"Damn!" Smythe swore and looked out through the curtain, toward the back of the playhouse, where he saw his fellow ostlers all standing at the rear, holding staves and clubs and pitchforks, looking around for him to tell them what to do. "Hell," he muttered, through gritted teeth. He could see no sign of Sir William, or the killers, or the man in the black cloak who led them. But they were all out there, somewhere. He had to warn Will, and then get back to the ostlers and let them know what they had to do.
He found his sword, which was fortunately right where he had left it earlier that day, buckled the scabbard around his waist, then quickly made his way around across the backstage area and to the other side. Will was standing just offstage, in the wings, holding the book, following the action and making certain everyone picked up their cues and made their entrances on time, with the right props.
"Will! Thank God!"
"Tuck! Damn you, where the devil did you get to?" Shakespeare said, angrily.
"Never mind that. Listen to me, your life is in danger. Four men are here to kill you."
"What?"
"Look, I do not have much time to explain—"
"Phillip! Now! Your cue! Go on!" said Shakespeare, to one of the young boys playing one of the female parts.
"Blast! Sorry," said the lad, and lifting up his skirts, he rushed out onto the stage.
"Will—"
"Not now, Tuck, for heaven's sake! I cannot be distracted! You are getting in the way! The act is almost over. There is still time for you to change and do your part if you hurry."
"Will, have you even heard what I said? There are people here to kill you!"
"What? Why would anyone wish to kill me?"
"Because they are acting on Gresham's orders!"
Shakespeare rolled his eyes. "Oh, what rot! What sort of nonsense has that damned girl filled your head with now? I told you to stay away from her! Burbage told you to stay away from her! You are just going to cause everyone a lot of trouble!" He reached out and grabbed one of the hired men as he was rushing past. "Wait, Adrian, the tray! Do not forget the tray!"
"Shit. Thanks."
"Will, please… listen to me, Elizabeth has nothing to do with this—"
"She has everything to do with it! That girl is out of her bloody mind. Sir Anthony is a perfectly decent man who deserves a lot better than her, if you ask me. Now forget this nonsense and get back there and change. The first act is ending any moment… no, 'tis done, they are coming in."
"Will—"
"I have no time now! We can discuss this later! Right, come on, now, everyone! Costumes and places for the second act! Check the pegboard for your props and cues!"
As the refreshment vendors plied their wares out in the courtyard among the crowd, the other players all came rushing back offstage, heading for the tiring room. The second act followed hard upon the heels of the first, with no break in between. Will Kemp, as one of the leading players, had to go back out on stage almost immediately, along with young Michael Jones, who was playing the lead female role. Kemp's gaze fell on Smythe and his lip curled down in a sneer.
"Oh, so you finally decided to grace us with your presence, did you, young prodigal?"
Smythe ignored him. "Dick!" he said to Burbage, as he hurried by. "They are going to try to murder Will!"
"What, me?" said Kemp, astonished.
"No! Shakespeare!"
"What?" Shakespeare said, turning around.
"They are going to try to kill you, you fool!"
"What is all this about killing?" Burbage demanded, insistantly.
"I am going to kill someone if you do not all keep quiet!" Kemp said. "I am listening to Fleming for my cue!"
"And you just missed it!" Shakespeare said. "Kemp, Jones, you're on!"
"Oh, bollocks!" Kemp said, as he and Jones rushed out on stage.
"Tuck, what is this talk of killing?" Burbage repeated.
"Oh, Sir Anthony Gresham wants me dead, it seems," said Shakespeare, wryly. "You know… Elizabeth." He made a circling motion with his forefinger by his temple.
"Oh, God's wounds!" said Burbage, looking heavenward. "Smythe, did I not tell you to keep away from her?"
"Is Smythe going to give his line or do you still want me to do it?" Miles asked, glancing from Smythe to Shakespeare.
"Smythe can do it, now that he's here," Shakespeare said.
"Smythe never came on time," said Burbage, curtly, overriding him. "You do it, Miles."
"Well, I really do not mind stepping aside," said Miles, trying to be considerate of his fellow player.
