Ruled Britannia Part 42

Still more combat crowded the stage. Now, instead of Iceni routing Romans, the Romans, reviving, routed in their turn the Britons. The groundlings--yes, and the galleries, too--wailed in dismay as Boudicca and her daughters and Caratach mured themselves up in a last fortress to stand remorseless, relentless Roman siege. Poenius fell on his sword for shame.

In the fort, Boudicca raged against the soldiers who had failed her, shrieking,

"Shame! Wherefore flew ye, unlucky Britons?

Will ye creep into your mothers' wombs again?

Hares, fearful doves in your angers! Fail me?

Leave your Queen desolate? Her hopeless girls To Roman rape and rage once more? Cowards!

Shame treads upon your heels! All is lost! Hark, Hark how the cursed Romans ring our knells!"

From the balcony above the tiring room, which did duty for the battlements of the fort, Epona spoke to the Roman general, Suetonius: "Hear me, mark me well, and look upon me Directly in my face, my woman's face, Whose sole beauty is the hate it bears you; See if one fear, one shadow of terror, One paleness dare appear apart from rage, To lay hold on your mercy. No, you fool, d.a.m.ned fool, we were not born for your triumph, To follow your gay sports, and fill your slaves With hoots and acclamations. You shall see-- In spite of all your eagles' wings, we'll work A pitch above you; and from our height we'll stoop, Fearless of your b.l.o.o.d.y talons."

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 s.n.a.t.c.h'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 ill.u.s.trated, 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 G.o.ds 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, severalreal fights broke out--more of the upper cla.s.ses, 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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sion, 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 a.s.sistant, 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.

Eight or ten young players, some who'd portrayed Romans and others Iceni, followed him, allies now against the Spaniards. "To the Tower!" they shouted, one after another. The youth who'd played Epona threw down his wig and rushed after them, still in a woman's shift.

And then, to Shakespeare's amazement and dismay, Burbage and Will Kemp tramped forward together, both of them plainly intent on marching on the Tower of London, too. Shakespeare seized Burbage's arm. "Hold, d.i.c.k!" he said urgently. "Let not this wild madness infect your wit. Can a swarm of rude mechanicals pull down those gray stone walls? The soldiers on 'em'll work a fearful slaughter. Throw not your life away."

Before Burbage could answer, Will Kemp did: "The soldiery on the walls may work a fearful slaughter, ay, an they have the stomach for't. But think you 'twill be so? A plot that stretcheth to the Theatre surely shall not fall short of the Tower."

Shakespeare pondered that. Of course, William Cecil's plans--Robert Cecil's now--went far beyond this production of Boudicca. The poet had seen that from the beginning. He'd seen it, but he hadn't seen all of what it meant. Here Kemp certainly saw more than he had.

Burbage added, "Having come so far, Will, would you not watch what your words have wrought?"

"Thus spake Kit Marlowe of's return to London," Shakespeare said, "and much joy he had of't." But Burbage and Kemp both jumped down onto the hard-packed dirt where the groundlings stood. Oncemore, Shakespeare discovered the desire not to seem a coward to his friends could push him forward where fear of death would have held him back. Cursing under his breath, d.a.m.ning himself for a suicide and a fool, he sprang down, too.

Another stage-Roman landed beside him and offered him a knife, saying, "I can well spare it, for I have me also this fine long sword."

"My thanks," Shakespeare said. What good the dagger would do against the arquebuses and cannon of the garrison in the Tower, he couldn't imagine. Having it somehow gave comfort even so.

Only one narrow doorway led into and out of the Theatre, the better to keep cheats from sneaking in without paying. The crowd took some little while to filter out through it. Shakespeare wondered whether the delay would stifle spirits. But no; shouts of, "To the Tower!" and, "To free the Queen!" and, "G.o.d bless good Queen Bess!" doubled and redoubled.

When at last Shakespeare escaped the building, he saw several thick columns of black smoke rising from different parts of London. Through the din and gabble around him, the distant crackle of arquebuses and pistols going off and the deeper, slower boom of cannon fire came to his ears. The city was already rising against the occupiers.

"Said I not so?" Will Kemp bawled in his ear.

"You did. And you had the right of it." Shakespeare gave credit where it was due, admitting what he could hardly deny.

Roaring down towards Bishopsgate, the crowd from the Theatre cried Elizabeth's name again and again, ever louder, ever more fiercely. They called down curses on the heads of Philip II, Philip III, and every Spaniard ever born. They cursed Isabella and Albert, too. And, every now and again, one of them would bawl out a line or two from Boudicca. Pride flowered in Shakespeare's breast. I am father to this, he thought: not the sole father, but father nonetheless.

