A Mystery Of Errors

9

Smythe had not intended to spend most of the day at Green Oaks, but Sir William was a genial and gracious host who had seemed genuinely pleased to have his company. And after a few hours with him, Smythe began to understand why. Sir William’s success had introduced him into elegant society, and eventually, into a life at court. He had risen from the most humble beginnings to become one of the wealthiest men in the country, one who could even claim the queen as an acquaintance. He was the living embodiment of the new age in England, where a man could rise above the station of his birth through industry and perseverance-and a little luck-and through success in trade achieve entry into the upper ranks of society. Even, possibly, attain a peerage and become a member of the aristocracy.

It was, Smythe realized, precisely what his father’s dream had been, only his father had overreached himself. Like Icarus, whose wings had melted from the sun, his father had tried to fly too high too quickly and his hopes had melted as his dreams came crashing down around him. Now he was a bitter old man, confronting the specter of his own mortality and fallibility, and Smythe found it impossible even to speak with him. It was a source of some discomfort to him, even a little shame, for he felt he owed his father more than that, but he could not give more than would be accepted. And his father, at least for the present, could not bring himself to accept anything from him. Not even his sympathy.

By contrast, Sir William had achieved success far beyond what Symington Smythe the elder could have dreamed, but while he outwardly seemed to enjoy the fruits of it, inwardly, he was frustrated and displeased. The society in which he moved now had its own rewards and privileges, and they were not inconsequential, but in many ways, it was a society that felt alien to him. These were not people like himself, who had pulled themselves up by their own bootstraps, but people who had been born to wealth and privilege-”born to the blood,” as the saying went-and he did not feel any kinship with them. He found them indolent and decadent, sycophantic and fawning, especially toward the queen and the members of her inner circle, and most of all, he found them detestably superficial.

“In the queen’s court,” he had said, sarcastically, “a ‘friend’ is one who stabs you in the chest. I know them all, every last one of the treacherous leeches, and there is not a one who has not, at one time or another, asked a favor of me-most of which I granted-and to be fair, on occasion, I have asked favors in return. Yet, for all that, I would still not turn my back on any of them.”

“Not even the queen?” Smythe had asked.

“Oh, especially not the queen. But in her case-and I suppose Walsingham’s, as well-that is understandable. They do not live by the same rules as all the rest of us. They cannot afford to. Those two are England, and they must think of England first and foremost, above all else. The true statesman cannot afford a conscience. And if the queen has one, she has hidden it well away and has shown it to no one. I neither think ill of her for that nor fault her in any way. She is, after all, Henry’s daughter, and she has seen firsthand what the caprices of statesmanship and the vicissitudes of politics can do. And Walsingham, her chief minister- some would say her headsman-is merely a creature spawned by such a world, a man who stands forthrightly at her side even as he moves among the shadows like a ghost. Every monarch needs a Walsingham, and every country could benefit from a monarch like our queen. But as for all the rest of them…”

His voice had trailed off in disgust and he simply shook his head. And so, as Smythe rode home at an easy pace, he thought he understood Sir William, perhaps better than any of his elegant friends at court could ever understand him. He knew now not only why Sir William pursued a secret life as a brigand called Black Billy, but why he was a patron to a man like Marlowe, an immoral young rooster of a poet who seemed to thrive on danger and sensual overindulgence. It explained why, instead of eagerly attending the masques and balls at court, which he felt forced to do upon occasion, he much preferred the raucous company of a rowdy Cheapside tavern. And why, instead of sitting stultified with boredom while some court musician played effetely on the virginals, he preferred a lusty, bawdy songfest at a roadside inn where no one knew his name. Sir William was a charming and rakish eccentric, to be sure, but more than that, he was a man out of his element and that often made him feel lonely.

The forge at the smithy on his estate was first rate, as could be expected, and more than large enough for any project. It did not receive much use and Sir William had said that he could help himself to it anytime he pleased.

“I shall hold you to that debt that you incurred. I want to see what you can do,” he had said. “And if your skill with forging steel is anywhere near that of your uncle, then you could have a brilliant future as a swordsmith and forget all about this acting nonsense.”

“But ‘tis what I yearn most of all to do, milord,” Smythe had replied.

