A Mystery Of Errors

11

“Who is Granny Meg?” asked Elizabeth, as they rode through the nearly deserted streets together in the small carriage Burbage had arrived in.

“She is what some people call a ‘cunning woman,’ “ Burbage replied.

“In other words, she is what other people would call a witch,” Shakespeare said, wryly.

“A witch!“ Elizabeth ’s eyes grew wide. “You are not taking me to see a witch?”

“My dear Mistress Darcie,” Burbage said, “you have just, by your own account, witnessed a murder. Surely you are not going to quail before the notion of visiting a harmless old woman?”

“But a witch!” Elizabeth replied. “They are said to be in league with the Devil!”

“They are no such thing at all,” Burbage said, calmly. “Cunning women such as Granny Meg have been around long before your doctors and apothecaries. For hundreds of years, in fact. They are folk healers and charmers and diviners whose knowledge is passed on from mother to daughter throughout the generations.”

“But they practice sorcery and black magic, do they not?” Elizabeth asked, apparently not quite reassured.

“There are some who would say that sorcery and black magic were one and the same thing,” Burbage replied. “And there are others who would differentiate between sorcerers and witches. Yet still others who would claim that magic is simply magic, neither white nor black, just as intent can be either good or evil. If you ask me, most of the talk one hears about magic, white or black, is all a lot of arrant nonsense. But call it what you will, I can attest that there is something to be said for the skills of cunning women.”

“As can I,” added Smythe. “We had a cunning woman in our village, an old and well-respected woman named Mother Mary McGee. If a farm animal fell ill, or if someone were to have need of a poultice to help cure an injury or else an infusion to quell a fever, why, old Mother Mary was the one they went to, always. And no one ever thought that Mother Mary had any dealings with the Devil, to be sure. She was a kindly old soul who would never hurt a fly.”

“As is Granny Meg,” said Burbage, nodding.

Elizabeth looked dubious. “And why must I go to see this Granny Meg? You have still not made that clear.”

“Well, in this particular case, ‘tis to save your reputation,” Burbage replied. “ ‘Tis not the sort of request that Granny Meg would ordinarily receive, but we are old friends and she will do me the kindness of helping you, I have no doubt.”

“What will she do?” asked Elizabeth, with an uncertain, worried look.

“We shall merely ask her to vouch for you,” said Burbage. “Specifically, we shall ask her to vouch for your whereabouts today. We do not wish it known that you were ever at The Toad and Badger. That is not at all the sort of place a young woman of your standing should go to, unescorted. And I might add that there are many who would call it an unsuitable environment for a proper young woman even if she were escorted. ‘Tis a place known to be frequented by actors and bear wards and jugglers and minstrels and the like, and ‘twould cast a certain pall upon your character if ‘twere known that you had been there, especially alone.”

“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Elizabeth protested, with a sidelong glance at Smythe.

“And I, for one, would be inclined to agree with you,” Burbage replied. “However, I am quite certain that your parents would not. You have spoken of concerns that you have had about this proposed union with the late and apparently unlamented Mr. Gresham. Well, you went to Granny Meg with those concerns, upon someone’s recommendation, we shall refine the details of our story later, and then you were with Granny Meg for most of the afternoon and evening, in an attempt to learn your future and what it held in store.”

“And what of the servant, Drummond, whom Gresham had sent on ahead?” asked Smythe. “He saw her in the street.”

“Well, he may present a minor problem,” Burbage said, “but I have been thinking about that. With Gresham dead, the servant is the only one who can place Miss Darcie at the scene of the murder. And he had been sent on to drive ahead, so he was not there when it occurred. When Gresham never came to meet him, what would he have done?”

“I imagine he would have doubled back to see what happened,” Smythe said. “Perhaps he even found the body and called the sheriff’s men.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it had been found already. In any case, we have only his word-the word of a servant-that Miss Darcie was even there. She could either claim he was mistaken and the time was later or else deny that she was ever there at all.”

“And this Granny Meg can be relied upon not to change her story should the sheriff’s men come calling upon her to make inquiries?” Smythe asked.

“She is an old friend of the family,” said Burbage, nodding emphatically. “She can be relied upon. We shall take Miss Darcie there, then drive her home and let her out close to her house, so that she shall not be seen with us.”

