by Simon Hawke
“A pox on poets, did you say?”
The new voice came from one of the tables behind them. Smythe glanced over his shoulder quickly to see a strikingly handsome young man in an elegantly jeweled burgundy doublet of three-piled velvet rise to his feet with the lightness of a dancer. His hair was a light auburn hue and shoulder-length, and his eyes were large, expressive, and a bit dreamy, yet mockingly insolent. A poet’s eyes, Smythe thought, at once. He had a small moustache that curled up slightly over thin, bemused lips and a spare chin beard that framed his well-formed oval face, which had a delicate, boyish, somewhat effeminate cast.
Wonderful, was his first thought. Just what we need. Another drunkard with a blade. Things were liable to get dangerous at any moment.
Another man sat at the same table, but this one kept his seat, resting his elbows on the tabletop and steepling his gloved fingers in front of his face as he watched his young friend with amusement. Smythe had little time to take much note of him, save that he was dark-haired and exquisitely dressed in black brocade and silk. His handsome young friend came sauntering around the table and, in a smooth, lazy-looking, yet deceptively quick motion, drew his rapier before the others could react.
“ ‘Ere now!” the tavernkeeper called out. “I’ll have none o’ that in my place!”
The handsome young man’s dark friend, still seated at the table, merely raised his elegantly gloved hand, without even turning around, and the tavernkeeper fell silent at once.
“You did say a pox on poets,” the young man said, “or were my ears deceiving me? I mean, I could scarcely credit what I heard! It simply seems impossible!”
“What concern is this of yours?” said the man in brown, who had disparaged poets. His hand was still on his swordhilt, but he remained undecided as to whether to draw steel or not. A blade had already been drawn, and the young man wielding it looked very relaxed and confident, indeed. Not in the least bit intimidated by the odds. Smythe could see Leather Doublet calculating. Was this merely some drink-addled young fool looking for trouble, or did he know his business? Smythe was wondering the same thing himself. He glanced over at Shakespeare, who simply looked at him and rolled his eyes.
“As it happens, I too am a poet,” the young man said, as he approached the group, with a casual swagger. “As is my friend, there, who dabbles with a sonnet or two upon occasion. And so, you see, you have cursed not only this excellent young man here, and his friend, the actor, but you have wished a pox upon the two of us, as well, as you have also cursed all those who labor nobly in the dark and lonely hours with quill and parchment to produce some small bit of transitory beauty for an ugly, often unappreciative world. Yet, much more importantly, do you know who else writes poetry, and has thus been cursed by you? Well? Do you?”
Frowning, and looking decidedly uncertain about this new development or the flow of verbiage, the man in the brown and black quartered doublet shook his head. “No, who?”
“Why, the queen!” the young man said. “The queen writes poetry! Now I happen to know this for a certain fact, you see.” He brought up his rapier and delicately played its point around the man’s throat. “And I cannot very well stand by and do nothing while you wish a pox upon Her Royal Majesty, our good Queen Bess, now can I?”
“Here, you’d better put that rapier down, lad, before you go and do something rash,” the one in the dark green said.
“Or what?” the young man asked without even glancing his way. His gaze was locked with the man in brown and black, with the swordpoint playing lightly at his throat. And that man was breathing shallowly, eyes narrow, his own gaze unblinking and alert. And very cold.
“Or you’ll have to be taught a lesson in minding your own damn bloody business, you impudent fop.” The man in green began to draw his blade.
Smythe reacted quickly, but the young man was even quicker. Before the man in green could clear his scabbard, the young man’s blade flicked over like an adder’s tongue and slashed across his face, opening up his cheek from temple to jaw. At the same time, the young man smashed the back of his fist into the face of the man in brown and black, who had begun to draw his blade, as well.
By this time, Smythe was moving, but so was the young man. He danced lightly back out of the way to engage the others as the man in green screamed, dropped his sword, and sank to his knees, bringing his hands up to his ruined face. He was clearly out of the fight now, and the odds had been reduced by one.
With a quick glance toward Shakespeare, to make sure he was not immediately in harm’s way, Smythe targeted the man in the brown leather doublet, who was drawing steel as the man in brown and black recovered from the punch and also drew his blade. There was blood running from his nose and he had cold fury in his eyes. As he and the young man engaged, Smythe brought the end of his staff down hard upon his opponent’s wrist. With a cry of pain, the man in the leather doublet dropped his fancy-hilted blade and had little time for anything save a wide-eyed stare of alarm as Smythe brought the other end of his staff up and cracked it hard against his temple. He crumpled to the floor, senseless.
The fat one in the buff and blue was slow to react to the outbreak of hostilities, his wits doubtless dulled by drink, but by the time Smythe’s leather-clad opponent crumpled to the floor, he had realized there was a brawl in progress and rushed forward with a roar, ignoring the blade at his side, instinctively counting on his size to work for him as he launched himself at Smythe and wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, driving him backward. They crashed into the table where the young man’s elegant friend was sitting, but he simply got up in the nick of time and stepped casually back out of the way with his goblet as Smythe and the fat man fell to the floor, splintering the table beneath them.