“Well, then by all means, go and do it. Perhaps you will work it out of your system. But if you ask me, a life as a player is no fit occupation for man. Still, if acting is your dream, then you should certainly pursue it. Far be it from me to tell a man what he should or should not do, for as much as I have done that which I should, I have done even more that I should not, and have enjoyed the latter far more greatly than the former.”

“I thank you for your sentiment, milord, and for your hospitality. But I fear that I may no longer have a job when I return, for it is getting late and now I shall never make it back in time for the next performance.”

“Never fear,” Sir William said. “I am not without some influence, you know. I shall write out a message to James Burbage, the owner of the Theatre, that you were doing me a service at my bidding and should therefore be excused your absence. Your job shall be safe when you return.”

Smythe had thanked him and departed, feeling in a curious way that he had made a friend, and yet, he knew that true friends truly needed to be equal, and he could never be the equal of Sir William. And perhaps that was what he needed to remember most of all about his fascinating new acquaintance. He could be on equal terms with a brigand, but never with a knight.

As he entered London, his thoughts turned toward his roommate. He knew that Will had worked all night, trying to rewrite the play, and he hoped that he had been successful. But it had seemed to him a monumental task. Almost impossible. How could an entire play be thoroughly rewritten in one night? Burbage had been monstrously unfair in laying such a task on Shakespeare. But then again, Smythe remembered, Shakespeare had volunteered for it himself. It took nerve, but he had been desperate to show what he could do and he had struck when he saw his opportunity. The question was, had he struck too soon?

Another chance might have arisen later, but now, if he failed at this task, a second chance might never come. It was a risky wager and Shakespeare was betting all upon himself. It took considerable faith in one’s own abilities to gamble in this way, but Will had dutifully and purposefully applied himself to the rather daunting task.

Though the poet had tried hard not to disturb him, before he went to sleep, Smythe had heard him mumbling and muttering to himself as he sat hunched over at the table, holding his quill in a gloved hand. On occasion, Will had moaned over some clumsily rendered line, and once, he had straightened on his bench, arching his neck back and gazing at the ceiling, groaning from either muscles sorely tested or sorely tested wits. And he was still hunched over the table and working feverishly when Smythe had left for Green Oaks early in the morning, saying nothing so as not to disturb his concentration.

By now, he thought, all would have been decided, one way or another. It was late in the afternoon and drawing into evening. The performance had long since started and by the time Smythe reached their lodgings, it would have been nearly finished. Had Will managed to deliver the doctored play in time? And had there been time enough for the actors to prepare it, incorporating whatever changes he had made? Or else had Shakespeare failed in his task or, worse yet, finished only to learn that the result had been found wanting? Smythe knew that he would not have very long to wait before he would find out. The company would repair to the tavern downstairs immediately after the performance and he would meet them there.

In the meantime, he would shake the dust out of his clothes, and use the washbasin, and perhaps lie down for a short while to mull over the remarkable events of the day. But when he opened the door to their room, there was yet another remarkable event confronting him. The bed was occupied by a young woman.

Awakened by the creaking door and the weight of his tread upon the squeaky floorboards, she gasped and sat bolt upright in the bed, alarm clearly written on her features. But when she saw him, she seemed at once relieved.

“Oh! ‘Tis you, at last!”

For a moment, Smythe thought he had intruded upon a serving wench from the tavern who had been bedded by his roommate in celebration of the completion of his task, but then he saw that she was fully dressed and suddenly realized why she looked familiar. She was not one of the serving wenches from the tavern, but the young woman who had arrived at the Theatre in that coach… Anthony Gresham’s coach. He had made a point of remembering the name. She was not wearing the same elegant dress she had worn then, and had garbed herself most plainly, but he recognized her nonetheless. And she, apparently, remembered him. Indeed, it sounded as if she had come specifically to see him, which seemed even more remarkable.

“Milady?” Smythe said, taken aback. “Forgive me my impertinence, but am I to understand you have been waiting for me?”

“Oh, for hours!” she said, in exasperation, swinging her legs down to the floor. Smythe caught a tantalizing glimpse of bare calves and ankles nearly to the knee and discreetly looked away. “I had begun to think that you would never come!”

