But Gresham had only met Shakespeare that very morning! Burbage had introduced them merely hours earlier! And yet, after pausing only long enough to drop off the Darcies at their home, Gresham came straight here to meet with the dark-cloaked stranger and, apparently, to give him money. Money which had now been used to hire these blackguards to help kill his friend! Smythe knew he had to get back to the Theatre as quickly as possible and warn Will of the danger. But his horse was in the very stable where the men were standing even now.
In the next instant, he heard the sound of hooves on the hard-packed dirt floor in the stable and he just had time to duck back out of the way as four riders came trotting out, led by the dark-cloaked stranger. They spurred up to a canter and headed off down the street… in the direction of the Burbage Theatre.
Smythe bolted into the stable and ran to get his horse. He did not even know which stall the murderous ostler had put his horse in. Desperately, he started checking all the ones that weren't empty. The fourth one he checked held his mount, still saddled, fortunately. The ostler had merely loosened up the girth to let the animal breathe more easily. As Smythe quickly cinched up the girth, he felt a hand upon his shoulder. Startled, he spun around, raising his fist… and came face-to-face with a masked man, holding a dagger to his throat.
"Easy there, Tuck," he said, pulling down the black scarf covering the lower portion of his face. "You wouldn't want to hit your old friend, Black Billy, would your"
"Sir William! Good Lord! What the devil are you doing here?"
"I might well ask you the same thing, sport."
"Damn it, sir, there is no time for explanations, they have gone to kill him!"
Worley frowned. "Kill whom?"
"Will! Will Shakespeare!"
"Shakespeare? You mean your poet friend?"
"Aye! I heard them! The stranger in the cloak has paid those men to go help murder him! 'Twas all done on Gresham's orders, I am certain of it!"
"Bloody hell!" Sir William swore. "They are after the wrong man."
"What?"
"They have mistaken your friend Shakespeare for Chris Marlowe."
"What? But why would they want Marlowe dead?"
"Because he works for me. Now come on, get on your horse! There is no time to lose if you wish to save your friend."
Smythe needed no encouragement. He quickly backed the horse out of the stall and swung up into the saddle. Sir William had already gone outside. As Smythe came out, Sir William was running across the courtyard. Near the entrance, a man was holding two horses. Sir William spoke to him quickly as he mounted one of them and Smythe saw the man nod emphatically, then mount the other and set spurs, kicking up into a gallop.
As Smythe came riding up, Sir William shouted, "I have sent for help. But we shall get there first. Come on! Bide like the Devil himself is on your heels!"
Chapter 13
THOUGH SMYTHE WAS THOROUGHLY PERPLEXED about Sir William's part in these events, there was no time for any questions as they galloped through the streets of London, scattering all those before them. Sir William led the way on a bay barb, riding switch and spurs as he set a breakneck pace, his cloak billowing out behind him. Smythe was hard pressed to keep up. He had grown up around horses and could ride almost as soon as he could walk, but he was no match for Sir William, who rode as if he were a centaur. As they galloped like berserk cavalrymen in a charge, Smythe knew that on these often slippery, refuse-strewn city streets, if either of their horses fell at this pace, chances were that neither horse nor rider would survive. As for anyone who happened to be in their way, Lord help them if they did not move quickly enough.
As they approached Shoreditch, Smythe realized that it was later in the day than he had thought. He could hear the final trumpet blowing from the Theatre, and it struck him that he had been so intent upon following Gresham that he had lost all track of time. He had completely forgotten about that afternoon's performance… the very performance that was to have been his debut upon the stage with his one line.
It made no difference anymore, he thought with resignation. It was much too late to worry about that now, and missing his first performance was now the least of his concerns. Those killers had a head start on them, though it was doubtful they had ridden as quickly. Smythe wondered if there was any chance that they could catch them. And for that matter, if they did, Smythe wasn't sure how much help he would be. Like a fool, he had left his sword back at the Theatre, in the tiring room. Carrying his dagger was second nature to him. He simply tucked the sheath into his belt without even thinking about it. But having never worn a sword before coming to London, he could not seem to get into the habit and he kept forgetting it. And even if he had remembered it, he was under no illusion that he was any kind of swordsman. He had received instruction from his uncle, but he would be no match for a trained mercenary, an assassin. He recalled that set-to in the tavern with those drunks during the street riot. If Marlowe hadn't been there, things might have gone quite badly. These were not taproom bravos they would be up against, but sober and clear-headed killers. Sir William had his own fencing master. All Smythe had were some lessons from his uncle… and no sword.
As they raced across the field toward the Theatre, in the distance, Smythe could see the people gathering for the play. By now, most of the audience would have already gone inside. The groundlings would be packing the yard and the galleries would be almost full. Ahead of them, he thought he saw the four riders they were chasing, but he wasn't certain.
"There they are!" Sir William shouted, pointing.