“You are all most gallant,” Elizabeth said.

“Thank you. However, much as we appreciate the compliment,” said Burbage, “in truth, I should point out that our motives are not entirely unselfish. Your father and mine are partnered in a business venture that affects all of our lives. Our very livelihoods depend upon it.”

“Nevertheless, you have all been very kind,” Elizabeth said. “And I shall not forget that.”

The carriage pulled up in front of a small apothecary shop on a dark and narrow, winding side street. The small wooden sign that hung out over the street was painted with a mortar and a pestle.

“Granny Meg has an apothecary shop?” Shakespeare asked.

“What did you expect to find in the middle of London?” Burbage asked, with a smile. “Some dotty, wild-haired old woman living in an overgrown and tumbledown, ramshackle cottage hidden in a stand of trees?”

The poet grimaced. “But the apothecaries have a guild, do they not?” he said. “And I have never heard of any guild that would admit a woman.”

“Nor have I,” Burbage replied. “But I never said that Granny Meg was the apothecary, did I?”

They rang the bell and, a moment later, a small eyehole appeared in the heavy, planked front door. Elizabeth gasped slightly as an eye filled it briefly, then the plug was reinserted and the door was opened slowly with a long, protracted creaking sound. Elizabeth convulsively seized hold of Smythe’s arm. He patted her hand reassuringly and they entered.

What struck them first was the heady fragrance of the place, for they could see next to nothing in the darkness. It seemed to be composed of a cacophony of smells all wafting through the air and mixing together, subtly changing from moment to moment, depending upon where they moved.

“What is that smell?” Elizabeth asked.

“Herbs,” said Smythe. “Drying herbs, hanging from the beams up in the ceiling.”

The door behind them creaked shut slowly and now there was almost total darkness in the shop, save for the glow coming from a brass candle holder that looked like a little saucer with a ring attached. The tallow candle stuck in it was nearly burnt down to a stub, with lots of melted wax caked upon it and the holder.

As the man holding the candle came away from the door and moved toward them, his candle brought illumination and they could see in the dim light the bunched, drying herbs hanging from the ceiling. It looked almost like a thatch roof turned inside out. There was vervain and rosemary and thyme, bay and basil and chive, elder, fennel, lemon balm and marjoram and hyssop and many, many more. Earthenware jars of various sizes filled the wooden shelves on all four walls. In front of one row of shelves there was a long wooden counter, laden with mixing bowls and mortars and pestles and scales with weights and measures and cutting boards and knives and scoops and funnels and all the other common tools of the apothecary.

“Good evening, Master Richard,” the old man said as he approached them, in a voice that sounded surprisingly strong and resonant.

If he was the apothecary, as Smythe surmised, then he certainly looked the part. Tall and gaunt, he had an almost sepulchral aspect with his deeply set dark eyes, prominent cheekbones and high forehead. He wore a long black robe and wisps of long and very fine white hair escaped from under the matching, woven skullcap. His beard was also white and wispy, reaching down to the middle of his chest. Smythe felt Elizabeth squeeze his arm and huddle close to him. In the dim candlelight, in the dark and heavily herb-scented shop, the old man seemed the very image of a sorcerer.

“Good evening, Freddy,” said Burbage, dispelling the illusion with the entirely prosaic name. “The hour is growing late, I know, but we have come to see your wife, if we may.”

Freddy, for all the amiability of his name, appeared to have an expression that was perpetually grim and somber. He nodded gravely and replied, “Meg is always pleased to see you, Master Richard. Allow me to light your way.”

They went to the back of the small shop and passed through a narrow doorway covered with an embroidered hanging cloth, the poor man’s tapestry. Freddy had to bend over as he pushed aside the cloth and went through the doorway to lead them up a narrow flight of wooden stairs against the back wall. They climbed single-file behind him as he lit their way. Smythe noticed that Elizabeth was looking more and more apprehensive. Her nerves were already frayed from the day’s events and Freddy’s appearance had unsettled her. The cadaverous apothecary towered over her, as he towered over all of them save Smythe, and Elizabeth was doubtless thinking that if this was Granny Meg’s husband, then what must Granny Meg herself be like?