"He was late," said Burbage, "and he is not even in proper costume. You do it."
"Somebody damn well do it!" Shakespeare said, in exasperation. "There is the cue!"
"I said" Kemp raised his voice from centerstage, repeating the cue, "I would give a king's ransom for a horse!"
Smythe and Miles both stepped out on the stage together. Realizing what they'd done, they glanced at one another, trying to decide which of them would say the line. There was an awkward moment of silence, and then suddenly, from out in the audience, somebody neighed loudly.
For a moment, the audience was stunned. Startled, Smythe and Miles both looked toward the sound and, in the same moment, Will Kemp, staying totally in character, turned to face the audience, flung out an arm expansively and pointed in the direction of the offending heckler, crying out, "Never mind the horse! Saddle yon' braying ass!"
As the audience exploded into laughter and spontaneous applause, Smythe saw who had made the sound. Incredibly, it had been Sir William, standing in the uppermost gallery! He was gesticulating wildly. Smythe turned and looked in the direction he was pointing and there, in the middle gallery clear on the other side, stood the black-cloaked stranger!
"Ostlers'." Smythe shouted, stepping to the front of the stage and pointing up. "Get that man!"
Abruptly realizing that Smythe was pointing straight up at him, the black-cloaked stranger bolted toward the stairs. The ostlers in the yard below moved to intercept him. Sir William ran toward the stairs on the other side. The audience, thinking it was all part of the play, laughed uproariously and applauded.
"Milord," said Miles, picking up the cue belatedly, "the post horses have arrived!"
"Just in the nick of time!" said Kemp, returning to the script, "Then I am off, to spur on toward my fate!"
They all left the stage together to thunderous applause.
"What in heaven's name was that?" demanded Burbage, as they all came off.
"Dick, you're on!" said Shakespeare, pushing Burbage out on stage before he could receive a reply. "John Fleming, stand by!"
"I am bloody well going to kill you!" Kemp turned on Smythe furiously, shaking his finger in his face.
"What did I do?" Smythe said.
"You and that idiot friend of yours up there in the gallery just absolutely ruined my scene!"
"Ruined it?" said Shakespeare. "Damn it, Kemp, you were brilliant!"
"That 'idiot friend' of mine just happens to be Sir William Worley," Smythe said.
"Sir William Worley?" Fleming said, with astonished disbelief. "You mean the master of the Sea Hawks?"
"John, your cue," said Shakespeare.
"But… he is an intimate of the queen!" said Fleming.
"Fleming! Your cue!"
"Oh! Good Christ!" Fleming rushed out on the stage.
"You really think I was brilliant?" Kemp asked.
"Your improvisation was not only brilliant, it was absolutely inspired," Shakespeare said. He turned to Smythe. "That was Sir William neighing? You cannot be serious!"
"Will!" someone called out from behind them. "Will Shakespeare!"
"What now?" Shakespeare turned around.
"Look out, Will!" Smythe shoved Shakespeare hard. The poet fell, sprawling, to the floorboards. The dagger sailed through the air where he had stood an instant earlier and buried itself in a wooden beam right by Kemp's ear.
"HELP! MURDER!" Kem
p cried out and, without thinking, ran straight out onto the stage, where he had no business being until the last scene of the act.
Smythe reached for his sword, but before he could draw it, the man who'd thrown the knife, the burly ostler he'd recognized from the inn, bellowed like a maddened bull and charged him. He struck Smythe hard, wrapping his arms around him in a bear hug, and his momentum carried them both backward, out into the middle of the stage, where they both fell heavily with a resounding crash. The second man came right behind him, charging with a large Florentine stiletto, but before he could reach Shakespeare, Miles kicked his legs out from under him and the man fell, impaling himself on his own blade.
Burbage and Fleming, onstage in the middle of their scene, suddenly found themselves rudely interrupted as Kemp came shrieking out onto the stage from the wings. Seconds later, Smythe and the hired killer came tumbling on, as well, to the immense amusement of the audience, who cheered and applauded the spectacle.