“But… how did you get in here?”

“Your friend, Master Shakespeare, let me in. He told me you would soon return and that if I cared to wait, then I should make myself at home.”

“Master Shakespeare, is it? Well, we shall see. But I must admit that I am mystified, milady. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

She smiled, and seemed to look a bit more calm. “You are very well spoken for an ostler.”

“I always try to be well spoken to beautiful women I find lying in my bed,” he replied.

She chuckled. “You are impertinent, but I do believe it suits you. Your name is Smythe, if I recall aright. Symington Smythe. Is that not so?”

“It is, milady. But friends such as Master Shakespeare call me Tuck.”

“Tuck,” she repeated, as if trying it on him for size. “I like it. It suits you, too. I am Elizabeth Darcie.”

“How do you do, Mistress Darcie?” he bowed slightly from the waist. “You must have come here on an urgent errand, indeed, to risk your reputation upon an unchaperoned visit to an ostler’s lodgings. Perhaps, all things considered, it would be better if we spoke downstairs, in the tavern?”

She waved him off. “I have slept up here for hours,” she said. “If there is any damage to be done to my reputation, then ‘tis already done and doubtless past repair. What is more, I do not care about that in the least. I have a pressing concern that is far greater.”

“Perhaps you should care,” Smythe replied. “However, be that as it may, I am at your service.” He pulled the bench over and sat down.

“I had hoped you would be,” she replied. “You have a kind and honest face. And right now, I need a kindness from you, and some honesty.”

“If it lies at all within my capability, milady, then consider it done,” he said.

She smiled. “Thank you. You are very gallant. What I need from you should not greatly tax your efforts, nor inconvenience you to any great degree. At least, that is my hope. Allow me to explain…”

Smythe nodded, indicating that she should go on.

She took a deep breath and began. “Such is my unhappy situation: Unwillingly, I had been betrothed to Anthony Gresham by my father, who seeks to improve his social standing through the marriage. In turn, my dowry would help the Greshams to recover from some poor investments they had made. And so ‘twould seem the match would be of benefit to everyone concerned… save for the unfortunate, reluctant bride, who wants to have no part of it.”

“I see,” Smythe said. “Your situation sounds indeed unfortunate, though not at all unusual, I fear. Marriage these days, especially among the upper classes, is far more often a matter of convenience and expediency for the families involved than a fortuitous result of love between the bride and groom. Tenanted estates and lands hang in the balance, as do mercantile interests and position in society.”

She sniffed. “You sound like my father. And so love matters not at all?”

“I did not say that,” Smythe replied. “As it happens, ‘twould matter a great deal to me. But then, my opinion on such matters carries little weight, and these days, few outside the working classes even expect love to play a part in the arrangement of a marriage. My own father’s thoughts along these lines were quite similar to those of yours, save that mine squandered the family fortune and thereby spared me the advantages of an inheritance and an arranged match. So now that I am common as the dirt beneath your feet, unlike the socially superior, I can afford to indulge common emotions such as love.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Truly, it does seem common to them. It is beyond the compass of my comprehension. The wisdom of our elders holds that in a proper marriage, love would follow on the heels of marriage, and not necessarily hard upon. If, indeed, it ever came, ‘twould come in time. Contentment and security, amiability and civility are virtues seemingly far more valued in a marriage than romantic love. Those qualities are said to make for marriages that are more sensible and stable than one based upon an emotion as common and ephemeral as love. At least, such are the prevailing, conventional beliefs. Unfortunately, they are not beliefs I share. And as my beliefs were not conventional, it did not seem I would prevail. That is, until just yesterday, when I received an invitation to the Theatre, an invitation from the very man I was to marry.”

“Ah,” said Smythe. “ ‘Twas the reason you arrived in Gresham ’s coach.”

“Just so. And ‘twas you who met that coach, mere moments before Gresham ’s servant, Drummond, came to escort me to the box up in the gallery, where Anthony Gresham awaited with the most unexpected news.”

“And what news was this?”

“That he no more desired to marry me than I desired to marry him!”

“Indeed? Well, there is no accounting for taste.”

