by Simon Hawke
“You must be joking.”
“I am in earnest, I assure you.”
“Then you have lost your senses. Why in God’s name would one of the wealthiest and most prominent citizens of London, a man knighted by the queen herself, put on a mask and ride off to rob travelers out on a country road? ‘Tis preposterous!”
“It does seem mad, I must admit,” said Smythe. “And I cannot account for it. But I know what I know, Will.”
“Wait! He wore a mask! You said the road agent wore a mask! So, of course, you never saw his face! How, then, could you possibly assert so firmly ‘twas Sir William?”
“I saw his eyes” said Smythe. “And at first, I must admit, I did not recognize him, but when he inclined his head and touched his hat that way…” Smythe copied the way he did it, “ ‘twas the very same gesture I saw the brigand make. Exactly the same. And then I realized that his eyes were the very same eyes I had seen above the scarf he wore over the lower portion of his face. And then everything else about him suddenly seemed familiar. I noticed that his build was just the same, and his bearing, and his coloring, even to the color of his clothes.”
“A chance resemblance,” Shakespeare said. “Wasn’t that what you had said yourself? I had no idea what you meant when you said it, but… this? ‘Tis absolutely ludicrous. Surely you can see that!”
“Aye. Believe me, Will, I can appreciate just how mad it sounds. But ‘tis nevertheless the truth. I am quite certain of it. As I said, I cannot account for it, nor understand why, but I know he was the man. And what is more, Sir William knows I know.”
Shakespeare leaned back against the wall, where they sat at a small plank table in the corner. The ales came and for a moment they did not speak as the tankards were set down before them. Then, when the serving maid had left to bring their dinners, Shakespeare leaned forward once again, putting his elbows on the table.
“Assuming for the moment that this ludicrous idea is true,” he said, in a low voice, “even setting aside the whys and wherefores-which are certainly not lightly set aside, considering the circumstances…” he shook his head with disbelief. “Then if Sir William is indeed the man you think he is… an outlaw… and if he knows you know his secret, as you say… then you are in grave danger.”
“No, I do not think so. I saw nothing threatening or intimidating in his manner,” Smythe replied.
Shakespeare snorted. “Why should there be? He owns a fleet of ships, my friend, several of them privateers sailing under letters of marque from Her Majesty herself. He may not himself be a Sea Hawk, but he is unquestionably their falconer. His investments are many and varied, and all quite successful, I am told. He is one of the most admired and respected men in England. And one of the most powerful. All he needs to do is flick his little finger and you would be swept away like a cork upon the waves.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” said Smythe. “Only why bother?” He shrugged. “What threat am I to him? Who would take my word over his, the word of a penniless commoner over that of a wealthy and influential peer?”
Shakespeare grunted. “Aye. There is that. No one would believe it.”
“If I stop to think about it, I am not sure that I believe it, myself. There is no rhyme or reason to it, no sense at all. And yet…”
Shakespeare stared at him. “And yet… you are convinced of it. Beyond all doubt.”
Smythe merely nodded.
“Aye, I can see that. Astonishing. And you think he knows?” “Why else would he have loaned his sword to a complete stranger?”
Shakespeare shrugged. “With his money, it would seem an act of little consequence. The very rich are not like us, my friend. They are liable to do things on a whim that to us would seem incomprehensible.”
“Such as becoming involved in a tavern brawl, say, or highway robbery?”
“Perhaps. Who is to say? There are more things in heaven and earth, Tuck, than are dreamt of in our philosophy. Things beyond the ken of the greatest thinkers of our time. What man truly knows himself and can plumb the depths of his own soul, much less those of other men?” ›
“He intends for me to return this sword to him,” said Smythe.
“Or else embarrass yourself in attempting to make one better.”
“Oh, that will not be very difficult. It will take some time, a bit of sweat, and honest effort, but my uncle taught me well. I do not pretend to be a master swordsmith, but then, neither is Cleve Somersby. The quality of his blades varies greatly, and while this one is entirely adequate, it is still not among the best examples of his craft. I could have bettered this in my third year of apprenticeship.”