"Defend yourself!" Burbage cried to Fleming, improvising. "We are attacked!"
He drew his sword, just as Shakespeare came running out onto the stage, with the third killer in hot pursuit with a drawn blade of his own. Seeing Burbage with his sword, the man hesitated and then struck. Burbage parried, and in the next instant, what appeared to be a young girl came flying out from the wings and tackled the hired killer as young Mick Jones bravely leapt into the fray to defend his fellow players.
Smythe broke the grip of his antagonist and dislodged him, scrambling to his feet. They both got up at the same time. The man swung, but Smythe blocked the blow with his left forearm and with his right fist knocked the man clear off the stage and into the audience.
"Groundlings, don't let him get away!" Fleming shouted to the audience. "The man's a pickpocket!"
That one word galvanized the groundlings into action. Now realizing this was not part of the production, they surged around what they believed to be the scourge of playhouse audiences everywhere and proceeded to stomp and kick the man repeatedly. Meanwhile, Smythe drew his blade and went to aid Burbage, but by now, a number of the ostlers had reached the stage and they came storming on, brandishing clubs and pitchforks, and the man threw down his weapon and surrendered as the audience cheered loudly and kept up a sustained applause.
The man Smythe had knocked off the stage was hauled up to his feet, badly battered and bleeding profusely, barely even conscious. And the third man had not survived the fall onto his own knife. Smythe hurried to check on Shakespeare.
"Are you all right, Will?"
"Aye, I think so," Shakespeare replied. "Odd's blood, they really were trying to kill me! But why?"
"I am not entirely sure of that myself," Smythe replied, "but I think I may have an idea. Stay here with the others. And watch yourself. Their leader is still unaccounted for. I must go and find Sir William."
He jumped down off the stage and struggled to make his way through the throng of groundlings to the entrance. There he found Sir William, waiting for him along with several of the ostlers.
"Did you get him?" Smythe asked, anxiously.
"No, curse the luck," Sir William said. "But we got his cloak." He held up the garment. "A couple of the ostlers found it on the stairs."
Smythe exhaled heavily. "Damn it! So he got away, then?"
"Not yet," Sir William said grimly, shaking his head. "Come with me."
They moved toward the theatre entrance. Outside, Smythe saw the guardsmen in their helms and breastplates, posted at the gate. Sir William smiled. "I do not think he had a chance to slip past them," he said. "They arrived not long after we did."
The Captain of the Guard came up to Sir William and saluted. "We stand by for your orders, milord."
"No one has been allowed out past you?"
"No, milord, no one. Only the lady."
Worley's eyes narrowed. "What lady?" he said, sharply.
"Why, the one you told to leave, milord."
"The one I told to leave? What the devil are you talking about? I told no one to leave! I gave strict orders that no one was to be allowed out! No one!"
The captain looked concerned. "Aye, milord, that was what I told her. I said that Sir William gave strict instructions that no one was to leave, but she said that you had sent her home, because it would be too dangerous for her to remain. There would be trouble and you did not wish to see her placed at risk—"
"You damn fool!" Sir William said. "Where did she go?"
"Why, she… she left in the coach, milord."
"What coach?"
There was now panic in the captain's eyes. "Well, the one she said you sent for her, milord! A very handsome coach, 'twas, milord. She… she said it bore your crest—"
"Gresham!" Smythe said. He looked out and across the field. "Look! There!" He pointed.
"Damn! Where is my horse?"
"Right here, milord," the ostler who had been holding both their horses all along called out to him.
"Mount up!" Sir William shouted to the guard as he and Smythe ran to get their horses. "There'll be a gold sovereign for you when we return," he said to the ostler, as he swung up into the saddle. "And Captain, if you do not catch that coach, you shall be a stableboy by sunset!"
"Aye, milord!"
They all set spurs and galloped off full speed across the field. The coach was well ahead of them, but the driver could not match their pace and they closed the distance rapidly. Before long, Smythe, riding up front with Sir William, could see the driver of the coach whipping up the horses, glancing back nervously over his shoulder. That would be Drummond, surely. But who was in the coach?