At the top of the stairs, they came to the private living quarters just above the shop. It was a small, narrow, one-room apartment longer than it was wide, with whitewashed walls and a planked wood floor that was, unusually, not strewn with sweet-smelling rushes, as in the shop below, but swept clean. The straw bed was back near the front window, the only window in the place, and partially hidden by a freestanding wooden shelf that also functioned as a divider and a screen. The furnishings were simple and rough-hewn. There were a couple of plain and sturdy chairs, several three-legged wooden stools and a number of large chests, a wood planked table and a fireplace in which hung several black cauldrons of various sizes on iron hooks over the flames.

Smythe was a bit taken aback by this. He had never before seen a fireplace on a second floor. In a nobleman’s house, perhaps, it would not have been surprising, though he had only been in one such house, Sir William’s, and then only on the first floor. However, he recalled seeing numerous chimney tops sticking up out of the roof. Perhaps Sir William had fireplaces upstairs, too. But in a thatch-roofed house such as the one Smythe had grown up in, a fireplace on a second floor would have been an invitation to disaster. With no wood between the interior and the thickly piled thatch, the fire hazard would have been extreme. When it was dry, bits of thatch-along with bugs and sometimes mice- would often fall upon the occupants, for which reason cloth canopies were usually put up on posts over the beds. And when it rained, domestic animals who often slept upon the soft thatch roof would occasionally slip through and fall into the house, giving rise to the expression that it was “raining cats and dogs.”

The overwhelming impression of the place, though it was very clean, was one of nearly incomprehensible clutter. As below, wooden shelving lined all four walls and each shelf was filled to overflowing with books, earthenware jars, and other bric-a-brac. There were little pieces of statuary on the shelves such as Smythe had never seen, little figures carved from stone, some having shapes vaguely reminiscent of pregnant women and others resembling birds and animals, though of a type that Smythe had never seen. There were little tiny clay pots and great big ones, holding God only knew what, and there were beaded necklaces and amulets and little leather pouches suspended from thongs, apparently meant to be worn around the neck. No matter where one looked, there were a hundred things to draw the eye. Smythe’s gaze was drawn by a strange-looking dagger lying on a shelf in front of a row of jars. Curious, he reached out for it.

“Please do not touch that, young man.”

The voice was unmistakably feminine, soft and low, yet with a melodious richness that at the same time somehow managed to soothe and command authority. Startled, Smythe jerked back his hand. He felt a bit embarrassed. He, of all people, should have known better. His uncle had taught him the significance of having respect for other people’s properly, especially their blades.

“Forgive me,” he said, uncomfortably. “I did not mean to offend. I… that is, I was…”

“Drawn to it?” She came into the firelight.

“Aye,” Smythe said, softly. He blinked. He was not even entirely certain where she had come from. He had not noticed anyone come from behind the shelves dividing the main portion of the room from the sleeping area, but neither had he seen her in the room before. Yet, suddenly, there she was, as if she had somehow suddenly appeared from out of nowhere. Smythe felt Elizabeth shrink behind him, as if trying to conceal herself.

Yet, as he beheld Granny Meg, Smythe realized that she did not look anything like what he might have expected. She was of average height, with long, thick, silvery gray hair that fell in waves down past her shoulders to her waist. Her eyes were large and luminous, the sort of eyes that it was difficult to look away from. They were a pale shade of blue-gray, like cracked ice on a pond in early winter. Her features were sharp and elfin, bringing to mind some nocturnal forest creature. Her chin came almost to a point, her cheekbones were high and pronounced, and her nose had a delicate, almost birdlike sharpness. Her pale, flawless skin was practically translucent. It almost seemed to glow with vibrancy. Smythe could not begin to guess her age.

Clearly, she was no longer young, but her skin, while faintly lined in places, had no wrinkles and there were no liver spots upon her hands, neither moles or blemishes upon her face. She was slim, girlishly so, and willowy, with a figure most young women would have envied. She wore a simple homespun gown of dark blue cloth with some vine-like embroidery around the low-cut neck. The skin at her throat also belied her age. Smythe would have put Freddy’s age at around sixty-five or even seventy or more. In any case, he was obviously a man well advanced in years. Granny Meg, how ever, did not truly live up-or perhaps down-to her name. She could have been in her fifties, or her sixties, or her seventies… it was impossible to tell. She was certainly not young. But she was the most singularly beautiful older woman Smythe had ever seen.