“Oh, so Sir William really was cheated, then,” said Shakespeare.
“If he paid the going price for a Toledo blade, then he was not merely cheated; he was fleeced.”
“If that is so, then I do not envy the man who fleeced him. He will wind up in prison before the week is out. Or worse still.”
“Or else there is no such man at all,” said Smythe. He ladled some meat out of the common bowl and put it on his trencher, then tore off a piece of bread and popped a piece of stewed mutton in his mouth.
Shakespeare gulped his ale and set the tankard down, frowning. “What?” His eyes grew wide. “Oh, I see! You are suggesting that Sir William knew all along the truth about the blade, and he merely said that it was from Toledo just to see if you would know the difference?”
“I suspect so,” Smythe replied, washing down the bread and meat with some ale. He felt ravenous and grateful for the free meal.
“Well, I can see the sense in that, I suppose,” said Shakespeare, filling his own trencher. “But then, why would a man of his position wear a merely ordinary blade? I should think that he would wish to purchase nothing but the best.”
“Indeed. One would certainly think so.”
“So then… why not the best? Why not a genuine Toledo?”
“Well, in all the commotion just now,” Smythe said, “you most likely did not notice Marlowe’s weapon, did you?”
“Marlowe’s weapon? Tuck, my friend, I was much too busy staying out of the way of those blades to pay much mind to their quality of manufacture.”
“Well, in all likelihood, most people would probably have failed to notice, too,” said Smythe, “unless, that is, they were apprenticed for seven years to a master smith and farrier, who taught them everything he knew about the art of weaponscraft. Marlowe’s rapier, as it happens, was an exquisite example of the finest Spanish craftsmanship. Its cup hilt was worked with gold and its scabbard was bejeweled in a manner I would not think a poet could normally afford.”
“You think they had exchanged blades?” Shakespeare said.
“But why? It could not have been to test your knowledge, for Marlowe must have already had that blade in his possession before we had arrived.”
“True. Perhaps Sir William gave it to him, either as a gift or perhaps as payment for some service rendered.”
“An extravagant gift, indeed. Especially since Sir William seems not to like Marlowe very much. Or at the very least, he disapproves of him.”
“He did make that rather strange remark,” said Smythe. “About making allowances for talent or some such thing, because otherwise the man would be insufferable. I am not sure what he meant.”
Shakespeare smiled. “He was alluding to Marlowe’s tastes.” “His tastes?”
“When Sir William said that Marlowe seemed to like you, he meant he… liked you.”
“What do you mean he… oh! Oh, God’s wounds!”
Shakespeare chuckled. “That is why Sir William was so amused by your response. Amiable, indeed. But never fear, Tuck. I shall protect you from predatory poets. If you, in turn, protect me from murderous drunkards with rapiers.”
“Done,” said Smythe. “Now let’s see about finding a place to sleep tonight, and then we shall seek out the Queen’s Men.”
5
THE BRIEF LETTER HAD ARRIVED by messenger.
Had it not been sealed and delivered directly into her hand, Elizabeth was certain that her mother would have opened it and nosed through its contents first before she gave it to her. However, the messenger had insisted on delivering it to her in person, firmly stating that those had been his master’s specific instructions, and that he was to wait for a reply. So now Elizabeth ’s mother hovered around her like an anxious hen, fluttering her hands and making clucking noises.
“Well? What is it? Who is from, Bess? What does it say?” “Why, it is from Mr. Anthony Gresham,” Elizabeth said with surprise, feeling a tightness in her stomach as she broke the seal and read the note. “He requests the honor and pleasure of my company in order to discuss a matter of mutual import.”
“Oh, how splendid!” Edwina Darcie clapped her hands together like a small girl delighted with an unexpected present. Elizabeth rolled her eyes. It seemed as if her mother was liable to start jumping up and down with glee at any moment. “But this is wonderful news! A matter of mutual import! He means to discuss the wedding plans, no doubt. Upon what date does he invite you?”