Elizabeth smiled. “You are most kind. However, this was very welcome news to me, as you might well imagine. He told me that he was in love with someone else. He did not say with whom, but ‘twas of no consequence. I was elated and relieved to hear it. And I confessed to him that it had been my intention to behave in such a manner on that night as to convince him I was quite unsuitable, a wanton hussy. And I must now confess to you that ‘twas in that spirit I had flirted with you shamelessly, especially once Drummond had arrived.”

“So that of course he would report this to his master,” Smythe said, nodding. “I understand. And was this the reason that you wished to speak with me? So that I would not speak of how you had behaved that night?”

“Oh, no, not at all!” Elizabeth replied. “In truth, it did not even occur to me that you might do so. On the contrary, it is of utmost import that you do speak of it!”

Smythe frowned. “I fear I do not understand.”

She made a downward motion with the palms of her hands, as if to forestall his questions and settle herself at the same time. “ ‘Tis my fault. I have not made it clear. Allow me to continue.”

“I wish you would.”

“Thus: Anthony Gresham and I had a long talk. And we agreed that the proposed marriage was in neither of our best interests. We also agreed that I would tell my parents he had found me totally unsuitable and had so forcibly and rudely expressed himself in this regard that any attempt to pursue the match would be unthinkable.”

“ ‘Twould seem like a sound plan,” said Smythe, wondering where this was leading.

“And so I thought,” Elizabeth replied. “And so I went home and followed through with it exactly as we had agreed. My father was outraged. My mother was appalled. And it seemed as if the whole problem had been solved until the very morning, when who should arrive to pay a call but the same Anthony Gresham, only behaving like a completely different man! He denied that he had ever sent the coach for me, or even made the invitation, and what is more, he denied that we had ever even met before!”

“You mean to say that on the very day after this Gresham fellow made it plain to you that he did not desire this marriage any more than you did, he came to your home and acted as if none of the events of the previous day had even happened?” Smythe said, with a frown.

“Precisely so,” Elizabeth said. “You may imagine how mortified I felt! There, in my mother’s presence, I was made to appear an abject liar and prevaricator! And my own mother believed that I had made up the whole story in some foolish attempt to foil the marriage! I have never been so humiliated in my life! And that… that… that insufferable… arrogant… pernicious… gentleman-” she spat the last word out as if it were the vilest poison, “-stood there smiling all the while… smiling! Ohhhh, if I were a man, I would have wiped that insolent, smug smile straight off his face!”

“And…” Smythe proceeded cautiously, “was this the service that you wished me to perform?”

She looked startled. “Oh! Oh, heaven forfend! What must you think of me? I would never ask for such a thing!”

“Then what…?” It dawned on him abruptly. “Ah! I see! I am to witness that you came to the Theatre on that night, since ‘twas I who met the coach that brought you. And ‘twas Gresham ’s coach, at that, blazoned with his family crest.”

“Indeed,” she said, with relief. “And I also need you to affirm that I was met by Gresham ’s servant, Drummond, who denied ever having seen me in his life, the despicable cur! Would you be willing to give testimony to these facts?” She hesitated. “I… I could pay you for your trouble. Perhaps not very much, but…”

“I would be happy to vouch for the truth of what you said, milady,” Smythe replied, holding up his hand to forestall her, “and no payment would be necessary. I would not take it in such an event, in any case, much as I appreciate your offer. But then, your offer is precisely to the point here. You could pay me. To lie on your behalf.”

“To lie?“ She frowned. “Why, whatever do you mean? I asked for no such thing!”

“Of course not. But consider this, milady. Why would your father, an eminent tradesman in the community, accept the word of a mere ostler, a man who could have easily been paid to bear false witness? You could go down to Paul’s Walk right now and within the hour, for not much more than a few crowns, you could employ half a dozen men to bear false witness for you and testify to anything you wished.”

Her eyes widened. “This sort of thing is done?” She seemed astonished at the very idea.

“Done and done quite commonly, it seems,” said Smythe. “I was told that one could always make some extra money selling his integrity in such a fashion. Not, I hasten to add, that I would find such dubious employment tempting, but there are others who have no such scruples. I fear your father, already disposed to disbelieve you for your reluctance to accept his plans for you, would readily assume that I was precisely such a man.”