“Good evening, Granny Meg,” said Burbage.

“And a good evening to you, Master Richard. It is good to see you again. How is your father?”

“Well, thank you, mum.”

“You are Granny Meg?” said Shakespeare, as if giving voice to Smythe’s thoughts. “The name does you an injustice. You scarcely look old enough to be beyond your middle years.”

She turned toward him and smiled. “I am old enough to be your grandmother, young man.”

“If, indeed, you do speak truly,” Shakespeare replied, “then never in all my days have I seen a woman who wore time so lightly.”

“How prettily you speak,” she said. “Yet, as you are a poet, I think that you shall write more prettily still. About time… and other things.”

“Odd’s blood! How could you possibly know I am a poet?” Shakespeare asked, taken aback. “However did you divine it?”

“ ‘Tis true,” Elizabeth whispered in Smythe’s ear, “she is a witch!”

“ ‘Tis no great feat of divination,” Granny Meg replied, with a graceful shrug. “Your pretty speech betrays you. And there are little ink spatters low upon your doublet, such as would occur when one sits and dips a pen too quickly and, in a rush to set words down, fails to shake off the excess ink. Together with the fact that you came with Master Richard, who keeps company mainly with his fellow actors and with disreputable poets, and it was no great leap of intuition to deduce your calling.”

Smythe grinned. “ ‘Twould seem, Will, that even a disreputable poet can learn a thing or two about detailed observation.”

Shakespeare gave him a wry look.

Granny Meg then turned toward Smythe. “You, however, do not strike me as an actor.”

“And yet, I soon shall be,” said Smythe.

Granny Meg pursed her lips. “Well, perhaps. But methinks I see another role for you. Perhaps no less dramatic. And as for you…” Her gaze fell upon Elizabeth. “Come here, girl.”

Elizabeth now went to her without fear or apprehension. Indeed, thought Smythe, it would be difficult to feel any such emotion in this woman’s presence. She seemed to radiate a peaceful calmness, a grace and serenity that spoke of wisdom and experience. And… something else. But what it was, Smythe did not know.

As Elizabeth came up to Granny Meg, the older woman gently touched her underneath her chin and lifted her head slightly, to gaze straight into her eyes. “I sense a great turmoil within you, girl. A most profound disquiet. Perhaps even desperation… You have recently seen death.”

Elizabeth gasped and pulled away. “You had no ink stains from which to deduce that!”

“Some signs are merely more subtle than others,” Granny Meg replied. “Give me your hand.” She reached out to her. Elizabeth hesitated briefly, then held out her right hand. Granny Meg took it and turned it palm up, then traced several lines upon it with her long and graceful forefinger. “You shall have a long life,” she said. She smiled then. “And many lovers.”

Elizabeth snatched her hand back.

“Come, all of you, sit at the table,” Granny Meg said. “Freddy, could we have some tea, please?”

“Are you going to read the tea leaves?” Shakespeare asked.

“No, we are going to have some tea,” Granny Meg replied.

Burbage chuckled. “Granny Meg, we have come to ask a favor…”

“This much I had surmised,” she replied, “but it can wait. There is something else I must do first.” Seemingly from out of nowhere, she produced a deck of cards and began to shuffle them. She stopped at one point and selected one, the Queen of Pentacles, and placed it face up in the center of the table, then continued to shuffle. After a moment or two, she handed the deck to Elizabeth. “Take these, girl, and shuffle them, as I did.”

“I am afraid that I shall not be able to do it near as quickly,” Elizabeth replied, watching her dubiously.

“Do it as slowly as you like then. The point is just to mix them up.”

Elizabeth took the deck and started to shuffle the cards awkwardly. “I have never seen cards such as these,” she said. “They are quite beautiful. What sort of game are they for?”

“They are called tarot cards,” Granny Meg replied. “And they are not used in any sort of game.” She shrugged. “Well, some people might call this sort of thing a game, I suppose. And their results would, of course, come out accordingly.”

“How long should I do this?” Elizabeth asked.

“Until you feel that you have done it enough. There is no set time or number.”