“Tonight,” Elizabeth said. “This evening.”
“Tonight? Tonight! Why… why this is most irregular! Tonight! Such short notice! Barely even enough time to get dressed! Whatever could he have been thinking? Goodness, I… I haven’t even the proper time to decide what I should wear!”
“I believe the invitation is for me alone, Mother,” said Elizabeth.
“What? Oh, nonsense, don’t be absurd. Why on earth would you think such a thing?”
“Because that is what the invitation says, Mother,” Elizabeth replied. “It says, a matter of import that he must discuss with me alone.”
“Let me see that!” Her mother snatched the letter from her hand. Her eyes grew wide with affronted dignity as she read it to herself. “Well! I have never heard of such a thing! To invite a young girl out without a proper chaperone… It is most irregular! Most irregular, indeed! We shall have none of this!”
“In truth, I am no longer a young girl, Mother,” Elizabeth protested, politely. “I am a grown woman. And I do believe I should accept. Besides, it is not as if he had simply glimpsed me on the street and asked about in order to discover where I lived. There is, after all, an understanding, is there not? These are goods which have already been bartered.”
“Honestly, Elizabeth!”
“Honestly, indeed, Mother,” Elizabeth replied, matter of factly. “It is nothing but the truth, so why seem so affronted by it? I am merely being traded away to enhance Father’s social position.”
“Now what sort of talk is that? I simply cannot comprehend what makes you say such things! Perhaps your father was right that your tutor filled your head with all manner of nonsense. Lord knows, I certainly never raised you that way! Bartered goods, indeed! You speak as if we have never had your best interests in mind at all.”
“Did you?” Elizabeth asked, softly.
Her mother’s mouth simply opened and closed repeatedly, like that of a fish out of water, as she struggled for an answer and couldn’t seem to find one that was appropriate to the occasion. So Edwina Darcie did what she always did whenever her wits were not up to the task of formulating a suitable riposte. She raised her chin and sniffed contemptuously, then turned demonstratively and left the room in a flurry of skirts and umbrage.
Elizabeth sighed, then turned to the messenger, who still waited patiently for her response. “You may tell your master that I should be glad to accept his kind invitation.”
“Thank you, milady,” said the messenger, bowing slightly. “In that event, I am instructed to inform you that my master shall be sending his coach for you.”
“You may thank him for me and tell him I am most grateful for his consideration,” said Elizabeth, with a smile.
Mr. Anthony Gresham, it seemed, was nobody’s fool. The betrothal may have already been arranged and, in the minds of both their parents, the marriage could well be a fait accompli, but he clearly wanted to see his intended for himself before he set off for the church. What other reason could there be for such an invitation? It was very nearly an imperious summons. It had been well and politely phrased, to be sure, but on such short notice, it was presumptuous and there was an air of arrogant expectation that it would be obeyed, right down to ordering the servant to deliver it directly into her hand and then await her response, which presumed that she would not even take any time to think it over. Her mother could not see the arrogance of it, because the subtleties escaped her. Her father certainly would, but then he would probably expect it from somebody like Gresham and excuse it, for wanting to attain a position where he could be as arrogant himself. Elizabeth sighed.
Well, she thought, with any luck, in their eagerness to see the matter settled, neither of them would think too much about what motives Mr. Gresham had behind this invitation. There was even a good chance that his coach would arrive to pick her up before her father came home for the evening. He often worked late. In that event, he wouldn’t even have a chance to think about it and come up with some reason to postpone the meeting at the last moment, until such time as he would be in a position to exercise some more control over how and when it was conducted. For if he did have a chance to think about it, then he might realize that Fate had just handed his daughter the perfect opportunity to thwart his plans for her.
So, she thought, the high and mighty Mr. Anthony Gresham wanted to see the goods displayed before he bought them, did he? Elizabeth smiled, smugly. Well then, see them he would. And she would display herself in such a fashion as to make him blanch. It would be an evening that he would not soon forget. And then, she thought, chuckling to herself, we shall see if there shall be a wedding.
She hurried to get ready.