Knowing that if the fat man fell on top of him, it would drive the wind right out of him, Smythe wrapped his own arms around his antagonist and twisted hard as they fell, with the result that the fat man took the brunt of their crash into the table and fell with the not inconsiderable bulk of Smythe on top of him. His thick layers of fat, however, absorbed much of the impact and kept him from getting the wind knocked out of him. He managed to dislodge Smythe, breaking his hold and tossing him aside, into another table. With an angry roar, he started to get back up, but never made it. Hoisting a bench high above his head with both hands, Shakespeare brought it down hard on top of the man’s head, splintering the wood, and quite possibly bone, as well. Leaning back against the bar, the elegant man in black raised his goblet in a toast, which Shakespeare acknowledged with a bow.
Smythe got up to see the young man hotly engaged with two opponents, the man in red and gold and the man in brown and black. And he was being driven back under their combined assault. However, before he could do anything, Smythe saw the situation resolved neatly by the young man’s black-garbed friend.
It happened very quickly. As the young man backed away, parrying furiously, his opponents passed the spot where the man in black was standing, leaning back against the bar. Moving in a casual, easy manner, the man in black unsheathed his dagger, flipped it so that he could grasp the blade with his gloved hand, then brought it down hard upon the skull of the man in red and gold. He crumpled to the floor as the man in black brought up his booted foot and kicked the other man right in the groin. The man in brown and black made a sound like a pig being stuck with a skewer, then collapsed as the elegant man in black brought the heavy pommel of his dagger down upon his head, knocking him unconscious.
The young man stepped back with an irritated look and shrugged, spreading his arms and sweeping his rapier out to the side in an elaborately expressive gesture. “I could have handled them, you know.”
The man in black glanced at him and grimaced. “The trouble with you, Kit, is that you are not nearly as good as you think you are.”
“I was doing bloody well all right till you stepped in!” the handsome young man protested.
“You had help,” the man in black said, indicating Smythe.<
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“ ‘Twas he who helped us,” said Smythe, “for which, sir,” he added, turning to the young man, “I am profoundly grateful. We have only just arrived in London, seeking employment, and our first day in town was very nearly our last.”
“Well, we cannot have louts and bumpkins abusing poets out in public, now can we? No, no, that would never do.” The handsome young man grinned, adding, “We artists have to stick together, you know.”
“Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “Though for my part, I would prefer to do so in a manner somewhat less bellicose.”
“Ah, but you must admit, it was a grand little set-to, was it not?” the young man said. “Just the sort of thing to get a man’s blood up!”
The man in black shook his head with resignation. “If you persist in this sort of foolishness, Marlowe, then I strongly suggest you take more fencing lessons, else I shall find some other young, deserving poet to favor with my patronage. These tavern brawls are going to be the death of you, and I would hate to see my money wasted. You still have many years of decent work in you, Kit. Assuming you survive, of course.”
The young man bowed with an exaggerated, courtly gesture. “I am properly chastised, milord. I shall make an appointment with your fencing master at the earliest opportunity.”
“And I shall have to pay for that, too, I suppose,” the man in black said, with a wry grimace.
“Kit Marlowe?” Shakespeare said. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Christopher Marlowe, the author of Tamburlane?“
The young man smiled, obviously pleased at the recognition.
“At your service, sir. And now I fear you have the advantage of me.”
“William Shakespeare is my name. And this is my friend, Tuck… that is, Mr. Symington Smythe. I know your work, Mr. Marlowe. I admire it very much. ‘Tis a great pleasure to meet you, indeed.”
“Well, you are most kind. And now it seems you have the advantage of me once again, for I fear that I am not yet familiar with your work, sir. Perhaps I will have the opportunity to become acquainted with it in due time.” He turned to the man in black. “Milord, allow me to present Mr. William Shakespeare and Mr. Symington Smythe. Gentlemen, my esteemed patron, the honorable Sir William Worley.”
The man in black inclined his head slightly and touched the brim of his hat. Smythe met his gaze and, in that instant, struck as if by lightning, he realized he knew this man, although he could scarcely believe it. “I am indebted to you, milord,” he said. “Once again.”
“Again?” said Worley, raising an eyebrow. “Have we met before?”
“Perhaps I am mistaken,” Smythe replied. “It is possible that I took you for someone else, milord. Mayhap some chance resemblance to another gentleman in black.”
“Indeed? Well, I shall have to speak to my tailor, then. He swore to me that no one else had clothes like these. If I find he has been selling copies, I shall have the fellow flogged.”
“In any event, we are both indebted to you, milord,” said Smythe. “Had Mr. Marlowe and yourself not intervened, I fear things would have turned out rather badly for us.”
“Perhaps. Though you seem quite capable with that staff, I suggest you get yourself a more serious weapon, Mr. Smythe. This is London, after all, not some small village in the Midlands. A man needs to look out for himself around here. You know how to use one of these?”
He drew his sword and tossed it to Smythe. Smythe caught it by the hilt. Worley smiled slightly, seeing his quick reaction. Smythe examined it and felt its balance.
“ ‘Tis a good blade, milord.”