For a moment, she simply stared at him with disbelief, shaking her head repeatedly, as if not wishing to accept what he had told her, but then the logic of his reasoning became apparent to her and as Smythe saw it sink in, he prepared himself for tears. Instead, she bunched her slender fingers into fists and raised them, as if taking a pugilistic stance, trembling with barely repressed fury.

Fearing that she might swoon from such overpowering emotion, Smythe raised his hands, palms toward her, and said, “Strike my hands, milady. ‘Twill help to vent your anger.”

He did not expect such an immediate and spirited response. With a cry of pure rage, she came off the bed like a tigress leaping on its prey, swinging at his hands, and he caught one blow on his outstretched right palm and then the next one on his left, surprised at the vigor with which they were delivered, and then her momentum carried her forward and the bench went crashing to the floor as they both fell backward and landed in a heap, with Elizabeth on top of him.

Momentarily stunned, Smythe could only gaze up at her with complete astonishment as the shock of the fall broke through her rage and she stared down at him, herself amazed at what she’d done, and then her gaze intensified, becoming soft and dreamy, and Smythe was pulled into that gaze as he kissed her full upon the lips.

“Success! Victory!” shouted Shakespeare, throwing open the door and startling them both. His eyes widened as he saw them on the floor. “Odd’s blood! Victory on two fronts, it would appear!”

They both scrambled to their feet. Elizabeth ’s face turned red and Smythe had a feeling that his own was flushing deeply. He certainly felt warm. “Damn it, Will! You could at least knock!”

“At the door of my own room? How the hell was I to know you would be entertaining company?”

“ ‘Twas you who let her in, you twit!”

“Ah. Well, so I did. In all the excitement, I had quite forgotten.” He bowed. “My abject and sincerest apologies to you both. I shall withdraw to a pint of ale downstairs. I beg you to forgive the interruption. Carry on…”

“Will! Wait…”

But he had already stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Smythe shook his head and sighed, then turned to Elizabeth. “I am sorry,” he said.

“For what?” she countered, archly. “For the kiss or for the interruption?”

He felt himself blushing. “To be quite honest, I am not sure. And perhaps, under the circumstances, you had best be on your way back home. ‘Twould not help your reputation, nor my credibility as witness for you, should people think that anything had passed between us other than a perfectly innocent conversation.”

“You are a gentleman,” she said.

“No, milady. Merely an ostler, and one whose word, I fear, shall carry very little weight. But you shall have it just the same.”

“Well, I trust the lady has been honorably served,” said Shakespeare, coming up to him and handing him a pot of ale as he came into the tavern. “Here am I, rushing home to share the tale of my first theatrical success, and you chase me out of my own room while you entertain a lady. Odd’s blood, but you are a cold-hearted fellow.”

“Forgive me, Will, I…” Smythe cleared his throat, uneasily. “ ‘Twas all perfectly innocent. I came home and simply found her there, sleeping on the bed. She said that you had let her in to wait for me. I was quite taken by surprise, you know.”

“I would call that being very pleasantly surprised, indeed. It looked to me as if she took you like Drake took the Armada. Heave to, young Tuck, and prepare for boarding.”

Smythe grimaced. “The poet, it seems, can turn a phrase not only at Robert Greene’s expense, but mine, as well.”

“Oh, well said!” Shakespeare replied, with a grin. “An excellent riposte. There may be hope for you yet. Some of me must be rubbing off on you.”

“Then I must remember to scrub harder.”

Some of the other players were still engaged in drinking and sharing bread and cheese. The actors waved them over and they engaged in some good-natured bantering for a while, discussing the performance of that night, which had apparently been quite a success. For the first time, Smythe felt as if they were being treated as members of the company, rather than outsiders, and this seemed largely due to Shakespeare’s efforts. The first stage of his rewrite of Greene’s play had improved greatly on some of the jokes and puns and physically amusing scenes, and now they would immediately begin preparing to add the second round of changes to the first. Everyone had been quite pleased with the job that he had done, even the normally petulant Kemp, who had benefited greatly from new lines and bits of foolery that gave him bigger laughs.