Yes, it was them! Smythe could see the long black cloak on the lead rider. But they would never catch up to them before they reached the Theatre. Even now, Smythe could see that the four riders had reached the gate and were dismounting, handing their horses over to the ostlers by the gate. Once they got inside, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find them in the crowd. He had not been able to get a good look at any of them, save the one ostler to whom he gave his horse back at the inn. That one man, whom he had seen only briefly, was all that he would have to go by, aside from the black cloak of the leader, whose face he had never even caught a glimpse of. Smythe felt his heart sink. His best chance would be to reach Will first and warn him of the danger.
As they came galloping up to the Theatre, a couple of the ostlers came running up to meet them, doubtless thinking they were late arrivals hurrying to catch the opening of the performance. They recognized Smythe at once and reacted with surprise.
"Smythe! Odd's blood! Where have you been? You're late!"
"Aye, Will's been asking everybody if they'd seen you. The play's already started!"
"Never mind that," Smythe said. "There were four riders who arrived ahead of us, big, tough-looking rufflers, led by a man in a long black cloak. Who took their horses?"
"Dunno. Never saw them."
"Wait, I think I did! Tommy got one of them, I think."
"Where's Tommy?"
"In the stables, I should imagine. Why?"
"Those men came here to kill Will."
"What, Kemp?"
"No, no! Shakespeare! They are going to kill Will Shakespeare!"
"What? Are you joking?"
"I am in deadly earnest! Run and get Tommy, right away! Find out who got their other horses. We have to find those men in there before they get to Will!"
"God blind me!"
"Go!" said Smythe. "Get all the other ostlers, too! And tell them to get weapons! These men are killers! Hurry!"
"Wait!" Sir William said, sharply, as both ostlers started off. "Not both of you, for God's sake! You, stay here and hold the horses. Now, listen to me. There will be men arriving shortly. Tell them that Sir William gave strict instructions to close off the playhouse and make certain no one leaves until I give the word. And then to stand by for further orders. Understand?"
"Aye, milord!"
"Good man," Sir William said. He turned to Smythe. "Now, did you get a good look at any
of them?"
"I caught a glimpse of one of them," said Smythe. "I think I would recognize him if I saw him again."
"For your friend's sake, you had damn well better hope so. Where is he now? Is he in the production?"
"He is the book-holder for this play," said Smythe. "He will be inside, backstage, in the wings."
"Would these men know that?"
Smythe thought quickly, then nodded. "Aye, 'tis very likely. Dick Burbage brought Will over to meet Sir Anthony this morning at rehearsal. Dick said that he was interested in plays and was a possible investor, and so he puffed things up a bit and told Sir Anthony that Will was about to make his mark as one of England's greatest playwrights."
"And he signed his death warrant in the process," replied Sir William. "Gresham has your friend confused with Marlowe."
"But… why would Sir Anthony make such a mistake?"
"Because he is not Sir Anthony!"
"What? Not Sir Anthony? What do you mean? You called him Gresham."
"Aye, Alastair Gresham. Anthony's twin brother."
"His twin brother?"
"I shall explain later. There is no time now, we have to find those men. The guard will be arriving shortly. We need to get to your friend, Shakespeare, in the meantime, and keep him out of sight. 'Tis doubtful that they shall try anything during the play, but afterward, when everyone is leaving, would be the perfect time for them to make their move. Or perhaps during the break between the acts. Then they could slip away in the confusion. How long is the first act? When does the break come?"
Smythe was at a loss. "I… I cannot remember! After the second act, I think. Aye, after the second act. But as to the time…"
"Never mind. Get to your friend. Warn him and tell him to stay out of sight. When your ostler friends arrive, have several of them stay with him to protect him, then take the others and get out among the groundlings in the yard. 'Tis where those men will be. If you recognize the one you saw, point him out discreetly and have your ostler friends get as close to him as they can. Watch to see with whom he speaks, that will help us to spot the others. I will look for the one in the black cloak. With any luck, we shall have them before they can make their move." He glanced down and frowned. "Where the devil is your sword?"
"I… I left it in the tiring room."
"Well, there's a useful place for it," Sir William said, wryly. "Be a good lad and get it, will you? I suspect you may have use for it before too long."
As they went into the crowded yard, they separated and Sir William made his way around to the far side, heading toward the stairs leading to the upper galleries. Smythe made his way along the railing of the lower gallery toward the stage, which projected out into the yard.
The groundlings, those members of the audience who had paid the cheapest rate of admission and stood in the dirt yard to watch the play, had packed the yard so completely that there was scarcely any room to move. Under any other circumstances, Smythe would have been pleased to see that, for it meant more money for the ostlers, more revenue for the company, more profit for the Theatre, and a boost in Shakespeare's reputation for having so improved the play that the size of the audience had nearly tripled. The groundlings stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the yard and as Smythe looked up, it seemed to him that every seat in the upper galleries was filled, as well. Good news for the company, bad news for anyone trying to pick out four men amongst this crowd… four men who could easily have split up by now.