Elizabeth glanced at her uncertainly and promptly dropped some of the cards on the table.

“ ‘Tis all right,” Granny Meg said. “Just pick them up and put them back into the deck, however you like.”

Elizabeth did so, and after a moment more, said, “I think I have mixed these well enough.”

Granny Meg nodded. “So be it. Put them down here, upon the table. Now, I shall cut them three times, and then you do likewise.”

When each of them was done, Granny Meg picked up the deck. “Now,” she said, “this spread is called the Celtic cross. This card here,” she pointed to the Queen of Pentacles, “signifies you. And this,” she pulled one card off the top of the deck and covered the Queen of Pentacles with it. “… this covers you. The Six of Cups. It depicts children playing in a garden, as you see. Behind the garden is a manor, with servants, all signifying wealth, happiness, contentment, childhood… but these things have largely passed now. This next card signifies your obstacles, those things which now oppose you…”

As she gracefully drew the next card from the deck and turned it over, they could see it was reversed, or upside down. Granny Meg laid it crosswise over the first two cards. “The Knight of Cups, reversed. A messenger, or a new arrival, an invitation or a proposition. Reversed, however, it implies treachery and deceit. Duplicity and fraud oppressing you.”

“That would be Gresham,” Smythe said, grimly.

“Please,” said Granny Meg. “She is the one who must interpret these things for herself.”

Smythe merely nodded and kept silent.

Granny Meg drew another card and placed it face up on the table, in a position directly above the others. “This is the crowning influence,” she said, looking at Elizabeth. “It represents what you hope to achieve, but have not, as yet. And it is the Lovers.” She smiled. Elizabeth blushed at the frank depiction of a nude young man and woman on the card, surmounted by the sun and a godly or angelic presence. “You long for simple things, for what any young girl longs for. Attraction, beauty, true love, contentment and security, trials overcome…”

She drew another card and laid it down below the others. “This is beneath you,” she said. “It signifies your past, what is yours, what you must work with in order to achieve that which you desire. The Eight of Swords.”

Elizabeth drew in her breath sharply at the depiction on the card. A woman, bound and blindfolded, surrounded by eight swords stuck into the ground.

“You are in a crisis,” Granny Meg said, looking at her. “There is conflict, bad tidings, and censure. And your ability to act is limited, if indeed, you have any ability to act at all in this current situation.”

Elizabeth glanced at Smythe, alarmed at the accuracy, so far, of the reading. Granny Meg continued, drawing yet another card. “This is behind you, that which has passed or is passing even as we speak.” She turned up the Death card and Elizabeth cried out and brought her hands up to her face, getting a sharp glance from Granny Meg. “The Death card does not always mean literal death, although it could,” she said. “It could also signify mortality, corruption, destruction or a decisive end, a discovery, or an event which shall change the direction of the querent’s life.”

She dealt another card and put it in the opposite position, completing the formation of the cross. “This is before you, that which is coming into action, or about to come to pass. The High Priestess. Interesting. This signifies secrets, mysteries… the un-revealed future. There is much intrigue surrounding you, girl. Much that has yet to be revealed and resolved.”

She dealt the next four cards in quick succession, placing them face up on the table to the right of the cross formation, one above the other. She pointed to the lowest card. “This card represents yourself,” she said to Elizabeth, “and your attitude in relation to your current circumstances. It is the Tower.”

“It is a frightening card,” Elizabeth said, softly. “Even more so, ‘twould seem, than the Death card.”

“It frightens you because it represents your emotions and your current state,” Granny Meg replied. “A tower struck by lightning, flames bursting forth, a man and woman, apparently a king and queen, plunging to their destruction… it all signifies catastrophic transformation, ruin, disgrace, adversity, a fall from grace, deception, sudden change. All most unsettling, of course. And this card,” she pointed to the one immediately above it, “signifies your house or your environment, the influence of people and events around you. The Seven of Wands. A young man armed with a staff, or wand, in a belligerent attitude as he stands upon a height, confronting six staves that are raised against him. His opponents are unseen. This signifies bravery and valor, for he battles against superior numbers, and yet has the advantage of position.”

Elizabeth glanced at Smythe and smiled wanly. She looked a little pale and she was breathing shallowly, through slightly parted lips.