They hadn't come far into the rickety clutter of tenements and shops and dives of Bishopsgate Ward Without the Wall when a constable--not Walter Strawberry, but a younger, thinner man with a red-blond beard--stepped into the middle of the street, held up a hand, and shouted, "Stand, there! Stand, I say!

What means this unseemly brabble?"

They showed him. Someone at the head of the baying pack stooped, picked up a stone, and flung it. It caught the constable in the face. Shakespeare, taller than most, saw blood spurt as the constable's nose smashed to ruin. With a moan, the man clutched at himself and sank to his knees. The pack rolled over him, punching, kicking, stomping, stabbing.

By the time Shakespeare went past, the constable was hardly more than a red smear trampled into the stinking muck. The poet's stomach lurched. He stumbled on, fighting not to spew up his guts. And I am father to that, he told himself, wishing he could find a sweet, soothing lie instead: not the sole father, but father nonetheless.

People stared from windows and doorways. Even here, murder was seldom done so openly. Even here, curses were seldom cried so loud, or from so many throats at once. And if anything could draw shopkeepers and laborers, robbers and thieves, barmaids and trulls, open murder and loud curses seemed the proper lodestones. The crowd swelled, as if by magic.

Every step closer to Bishopsgate raised more alarm in Shakespeare. The Spaniards and wild Irishmen standing guard at the gate would not let themselves be taken unawares, as the luckless constable haddone. (Had he a wife? Children? He'd come home to them no more.) If they had time, they would close the gates against this storm. Even if they didn't, they'd surely stand and fight.

Daylight was fading, the sun sinking down through smoke towards Westminster. More than enough light remained, though, to show that Bishopsgate stood open. Cheers rose from countless throats, cheers and a renewed cry: "To the Tower! On to the Tower!"

Blood splashed the gray stone walls of the gateway. One Spanish boot lay crumpled close by. Those were the only signs Shakespeare saw that soldiers had ever stood here. Were they dead? Fled? Some dead, a.s.suredly, he thought, eyeing the bloodstains and that boot and wondering what had befallen the man who'd worn it.

"On to the Tower! To the Tower! To free Elizabeth! To free the Queen!" Those savage shouts grew louder as the crowd from the Theatre--and from the tenements beyond the walls--swarmed into London like a conquering army. But how much like a conquering army? Shakespeare wondered, and then wished he hadn't.

They weren't the only swarm loose in the city. More cries and curses rose: some single spies, some in battalions. Madness was loosed here. Maybe Robert Cecil had worked better than even he knew.

"A don! A don!" A new shout went up. So might hunters have cried, A fox! A fox! Shakespeare got a glimpse of the Spaniard, saw horrified amazement spread across his face, saw him turn and start to run, and saw an Englishman tackle him from behind as if in a Shrove Tuesday football match. The Spaniard went down with a wail. He never got up again.

If the Spaniards could have put a line of arquebusiers in front of the rampaging crowd from the Theatre and poured a couple of volleys into it, it would have melted away. Shakespeare was sure of that. A line of armored pikemen might have halted it, too. Even as things were, groundlings and folk from the tenements--some still yelling about freeing Elizabeth--broke away to plunder shops that tempted them.

But no line of ferocious, lean-faced, swarthy Spaniards appeared. Shouts and cries and the harsh snarl of gunfire suggested the dons were busy, desperately busy, elsewhere in London. When chance swept Shakespeare and Richard Burbage together for a moment, the player said, "Belike they'll make a stand at the Tower."

"Likely so," Shakespeare agreed unhappily. Those frowning walls had been made to hold back an army, and this . . . thing he was a part of was anything but.

Up Tower Hill, where he'd watched the auto de fe almost a year before. A great roar, a roar full of triumph, rose from the men in front of him as they pa.s.sed the crest of the hill and swept on towards the Tower Ditch and the walls beyond. And when Shakespeare crested the hill himself, he looked ahead and he roared, too, in joy and amazement and suddenly flaring hope. Will Kemp had been right, right and more than right. All the gates to the Tower of London stood open.

AFTER TENDERLY KISSING Cicely Sellis goodbye, Lope de Vega stopped in a nearby ordinary for his dinner and a cup of wine with which to celebrate his conquest. The cup of wine became two, then three, and then four: a conquest like that deserved a good deal of celebrating. By the time he started off towards the Spanish barracks, the clock had already struck one. That didn't worry him. As far as he could remember, he had nowhere else he needed to be.