“You seem to know the way to hold it. Keep it as a loan. You shall return it to me when you obtain one of your own.” He unbuckled his swordbelt and handed it to Smythe. “And if you do not return it in good time, and in good condition, mind you, then I shall have you found post haste and beaten mercilessly.”
“If I can get access to a forge, milord, then I shall endeavor to make you one still better,” Smythe replied. “And you may have that in trade, if you prefer.”
“Indeed?” Worley raised his eyebrows. “Those are rather bold words, young man. That is a Toledo blade.”
“ ‘Tis a fine blade, milord,” said Smythe, a bit hesitantly. “A good weapon, and very serviceable. But I would place its origin much closer, right here in England rather than in Spain.”
“The devil you say! It so happens I was assured that blade was made by Sebastiani of Toledo. Do you dispute this? Explain yourself, sir.”
Smythe cleared his throat. “Well, milord… ‘tis true there is an S stamped on the ricasso of the blade, but I can assert with confidence that it stands for Somersby, a Sheffield cutler of some small repute. I know his makers’ mark quite well; I have seen it many times at my uncle’s shop, when we had occasion to sharpen or repair his blades for several of our customers. He is an able craftsman, but certainly not up to the standards of the masters of Toledo, something I am quite sure he would readily admit, as I am told he is an honest man. I… uh… would hope that whoever sold the weapon to you asked a price in keeping with its proper origin.”
Worley cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, no. It would appear I have been cheated.”
“Then perhaps you would like to take this back, milord, so that you may seek proper recompense for the effrontery.”
“No, no, you keep it. At least for the present. I shall let it serve as an object lesson to me to seek a more qualified opinion before I make a similar purchase in the future. You intrigue me, Mr. Smythe. For a number of reasons. You shall have your forge. Come to my estate at your convenience. Most anyone of consequence in London can direct you. We shall put your claim to the test. If you make good upon it, I can warrant that I shall have employment for you. If not, then you shall owe me the price of the materials and forging costs. If you lack the funds, then I shall take it out in labor. Fair enough?”
“More than fair, milord,” Smythe said, with a small bow.
“Excellent. Marlowe, be so good as to find a likely lad to have my carriage brought around. The coachman doubtless prudently drove off when that riot began outside, and he’ll be somewhere on a nearby side street, or I’ll know the reason why. Oh, and Mr. Shakespeare, if you are even half as confident in your abilities as your friend seems to be in his, then perhaps there is a chance that you might find employment with the Queen’s Men. They are keen to compete with Marlowe here, and Kyd, and as yet have found no resident poet who can measure up. That morose old stewpot, Greene, is lately drowning his rather mediocre talent in a bottle, and Lyly’s shot his bolt, I think. They could do with some new blood.”
“You will doubtless find the company disporting themselves at The Toad and Badger, in St. Helen’s,” Marlowe added. “Ask for one Dick Burbage and give him my compliments.”
“Thank you,” Shakespeare said. “I shall do that, Mr. Marlowe. I am in your debt.”
“Well, now there’s a switch,” said Marlowe, with a grin. “ ‘Tis usually I who am in debt to others.”
“My carriage, Kit,” said Worley.
“Your word is my command, milord.” Marlowe gave a sweeping bow, winked at Smythe, and left.
“I think he likes you,” Worley said.
“And I like him, milord,” Smythe said. “He seems a most amiable young man.”
Worley raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Amiable? Aye, well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose. ‘Tis a good thing he has talent, else I should find his company insufferable. But one must make allowances for talent. ‘Tis a rare commodity, and often does not come without some baggage.”
“Your carriage awaits, milord,” said Marlowe, sticking his head inside the door. “ ‘Twas standing by just around the corner.”
“Well, at least my coachman does his job properly,” said Worley. He turned to the tavernkeeper. “You may send me a bill for the damages, but see that you do not inflate it.”
“Very good of you, milord,” the tavernkeeper said.
“Oh, and
add something for these two young chaps,” said Worley. “They look as if they could use a meal and a drink. Good night, gentlemen. And good luck to you.”
He followed Marlowe out the door.
“What a splendid gentleman!” said Shakespeare. “Tavernkeeper, two ordinaries and a couple of ales! Ah, yes, indeed! There, you see, Tuck? That is the sort of patron a poet truly needs! A cultured man! An educated man! A titled man! A…”
“A highwayman,” murmured Smythe.
“What?”
“A highwayman,” he repeated, keeping his voice low. “An outlaw. A road agent. A brigand.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“Do you recall when we met and I told you how I was accosted by a highwayman upon the road? And how instead of robbing me, because I had no money, he tossed a crown to me, instead?”
“Yes, I recall you told me that. A singular occurrence. But what of it?”
Smythe pointed toward the door. “That was the man.” “Sir William?” “The very same.”
Shakespeare stared at him with disbelief. “Sir William Worley? Are you mad?” He glanced around quickly and lowered his voice when he noticed he was attracting some attention. “Tuck… Sir William Worley is one of the richest men in London! And a knight of the realm, no less.”
“Well, he is also a highwayman,” said Smythe, softly.