If Sir Anthony was not Sir Anthony, as Sir William had said, but his twin brother, who then was the woman? Smythe hoped it wasn't who he thought it might be. She could not possibly be part of this, he thought, could she?
They had nearly closed with the coach as they reached the city limits and the chase continued through the cobbled streets. But here the coach was even more at a disadvantage. People scattered, crying out in fear, as the black coach careened wildly through the streets, and then the inevitable happened. Another coach was coming the other way as Drummond whipped his horses round a bend. In a desperate effort to avoid a collision, Drummond swung wide and tried to go around the other coach, but there simply wasn't enough room. The horses screamed as they collided and the coaches struck one another with a tremendous impact. Gresham's coach overturned and the horses fell in a horrible, thrashing tangle.
As the pursuing guard reined in, Sir William dismounted and went with several of the guardsmen to see if anyone was injured. There was only one occupant of the smaller coach, a young gen-tleman, but though he was shaken up and bruised, with a cut lip and a bloody nose, he seemed otherwise unhurt. Gresham's coach had not fared nearly so well.
Drummond had been thrown from the seat with such force that he had flown through the air more than a dozen feet and struck a building wall, snapping his spine on impact. His battered body was twisted and bent at an unnatural angle when they found it lying in a puddle on the street. Inside the coach, they found Gresham, with his neck broken. But there was one survivor.
She was badly bruised and bloody when they pulled her out, but Smythe immediately noticed the striking resemblance that he had not marked before, when he had glimpsed her only very briefly at The Hawk and Mouse, on the road outside of London. She looked up at Sir William with a venemous gaze and spat right into his face. "Heretic pig!" she snarled.
"Well, I'll be damned," said Sir William, wiping his cheek with his handkerchief. "Triplets."
EPILOGUE:
SO THEN SIR ANTHONY REALLY is dead?" asked Shakespeare.
"I am afraid so," Sir William replied. He turned to Elizabeth Darcie. "What you must have seen that day was his actual murder, the very murder that enabled his twin brother, Alastair, to take his place once and for all, after trying out his impersonation upon you to make certain he could pull it off."
"And here I was convin
ced 'twas all some sort of trick," said Smythe. "I thought Sir Anthony had staged his own death to undermine Elizabeth's credibility and make it seem as if she were losing her mind."
Elizabeth bit her lower lip at the thought and shook her head.
"An interesting theory," said Sir William. "And you were not very far from truth, save that 'twas Alastair Gresham and not his brother, Anthony, who was trying to make it seem as if Elizabeth were mad."
They were sitting at a table in The Toad and Badger with Sir William. It was very late and everybody else had long since gone to bed after discussing the day's tumultuous events. It had been quite a day for all concerned. Sir William had only recently arrived with some wine, and an exceedingly fine wine it was, and now Smythe, Shakespeare, and Elizabeth, who had arrived along with her father, Henry Darcie, were finally discovering the whole truth behind the strange events they had become caught up in.
"So then Sir Anthony never knew that he had a twin brother? And a sister?" Smythe shook his head. "How could that be?"
" 'Tis a long and complicated story," said Sir William. "The sister, Allison, confessed it all to me. And I heard the rest from their aging father, James, earlier tonight. When they were children, they were all on a sea voyage together and there was a storm, which caused a shipwreck. Anthony and his father were picked up by a passing ship after drifting for two days, clinging to some wreckage. They were convinced that there were no other survivors. But as it turns out, there were. Alastair and Allison, together with their mother, had also survived and were picked up by another ship, which took them not to England, but to Spain. Their mother, Helena, never fully recovered from her ordeal. She lingered for some time, and finally died, leaving her two children orphans. Or so 'twas believed, since no one knew that their father and brother had survived and were in England."
"Incredible," said Henry Darcie.
"It grows even more so," said Sir William. "The children were raised by Jesuits, and so of course, they were raised as devout Catholics. Anthony and his father, needless to say, were Church of England. And for years, they were all unaware of one another. Until Drummond came upon the scene. Or, perhaps, I should call him Brother Andrew."
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