“This card,” Granny Meg pointed to the second to the last card, “represents your hopes and fears. It signifies how you would like things to turn out, or else how you fear they may turn out. ‘Tis the Emperor. A father figure. The representation of power and stability and protection. A great man, one with the qualities of reason and conviction.”

She pointed to the final card. “This is your final outcome. It represents how your current situation shall be resolved. And here we have the Wheel of Fortune. The card of destiny.”

“What does it signify?” Elizabeth asked, anxiously.

“The end of troubles,” Granny Meg replied. “Fortune, change, a moving ahead, either for better or for worse.”

“It sounds like a good outcome,” Smythe said. “I would say ‘tis most encouraging.”

Elizabeth seemed somewhat relieved, but still, she was uncertain. “You are sure ‘twill all turn out well in the end?”

“These things are never certain, girl,” Granny Meg replied. “Conditions could change at any moment. As things stand right now, this is what your situation portends. But there is much around you that is uncertain. A roiling, turgid cloud of intrigue. I sense that it does not truly have anything to do with you, but that you are caught up in the middle of it.”

“What sort of intrigue?” Shakespeare asked.

“That I cannot say,” Granny Meg replied. “But I sense great powers at work behind it all. As if great winds were gathering from far off to produce a fearsome storm. And somehow, for some reason, she has found herself at the center of it all, trapped within the tempest.”

All throughout rehearsal the next day, Smythe kept thinking about Elizabeth, wondering how things had gone for her after they had taken her home. Had the story they had concocted for her been believed? It had been Burbage’s idea on their way to the Darcie residence to have Elizabeth tell her parents that Granny Meg had seen favorable omens for the marriage and that Elizabeth had therefore changed her mind about it and was now willing and even eager to proceed. This would, of course, mean absolutely nothing in that Gresham had been killed, but as Burbage pointed out, her parents would probably not know that yet and it would allow Elizabeth to tell them something that they both wanted to hear.

Burbage had explained that this ploy would predispose them to accept the story, because people always tended to believe what they wanted to believe, regardless of any facts to the contrary. On the face of it, his reasoning had seemed to make sense at the time, but Smythe somehow could not shake the feeling that something somewhere had gone wrong. And it affected his performance. Not that there was much performance to affect. He had only one entrance and one line, but he couldn’t even seem to get that right. Here was his dramatic stage debut, about to occur in the very next performance, and he was making a horrid mess of it.

“No, no, no!” Shakespeare said, standing in front of the stage and holding the book as Smythe missed his entrance cue for the fifth time in a row. “The cue is, ‘I would give a king’s ransom for a horse!’ And then you enter from stage left, come to the center of the stage, and say your line. You do not enter before the cue has been given, nor do you enter while the cue is being given. You enter after the cue has been given. God’s wounds, is that so difficult?”

Smythe sighed. “No, ‘tis not difficult at all. I am sorry, Will. Truly, I am.”

“Aye, you certainly are sorry,” Will Kemp said, as if the comment had been addressed to him rather than the other Will. “You are the sorriest excuse for a player that I have ever seen.”

“Oh, come on now, Kemp,” said Speed, from stage right. “Give the lad a chance.”

“Aye, ‘tis only his first time,” said Fleming. “I am quite sure that you were not perfect your first time on the stage, either.”

“Perfection is one thing,” Kemp replied. “And doubtless ‘tis entirely unreasonable to expect perfection from a novice player. But with this one, even bare adequacy seems utterly beyond him!”

There were times, thought Smythe, when he wanted nothing quite so much as to hammer Will Kemp into the ground like a tent peg. Instead, he held his temper, took a deep breath, and said, “You are quite right. I have been making a thoroughgoing mess of it. I shall try once more. And I shall keep trying until I get it right.”

Will Kemp sighed dramatically. “Send out for victuals,” he said. “We may be here all night.”

“All right, everyone, I think a break would be in order at this time,” said Shakespeare. “We shall resume from this point in a few moments. But let us take a little time to clear our heads.”

“With some of us, that will take less time than with others,” Kemp said, wryly. He turned and stalked offstage.

Smythe stared daggers at his back.