Burbage had been quite impressed and had spoken with his father, with the result that Shakespeare would be given the opportunity to look over some of the other plays within their repertoire to see if he could effect similar improvements. Moreover, they had paid him two pounds for the job he’d done, and would pay more if he could do the same for other plays. It was not yet an offer of regular employment, but it was a good beginning and Shakespeare was justifiably excited. After they had spent some time drinking with the other players, Shakespeare took his leave of them and led Smythe to a nearby table.

The poet chuckled and clapped him on the back as they sat down together in a corner, dimly lit by the candle on the tabletop. He was clearly in high spirits. “All in all, a good night for us both, it seems. See, I told you there would be opportunities for you aplenty once we got to London. I must admit, though, I did not expect them to come knocking directly at our door. You must have really charmed her that night when you met her coach.”

“In all honesty, Will, ‘twas not why she came to see me,” Smythe said. “She came to ask a favor.”

“I see. She had lost her virtue and you were helping her to look for it upon the floor?”

“We were not doing anything upon the floor! She merely came to speak with me!”

“It must have been an exhausting conversation,” said Shakespeare. “When I came in, I saw you resting from it. But do go on. I am curious to hear what happened.”

Over more ale, Smythe recounted the story she had told him and Shakespeare listened with interest. When Smythe was done, the poet simply sat there for a moment, stroking his wispy beard and thinking.

“So, seriously now, what do you make of it all?” asked Smythe, after a few moments.

“Well… to be honest, I am not quite sure,” Shakespeare replied, slowly. His mood seemed to have shifted as he had listened to Smythe’s tale. The euphoria of his success, having already been indulged in the company of the Queen’s Men, now gave way to a contemplative puzzlement. “There seems to be much here we do not know,” he continued. “Or at the very least, we have only the lady’s word that certain events transpired as she claims they had. Mind you, I do not say she has lied to you, merely that ‘tis only people’s nature to describe things in a manner favorable to their own predispositions. Someone else, observing these same events, might see them rather differently. And then, of course, not to cast aspersions, but merely to recognize a possibility, there is always the chance that she has lied.”

“Do you believe she has?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “I do not know. I have had too little contact with the lady to form a reliable impression of her character. However, all jesting aside, in the short time that we did speak, she struck me as sincere. And as someone who was greatly agitated. I certainly believe she is sincere when she tells you that she does not want this marriage to take place. I cannot imagine any reason why she would lie about that. I cannot see anything that she would have to gain. Indeed, ‘twould seem she would stand to gain much more if she went along with it. So I conclude we can accept her at her word there and safely assume there are no hidden reasons why she would play at intrigue in this matter.”

“So that leaves us with Gresham,” Smythe said.

“It does, indeed. On the face of it, Miss Darcie’s actions seem quite clear and understandable. At least, to me. She does not wish to marry a man she does not love, his social standing notwithstanding, so to speak, and thus far, her comportment in this matter seems consistent. Mr. Gresham, on the other hand, if we are to accept Miss Darcie’s version of events, is something of a puzzle.”

“And we have reasons of our own to dislike Mr. Gresham,” added Smythe, with a sour grimace.

“True. All the more reason to make sure those reasons do not interfere with reason,” Shakespeare said, holding up an admonishing forefinger.

“That does it. Enough ale for you. We had better cut you off before you start tripping over your own tongue.”

Shakespeare chuckled. “For all your considerable bulk, my friend, the day I cannot drink three of you under the table is the day I go back to lapping mother’s milk. Meanwhile, I shall have another pot as we contemplate this matter further.” He waved over the serving wench for a refill. “Now then… as to our friend, Mr. Gresham…” He frowned. “Have you seen the fellow?”

“He was the one at the inn that night, remember? He took the last available rooms. And the next day nearly ran us down.”

“Ah, quite so, but I caught merely a glimpse of him as he came in. I remember a tall man, dark hair, wide-brimmed hat, and traveling cloak and not much else.”

“I am surprised you remember that much, considering how much you drank that night,” said Smythe, with a grin.

Shakespeare grunted. “You had a better look at him, in any case. He was well spoken, as I recall, but then one would expect that from a gentleman.”