***
“When we came to seek employment with the Queen’s Men, this was not the sort of position that I had in mind,” said Shakespeare, wryly, as he held the horse while the gentleman dismounted.
Smythe came up beside him, leading a saddled bay by its reins. “Well, one has to start somewhere, I suppose. But I must admit that this was not quite my idea of working in the Theatre, either.”
“Ostlers,” said Shakespeare, with a grimace, as they led the patrons’ horses to the stable. “We came to London to be players, and instead, we are mere ostlers. Stable boys! Odd’s blood, I could have stayed in Stratford and done far better than this!”
“But you would not be in the Theatre,” Smythe said, as they led the horses toward the stalls.
“And I would not have shit upon my boots, either.”
“I thought you had previously arranged a position with the company when they had come through your Stratford whilst on tour,” said Smythe.
Shakespeare grunted. “Well, I thought so, too. It seems, however, I was misled as to precisely what sort of position it was. ‘Tis my own damned fault for listening to that pompous blowhard, Kemp.”
“He was the one you made arrangements with? I thought you said he was an ass?”
“And I stand heartily by my first assessment, as you can see it proven out. But at the time, I thought he was in earnest. ‘Oh, aye,’ he says, ‘you would be welcome to come with us when we leave Stratford to go out upon the road again. Or else, come and join us when you get to London! Always a place for likely lads in the Queen’s Men! Always room for talent!’ Talent, my damned buttocks!”
“Well, he did not specify what sort of talent, did he?”
“How much talent does it take to be a hotwalker?”
“It takes some. If you do not feel at ease and in control of the animal, ‘twill shy, and then it may spook others, and then instead of walking mounts to cool them off, you’ve got them galloping wildly all over the place. You may not have secured the sort of position that you wanted, Will, but you did manage to get a job and you do have a way with horses.”
They put up the animals and went back out again as several other ostlers met them coming in, each of them leading sadd
led mounts back to the stable. A few others hotwalked patrons’ horses around in a circle at the edge of Finsbury field, where the theatre patrons who came to Shoreditch on horseback dismounted and turned their steeds over to the ostlers, either to put them up with some fresh hay in the stables or tie them up in the paddock during the performance, or else walk them around to cool them off if they were lathered from a run or a long trot.
Many of the patrons came by way of the Thames, ferried by the watermen in their small boats, but some of the wealthier ones came by coach or carriage. With those patrons, it was usually their coachmen who took charge of the equipage, either seeing to everything themselves or else directing an ostler or two in the unhitching and walking of the horses, if they needed it, or else watering and sometimes brushing and combing them, depending on what their masters had ordered. There were small fees for these services, of course, and an enterprising ostler who managed to attend a number of wealthy patrons could do reasonably well for himself if the company was putting on a popular play, but it was still a long way from being on the stage. And the Queen’s Men seemed to have experienced better days. Dick Tarleton, their biggest draw, was ailing and the attendance was down from what they’d been accustomed to.
Nevertheless, thought Smythe, they had little to complain about, despite Shakespeare’s disappointment. Within a day of coming to London, they had found employment, which was more than a lot of people could say, and a place to live, which in itself was something of an accomplishment.
Many people were arriving in London every day from the surrounding countryside, all in search of livelihoods they could not find in the towns and villages from whence they came. In many cases, those with little money had to share rooms with as many as six, eight, ten, or a dozen others, often leaving scarcely enough space for anything except a cramped place to sleep upon the floor. It made for a crowded and often pungent environment. He and Shakespeare had been much more fortunate.
They had found a room at The Toad and Badger, on the second floor over the tavern. It was small and sparsely furnished, a far cry even from the modest room Smythe had when he had apprenticed with his uncle, but it was a room they could afford, and did not have to share with others, thanks in part to Shakespeare’s having set aside a little money to make the trip to London. It was also fortunate for them that their chance meeting with Sir William Worley and Kit Marlowe had resulted in a good word put in for them by Mr. Burbage, who had spoken with the landlord and arranged for some consideration with the payments of the rent.