a servant. You're still my servant. So don't gloat too much even if you turn out to be right."
That sat none too well with Diego. Lope could see as much. But the servant put on a pair of shoes and accompanied him to the courtyard where his makeshift company was rehearsing El mejor mozo de Espana. Even in Spain, it would have made a spartan rehearsal ground. Here in England, where de Vega could compare it to the luxury of the Theatre and the other halls where plays were presented, it seemed more austere yet.
Austere? Lope laughed at himself. What you really mean is cheap, makeshift, shabby. He wondered what Shakespeare would think, seeing what he had to work with. Shakespeare was a gentle, courteous man. He would, without a doubt, give what praise he could. He would also, and equally without a doubt, be appalled.
As Lope had expected, Enrique was already there. He sat on the ground, his back against a brick wall, as he solemnly studied his parts. He was to play several small roles: a Moor, a page, and one of Ferdinand's friends. When he saw Lope, he sprang to his feet and bowed. " Buenos dias, senor."
Polite as a cat, he also bowed to Diego, though not so deeply. " Buenos dA-as."
"A good day to you as well," Lope replied, and bowed back as superior to inferior. Diego, still grouchy, only nodded. Lope trod on his foot. Thus cued, he did bow. Lope didn't want Captain Guzman's servant offended by anyone connected to him.
Enrique didn't seem offended. He seemed enthusiastic. He waved sheets of paper in the air. "This is an excellent play, senor, truly excellent. No one in Madrid will see anything better this year. I'm sure of that."
"You are too kind," Lope murmured. He was no more immune to flattery than anyone else-he was less immune to flattery than a lot of people. When he bowed again to show his pleasure, it was almost as equal to equal. Diego looked disgusted. De Vega debated stepping on his foot again.
Before he could, Enrique asked, "Tell me, seA±or, is it really true what the soldier over there says? A real woman, a real Spanish woman, is going to play Isabella? That will be wonderful-wonderful, I tell you. The wife of an officer who could afford to bring her here, he told me."
De Vega shot Diego a look that said, Would he be so happy about a woman if he didn't care for them? His servant's sneer replied, All he cares about is the play. If she makes it better, that's what matters to him. With a scowl, Lope turned back to Enrique. "A woman, yes. A Spaniard, of course-could an Englishwoman play our great Queen? The wife of an officer? No. Don Alejandro brought his mistress-her name's Catalina Ibanez-to London, not his wife. And a good thing, too, for the play. A nobleman's wife could never appear on stage. That would be scandalous. But his mistress?
No trouble there."
"Ah. I see." Enrique nodded. "I did wonder. But it is Don Alejandro de Recalde's woman, then?
Corporal Fernandez had that right?"
"Yes, he did," Lope said.
Diego guffawed. "If I had a choice between bringing my wife and my mistress to this miserable, freezing place, I'd bring the one who kept me warmer, too."
"Be careful, or you'll be sorry," Enrique whispered through lips that hardly moved. "Here she comes."
Don Alejandro's mistress knew how to make an entrance. She swept into the courtyard with a couple of serving women in her wake. They were both pretty, but seemed plain beside her. She was tiny but perfect. No, not quite perfect: she had a tiny mole by the corner of her mouth.
Be careful, or you'll be sorry. De Vega knew Enrique hadn't been talking to him, and hadn't meant that kind of care when he was talking to Diego. But the servant's words might have been meant for Lope. He couldn't take his eyes off Catalina IbaA±ez. and where his eyes went, he wanted his hands and his lips to follow.
He swept off his hat and bowed as low to her as if she really were Isabella of Castile, the first Queen of a united Spain. " Buenos dias, Dona Catalina," he said. A noble's mistress didn't really deserve to be called doA±a; out of the corner of his eye, he saw status-conscious Enrique raise an eyebrow some tiny fraction of an inch.
Catalina Ibanez accept the title as nothing less than her due. " Buenos dias," she replied with truly queenly condescension. Her black eyes snapped. "Is everyone ready? Is everything ready?" Everyone and everything had better be, her tone warned. When Lope didn't say no, she nodded grudging approval. "Let's get on with the rehearsal, then. I have plenty of other things to do once I'm finished here." She tossed her head.
Be careful, or you'll be sorry. Lope hadn't lived his life being careful. He found it wildly unlikely he'd start now. Yes, Catalina Ibanez was a nobleman's plaything. Yes, she was trouble in a beautiful wrapping. Yes, she had no more pity and no more regard for anyone else than a cat did. Lope knew all that. Every bit of it was obvious at first glance. None of it stopped him from falling in love. Nothing had ever stopped him from falling in love.
He hadn't fallen out of love with Lucy Watkins. He didn't fall out of love with one woman when he fell in love with another. No, his way was to pile one love on another, adding delight to delight. till the whole rickety structure came crashing down on top of him, as it had outside the bear-baiting arena down in Southwark.
He gazed at Catalina Ibanez-and found her looking back, those midnight eyes full of old, cold wisdom. She knew. Oh yes, she knew. He hadn't said a word yet, but she knew everything there was to know. He didn't think she could read or write, but some things, plainly, she'd been born knowing.
Be careful, or you'll be sorry. Lope sighed. He saw no way this could possibly end well. He intended to go on with it, go through with it, anyhow.
Later. Not yet. El mejor mozo de Espana came first. Even set beside his love affairs, the words, the rhymes, the verses in his head counted for more. What had Shakespeare said in Prince of Denmark?
The play's the thing-that was the line. "Take your places, then, ladies and gentlemen," Lope said. "First act, first scene. We'll start from where Rodrigo the page enters with his guitar and speaks to Isabella."
Rodrigo was played by the strapping Spanish corporal named Joaquin Fernandez. He was tall as a tree, blond as an Englishman, handsome as an angel-and wooden as a block. He stumbled through his lines.
Catalina Ibanez replied,
"Tres cosas parecen bien:
el religioso rezando,
el gallardo caballero
ejercitando el acero,
y la dama honesta silando."
She wasn't just pretty. She could act. Unlike poor Fernandez (whose good looks still worried Lope), when she spoke, you believed three things seemed good to her-a monk praying, a gallant knight going to war sword in hand, and an honest woman spinning.
That had to be acting. De Vega couldn't imagine Catalina IbaA±ez caring about monks or honest women spinning-gallant knights were liable to be a different story. But, listening to her, you believed she cared, and that was the mystery of acting. If the audience believed, nothing else mattered.