“He does not strike me as much of a gentleman if he makes a woman out to be a liar,” Smythe said.

“A woman who has just allowed you to kiss her, and therefore raised herself considerably in your esteem,” Shakespeare replied.

“You think a pretty face would make all of my sound judgement take sudden flight?” Smythe countered, irritably.

“Perhaps not. But add to the face an ample bosom, a saucy waist, and a pretty pair of legs wrapped around your middle and I suspect you could become quite addle-pated.”

Smythe shook his head. “You do the lady a disservice, Will. You make her out to be a strumpet, and she is most assuredly not that.”

“Of course not,” Shakespeare replied. “Look, Tuck, I am not trying to disparage the lady or upset you. But you are my friend, and I feel it is my duty to play the Devil’s advocate and point out some things you may have failed to consider. To wit, what do you suppose would happen if Gresham were to learn what just transpired upstairs?”

Smythe stifled his initial response, which was to protest once again that nothing happened. He had been alone with her in a room that had a bed in it, and he had kissed her. To a man like Gresham, that would have been enough. “Well, I should think he would surely call the marriage off. At the very least. I suppose that he might also choose to engage me in a duel.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Shakespeare said, with a dismissive wave. “One can only duel with equals and a gentleman would not duel with an ostler. ‘Tis much more likely that Gresham would simply have you killed. You have placed yourself in a precarious position by promising to help her.”

“What would you have me do, turn her away?” asked Smythe.

“ ‘Twould be a practical consideration,” Shakespeare said, “but then if we were practical, we would not have joined a company of players.” He took a drink, pondered for a moment, and then nodded. “I am inclined to take the lady at her word, I think, and accept what passed between you as a brief and innocent romantic interlude with no ulterior motives on her part, except perhaps a reaching out to form a bond and gain some sympathy. ‘Tis even possible that, upon reflection, she now regrets what she has done. Either way, you seem to have become involved now. If she no longer wants your help, why then, she will doubtless say so.”

“But until she does, I am inclined to help her, if I can,” said Smythe.

“Which brings us back to Gresham once again,” said Shakespeare.

Smythe nodded. “What motive could he have for lying?”

“Difficult to say. If, as the lady claims, he truly did tell her that he does not desire the marriage any more than she does, then his actions seem a mystery.”

“She believes his purpose in dissembling with her mother was to make it seem as if she had lied about their meeting at the Theatre, made up the whole story in an effort to get out of the marriage.”

“That seems rather foolish,” Shakespeare said. “I mean, ‘twould seem a foolish thing for her to do. If one is going to tell a lie, then it behooves one to tell it in a manner that prevents one from being easily found out. And in this case, ‘twould have been a very simple matter for her to have been found out. All her parents would have had to do was ask Gresham if they had ever met.”

“Which was precisely what he had denied.”

“Except that we know that she was here,” said Shakespeare. “We both saw her.”

“But we both could have been paid to bear false witness in her favor, and that is what Gresham will doubtless claim,” said Smythe. “No one would take the word of a couple of ostlers over that of a gentleman.”

“Quite so. An excellent point. In all likelihood, our testimony would not resolve the problem, especially if her parents are predisposed to disbelieve her because they want the marriage to take place. But the important thing is that we know that she is telling the truth, at least insofar as having met Gresham at the Theatre goes. I suppose ‘tis possible he might not have told her that he does not want the marriage, but then, if that were so, then why not simply deny that? Why deny meeting her at all?”

Smythe nodded. “I think the more we look at it, the more it becomes self-evident that Mr. Gresham is a liar.”

“And I do not like him, anyway,” said Shakespeare. “I can still remember having my arse turned into a pincushion from diving into those thorn bushes when he nearly ran us down.” He winced. “I am still sore from that, damn his eyes. Arrogant bastard.”

“Fine. We are agreed then that he is a liar and a worthless bastard,” Smythe said. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

“Well, we try to find a way to prove he is a liar,” Shakespeare said. “Or, failing that, ‘twould serve your lady’s purposes as well if we could devise some way to thwart the marriage.”

“Agreed. But we have yet to determine what his motives may be. If we knew that, it might help us to devise a plan of action.”

“Perhaps. You say the lady’s parents are well off?”

