Ruled Britannia by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page B

page, he could and sometimes did lose track of time. He’d ducked home past patrols more than once.
    From the chest by his bed, he took his second-best spoon—pewter—a couple of quills, a knife to trim them, ink, and three sheets of paper. He sometimes wished he followed a less expensive calling; each sheet cost more than a loaf of bread. He locked the chest once more, then hurried off to the ordinary around the corner. He sat down at the table with the biggest, fattest candle on it: he wanted the best light he could find for writing.
    A serving woman came up to him. “Good even, Master Will. What’ll you have?”
    â€œHello, Kate. What’s the threepenny tonight?”
    â€œKidney pie, and monstrous good,” she said. He nodded. She brought it to him, with a mug of beer. He dug in with the spoon, eating quickly. When he was through, he spread out his papers and got to work. Love’s Labour’s Won wasn’t going so well as he wished it would. He couldn’t lose himself in it, and had no trouble recalling when curfew neared. After he went back to the lodging house, he got a candle of his own from his trunk—Jack Street was already snoring in the bed next to his—lit it at the hearth, and set it on a table. Then he started writing again, and kept at it till he could hold his eyes open no more. He had his story from Boccaccio, but this labor, won or lost, reminded him of the difference between a story and a finished play.
    The next day, he performed again at the Theatre. He almost forgot he had a supper engagement that evening, and had to grab his bestspoon—silver—and rush from his lodging house. To his relief, Christopher Marlowe and his mysterious friend hadn’t got there yet. Shakespeare ordered a mug of beer and waited for them.
    They came in perhaps a quarter of an hour later. The other man was no one Shakespeare had seen before: a skinny little fellow in his forties, with dark blond hair going gray and a lighter beard that didn’t cover all his pockmarks. He wore spectacles, but still squinted nearsightedly. Marlowe introduced him as Thomas Phelippes. Shakespeare got up from his stool and bowed. “Your servant, sir.”
    â€œNo, yours.” Phelippes had a high, thin, fussily precise voice.
    They all shared a roast capon and bread and butter. Phelippes had little small talk. He seemed content to listen to Shakespeare and Marlowe’s theatre gossip. After a while, once no one sat close enough to overhear, Shakespeare spoke directly to him: “Kit says you may have somewhat of business for me. Of what sort is’t?”
    â€œWhy, the business of England’s salvation, of course,” Thomas Phelippes told him.

II

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    â€œW ELL , E NRIQUE, WHAT does Captain Guzmán want to see me about today?” Lope de Vega asked.
    â€œI think it has something to do with your report on If You Like It ,” Guzmán’s servant answered. “Just what, though, I cannot tell you. Lo siento mucho .” He spread his hands in apology, adding, “Myself, I thought the report very interesting. This Shakespeare is a remarkable man, is he not?”
    â€œNo.” Lope spoke with a writer’s precision. “As a man , he is anything but remarkable. He drinks beer, he makes foolish jokes, he looks at pretty girls—he has a wife out in the provinces somewhere, and children, but I do not think it troubles him much here in London. Ordinary, as I say. But put a pen in his hand, and all at once it is as though God and half the saints were whispering in his ear. As a playwright , ‘remarkable’ is too small a word for him.”
    Guzmán’s door was open. Enrique went in first, to let him know de Vega had arrived. Lope waited in the hallway till Enrique called, “His Excellency will see you now, Lieutenant.”
    Lope strode into his superior’s office. He and Baltasar Guzmán exchanged bows and