It occurred to Smythe as he tried to make his way through the crowd that none of this was as he had imagined it would be. Back home, somehow, he had always pictured the London stage as being so much more elegant, so much more… refined. Actually, quite the opposite was true. All around him, coarse and common-looking people were shifting their weight from foot to foot, changing position to avoid discomfort or else in an attempt to get a better view. They talked amongst themselves and laughed and belched and farted boistrously and called out to others they recognized among the crowd, even while the play was already in progress. A steady drizzle had started to come down into the open yard, which so strongly resembled the courtyards of the country's inns, upon which the design of the Theatre had been modeled, with only the galleries upon the upper stories covered over with wood and thatch roofing. The light rain was soaking into the thick thatch and making the rushes strewn over the hard packed dirt of the yard slippery underfoot, the wet smell of the straw mingling with the steamy smell of bodies in damp woollen cloaks and the acrid odor of urine from theatregoers relieving themselves into the scattered straw. The briney smell of the Thames blown in upon the breeze hung over everything, occasionally bringing with it on the air the shouts of the rivermen in their boats not too far distant. Together with the creaking of the floorboards on the stage and on the walkways of the galleries, it all had a strangely nautical feel, as if the entire edifice were some sort of crudely constructed ship, its timbers sagging wetly as it floated at its moorings.
Smythe looked for Sir William and spotted him after a few moments, heading up the back stairs to the uppermost gallery, where he would have a commanding view of the stage and the entire courtyard. Smythe quickly swept the galleries with his gaze, but saw no sign of the mysterious man in the black cloak.
He continued to make his way up toward the stage, shouldering through the crowd and getting some shoves and surly remarks back as he went. It was maddening. They simply would not get out of his way and a couple of times, he almost got into fights as he pushed and bulled his way through. Then, with a sudden burst of inspiration, he started coughing, bringing a handkerchief up to his mouth, as if he were spewing every time he coughed. Ever mindful of the Plague, people suddenly shrank back from him, turning their faces away with expressions of alarm, and he made much quicker progress. Soon, he had reached the front of the stage, which projected out into the courtyard like a wooden pier into a river of churning flesh.
The crowd was packed so thickly, people were even sitting on the edge of the stage, watching the performance, so close to the actors that they could reach out and touch them. Smythe tried to determine at what point in the play they were. The production ran about two hours long, with the acts divided into roughly equal parts. Two acts in the beginning, two acts at the end, with a break in the middle. They were at least halfway through the first act, perhaps a little more. He wasn't sure. He had enough trouble remembering his one line, much less everybody else's. All he knew was that his line had come a short way into the second act, right after Kemp announced, "I would give a king's ransom for a horse!"
He grimaced. Now he remembered his cue! And, inexplicably, he remembered his line, too. "Milord, the post horses have arrived!" Of course, now that it made no difference, he remembered. Well, clearly, someone else would have already been picked to play his tiny part. It would only mean an extra line for one of the other hired men. Something as insignificant as that would pose no difficulty for the production, and would probably improve it, Smythe thought, since he could never seem to get it right and only managed to succeed in getting on Kemp's nerves. But just the same, it rankled him that he remembered now, when it no longer mattered.
As he had made his way toward the front of the stage, he kept looking at the faces all around him, desperately seeking the man that he had seen back at the inn, but from where he was, he could not see much more than several feet around him in the yard. The killers could all be within fifteen or twenty feet of him and he would have no way of knowing. He would need to get some height so he could see better.
He had now reached a spot roughly parallel to the middle of the stage. A bit further and he could get backstage, into the tiring room where he had left his sword and where he could warn the other members of the company about what was going on. He continued to push his way through, coughing hard and hacking like a man on his last legs, trying to get the people to make way for him. It worked, and soon he was even with the rear of the stage and then climbing up and going through into the backstage area.
The fist person he ran into was Robert Speed, costumed and waiting to go on.
"Tuck! What the devil! Where in God's name have you been?"
"There is no time to explain, Bobby. We've got trouble."
"You mean you've got trouble. Shakespeare was furious when you simply took off in the middle of rehearsal. And now Kemp wants you out of the company entirely."
"Never mind all that," said Smythe. "Will is in terrible danger. Four men are here to kill him."
"What, Kempt?"
"No, Shakespeare!"
"Why would anyone want to kill him? What has he done?"
"Nothing. 'Tis a mistake. They think that he is someone else."
"Well, then, explain things to them, for God's sake. I have no time for this sort of nonsense now, I have to go on in a moment!"
"Damn it, Speed…."
"Hold on, there's my cue!" He drew himself up, raised his chin, and swept out onto the stage.
Smythe swore in frustration. Toward the end of the first act, most of the company were onstage in a scene that took place at a ball, with everyone who was not delivering lines engaged in milling around and dancing. Several of the hired men would be making rapid entrances and exits, changing pieces of their costume to make the cast seem larger than it was. Smythe rushed up to one of them as he came off the stage and ran to make his change.
"Miles!"
"Smythe! Bloody hell! You're late!"
"Never mind, where's Will?"
"Kemp? He's out on stage, of course."
"No, no, Will Shakespeare!"
"On the other side, standing in the wings and prompting."
"Miles, listen, you must tell him—"
"No time now, I'm off!"
"Miles!"
But he had already rushed out of the tiring room and back onstage.
Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 01] A Mystery of Errors(v2.0) Page 20