“Tuck,” said Shakespeare, coming up to the edge of the stage and gazing up at him. “What the devil is wrong with you? Are you unwell?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” said Smythe, sitting down on the edge of the stage. He sighed. “I just keep thinking about Elizabeth.”

“What you need to be thinking about is the play,” said Shakespeare, irritably. “The way you have been acting-or perhaps I should say not acting-you have already convinced Will Kemp that you have no ability as a player whatsoever. The rest of the company is disposed to be somewhat more lenient, since this is only your first time upon the stage, but if you keep this up, their patience will wear thin, as well.”

“I know, I know.”

“After all,” said Shakespeare, “ ‘tis just one line! How difficult can it be to remember just one entrance cue and just one line? You come in on your cue… you walk to center stage… you say your line… and then you leave the stage. I do not see how I could possibly have made it any simpler for you!”

“You are quite right, Will. ‘Tis really very simple. Just that I cannot seem to get it right. I do not know why. My head is all muddled.”

“See here, Elizabeth will be fine,” said Shakespeare, placatingly. “Her troubles, for the most part, are now over. All the portents were quite favorable. What you need to do now is get her out of your mind completely. Move on. She is much too far above your station. So stop mooning over the wench. ‘Twill only drive you to drink.”

“You speak from experience, do you?”

“Oh, sod off! Just learn your one damned line, come on at the right time, and say it right; ‘tis all I ask.”

“I know. And I am grateful, Will. I truly am. I greatly appreciate this chance.”

“Then stop cocking it up, for God’s sake!”

“I shall, Will. That is, I shall get it right, I promise.”

“You had damn well better, or you will be back to holding horses at the gate.”

“Well, I shall have to do that anyway, both before and after I complete my scene.”

“Oh, your scene, is it? One line, and now ‘tis an entire scene. Tell you what, I shall settle for one line, and then we shall see about a scene, all right?”

“You needn’t be so peevish about it!”

“No, Kemp is peevish. I, on the other hand, am exasperated! I am trying my best to help you, Tuck. I am trying to help us. We have a chance here, both of us. We must not muck it up. All you need to do is walk onstage and say, ‘Milord, the post horses have arrived.’ And Kemp shall say his line and then you shall walk off with him. And that is really all you need to do! Is it not simple?”

Smythe exhaled heavily and nodded his head. “I know. ‘Tis very simple, truly. I do not know why I cannot get it right.”

“Because you have got your mind fixed upon that damned girl! Forget about her, will you please? She is not for you and never shall be. The odds are you shall not even be seeing her again.”

“I say, Smythe,” said Fleming, from the entrance to the tiring room, “is that not your lady from last night?”

They both looked in the direction he was indicating and, sure enough, there was Elizabeth Darcie, standing at the entrance to the playhouse, together with Dick Burbage and his father, James, along with another older gentleman and a younger, well-dressed man who looked vaguely familiar. Smythe frowned. And suddenly, it came to him.

“Good God! Gresham!”

“What, the man Elizabeth said was murdered?” Shakespeare said.

“Aye!”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Aye, we both saw him at the inn the night we met, remember?”

“In truth, I remember very little of that night,” said Shakespeare. “I do seem to recall a gentleman arriving, but I do not believe I’d know him if I laid eyes on him again. And you are saying this is he?”

Smythe nodded, dumbstruck.

“How curious,” said Shakespeare, turning back to look at the group. “I have heard it said that ghosts walk at the witching hour, but I have never heard of one who went abroad in daylight.”

Smythe jumped down off the stage to the ground. “I do not understand this. Elizabeth said she saw him killed last night!”

Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, he seems to have recovered nicely.”

Elizabeth spotted them and glanced in their direction. She did not say anything, nor did she gesture, but Smythe saw a look of desperate panic on her face. Gresham appeared hale and hearty, but she was the one who looked white as a ghost.

“I shall soon get to the bottom of this!” Smythe said.

Shakespeare grabbed him by the arm. “Hold off a moment,” he said, in a level tone, “before you go making a complete fool of yourself.”

At the same time, Dick Burbage saw them and quickly detached himself from the group and hurried toward them, gesturing to Smythe to stay where he was.

“What the hell is going on here?” Smythe muttered.

“1 suspect we are about to find that out,” Shakespeare replied.