“Her father is a wealthy merchant who desires to advance himself socially.”

“Hmmm. A lot of that going around these days. ‘Tis all rubbish if you ask me. If you have a lot of money, society eventually comes to you. There is no need to go fawning upon them.”

“That is what Sir William said, though not in so many words,” Smythe agreed. “In the old days, he said, a man won his spurs upon the battlefield. Nowadays, he simply buys them.”

“Which is what Elizabeth Darcie’s father hopes to do,” said Shakespeare. “She is the bait with which he hopes to snare a gentleman of rank. And, of course, the bait is made more tempting with a dowry, which as a wealthy merchant, he can easily afford. But suppose our Mr. Gresham happens to be particularly greedy?”

“What do you mean?”

“We were talking earlier about how Miss Darcie seemed distressed, but not unbalanced,” Shakespeare said. “But what if she did seem to be unbalanced?”

“She certainly did not strike me that way.”

“No, no, of course not. But suppose she was. Not completely out of her mind, you know, but nevertheless, a little touched.” The poet tapped his temple with his forefinger. “Or if she were one of those shrewish women who tend to lie and shout and throw tantrums whenever they are not given their way. ‘Twould make her far less desirable as a wife, I should think. Especially if she had a reputation for such behavior.”

“I see!” said Smythe, realizing where the poet was going. “And if her father were a very wealthy man, then he might well be moved to increase the size of her dowry considerably, as an incentive for a prospective husband to take her off his hands!”

“You get my drift,” said Shakespeare.

“I do, indeed. Gresham makes her out to be touched in the head, or else failing that, a shrewish maid who would be nothing but a trial to her husband. He plays at following through with the arrangement, but at the last moment, seems to hesitate, as if having second thoughts as a result of Elizabeth ’s behavior. And her father, desperate to see them married so that he can make use of Gresham’s social stature, offers him more money to recompense him for the inconvenience he shall experience in trying to tame this shrew. The result: Gresham gets himself a pretty wife and a pretty windfall!”

“Perhaps even a piece of Darcie’s business, if he plays his cards right,” said Shakespeare. “You know, in a perverse sort of way, there is a kind of symmetry to all this. Darcie wants to marry off his daughter to a gentleman so that he can take advantage of the connection to advance himself, and Gresham wants to marry money. Each gets what he wants.”

“Except Elizabeth,” said Smythe, “who only gets used by both.”

“True, true,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “It really is too bad that you are not a gentleman. You think you could get Sir William to adopt you? If you could manage that, then you might just displace Gresham and the two of you could live happily ever after, even with her father’s blessing.”

“Were you planning on drinking that pot of ale or wearing it?” asked Smythe.

“Now you see how you are?” Shakespeare replied. “I do my utmost to help you with your lady’s problem, and arrange for your debut as a player, too, and you threaten to upend a pot of ale over my head. There’s gratitude for you.”

“I am grateful, Will,” said Smythe. “Truly. But… wait. What did you say just now? My debut as a player?”

“Well, ‘tis a walk-on, really, and only one line, but everyone has to start somewhere,” Shakespeare said.

“You got me a part in a play?” Smythe said, with disbelief.

“A very small part,” Shakespeare said, holding his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

“Will! An actual part in a play? However did you do it?”

“No need to get carried away now,” Shakespeare said. “They were very pleased with the job I did for them, as you just saw. And I wrote in a small part for you and asked if you could play it. They were dubious until I said that ‘twas only a small part in the second act, and they would not need to add another hired man. You could perform your duties as an ostler before the play begins, have plenty of time to come inside and change, come onstage, do your part, and then go back outside and help with the horses at the close. They were quite amenable, especially when they saw that you are a great, hulking, handsome chap who will doubtless make the ladies in the audience go all aflutter. And not only ladies. There is always a place in the theatre for tall, strapping fellows. With Alleyn gone, they need someone for the audience to gawk at, and while young Burbage is a decent looking sort, he is not the manly brute that you are.”

“I never know if you are serious or if you are teasing me,” said Smythe, with a grimace.

“I do both,” said Shakespeare, with a smile. He lifted his pot of ale. “Here’s to your debut.”