A Mystery Of Errors

4

London was everything he had expected and much more. A recent census had reported the city’s population as over 120,000 and it seemed to Smythe as if they were all out on the streets at once. Cobblers, drapers, merchant tailors, younkers, ironmongers, weavers, goldsmiths and ropemakers, skinners, saddlers, tanners, vintners and apothecaries, discharged soldiers, dyers, pewterers and cutlers, hosiers, stationers, haberdashers, whores and grocers, barbers, balladeers and barristers, scriveners, booksellers, pickpockets and portrait painters and cozeners of every stripe, everywhere he looked, a different walk of life was represented, often loudly, sometimes repellantly, but always interestingly.

Dominating the city was the massive, gothic Cathedral of St. Paul’s, where people gathered in Paul’s Walk among the open stalls and bookshops to post bills or hire servants or be regaled by lurid tales of far-off lands from seamen-some of whom might even have been sober as they passed their hats-or else receive forecasts from robed and long-bearded astrologers, who were listened to with wary fascination and respect because they were believed by many to consort with demons. Here also was Paul’s Cross, where Sunday sermons could be heard preached from the outdoor pulpit on those mornings when it didn’t rain and turn the cobbled streets even more dangerously slippery with muck and slime than they usually were.

With so many carriers’ carts and carriages and horse litters and coaches clogging up the narrow streets and alleyways, making passage hazardous for those who rode and walked alike, the Thames was the main thoroughfare for many, with the watermen plying their way up and down the river and across in their small rowboats, ferrying those who chose not to use the crowded London Bridge, which was the only bridge across the undulating river to Bankside.

Downstream, to the east, stood the famous Tower of London, built as a palace citadel to guard the city from invasion from the sea. The Tower was an armory, as well as a prison for the most dangerous offenders, and the only place of coinage for the realm, in addition to being a treasury for the Crown Jewels and home of a menagerie that included several lions. To the west, roughly two miles from the city of London and connected to it by the Strand, was the Royal City of Westminster, which contained the Palace of Whitehall, the main residence of the queen, and the Abbey of St. Peter, where the monarchs of the realm were crowned and often buried.

In the city streets, Smythe noticed that many if not most men went armed, although a recent proclamation had reduced the allowable length of swords to no more than three feet and daggers to twelve inches. The fast, slim rapiers were more and more coming into vogue and fashionable ladies carried little bodkins tucked away somewhere discreetly. Those less concerned with fashion wore their poignards or stilettos openly, the better to defend themselves in the event of one of the frequent brawls or riots that broke out from time to time, often the result of young apprentices swaggering about in raucous gangs, needing little more excuse than youth and drunkenness, always an incendiary combination, to start a sudden, bloody street fight.

And drunkenness was less the exception than the rule. Smythe had long since learned that his habit of making an infusion of boiling water with dried clover flowers, mint, and raspberry leaves with honey, a healthful and revitalizing recipe meant to clarify the mind, taught him in his boyhood by old Mary, the village cunning woman, would be considered quite the eccentricity. Water, as everybody knew, was merely for washing up and cooking, certainly not for drinking. Ale was the universal beverage, imbibed at breakfast, dinner, supper, and all throughout the day, save by the more affluent citizens of London, who drank wine, all of which created a constant state of ferment where violence could brew and street fights could erupt at any time.

Shakespeare and Smythe stumbled into just such a street fight shortly after they had entered the city, passing through one of the large, arched gates in the encircling stone wall. For Smythe, it had felt like passing through a gate from one world into another. They were assailed by a dizzying cacophony of smells, from the market stalls selling fish, meats, produce, breads, and cheeses, to the heady, pungent odor of the horse droppings and the still fouler stench of human waste and garbage that was simply dumped into the streets, to be picked at by the crows and ravens who nested in the trees and made their meals out of whatever refuse they could find, in addition to the fleshy morsels that they tore from the severed heads stuck up on the spikes outside the law courts.

There was noise and tumult assailing them from every quarter, with the squeaking, clomping sounds of ungreased cart wheels jouncing by on cobblestones, the snorting and neighing of the horses and the jingling of their tack, the clacking of the beggars’ clap-dishes, the ringing of shopkeepers’ bells, and the cries of the peddlers and costermongers-”Hot oakcake! Hot oatcake! Come an’ buy! Come an’ buy!” “New brooms ‘ere! New brooms!” “Whaddyalack-whaddyalack-whaddyalack now?” “Rock samphires! Getchyer fresh rock samphires!”

As they moved through the streets, another cry suddenly went up with great alacrity, rising over and above the din they heard around them as it was taken up by many other voices. “Clubs! Clubs! Clubs!”

“Clubs?” said Smythe, frowning with puzzlement.

No sooner had he spoken than they found themselves engulfed by a stampeding mob that came streaming out from around the corner like the abruptly released waters of a sluiceway, forcing them back toward the gutter that held all the filth and garbage that would ferment there like an odious, swampy brew until the next rain washed it down into Fleet Ditch.

“Street riot!” Shakespeare cried out, pulling hard at Smythe’s arm in an effort to drag him back out of the way, but the crowd had already surged around them and they found themselves caught up in its momentum and carried back the way they came.

It was impossible to tell who was fighting whom or how the whole thing had started. All they knew was that they were suddenly caught up in a crush of people trying to get away from the rising and falling clubs and flashing blades that were at the heart of it. Smythe slipped and tried to keep his footing on the slimy cobblestones near the gutter running down the center of the street, where most of the noxious muck had gathered and where people, forced into it by the press of bodies all around them, were falling down into the stinking, toxic ooze and being trampled. Someone bumped into him and Smythe pushed the man away roughly, sending him sprawling as he glanced around quickly for the poet.

“Will! Will!”

“Tuck!”

He spotted him, reaching out for help, being jostled repeatedly and trying desperately to keep his footing. He had lost his staff and he looked panic-stricken. Smythe stretched out his arm and, just at that instant, the poet lost his footing, slipped, and fell.

“Got you!” Smythe said, seizing his wrist and yanking him up and back from the filthy mire at the center of the street.

“Odd’s blood!” said Shakespeare, gasping for breath as Smythe shoved their way roughly through the crowd to the nearest wall. “A man could get himself hurt around here.”

“Watch out, the City Marshal’s men!” somebody cried.

The sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones rose over the shouting and the clanging of steel as the marshal’s men came galloping upon the scene, responding to the riot that had been moving through the streets and causing considerable damage. There was a rather large group of young men, in various styles of dress, going at it with a vengeance with both clubs and swords, though Smythe had no way of telling who was on whose side. It looked like a wild melee. The combatants, however, either did not seem to suffer from that problem, or else they were simply fighting with anyone within reach.

As Smythe pressed back against the wall with Shakespeare, he saw the mounted men come galloping around the corner, an unwise thing to do, it seemed to him, considering the uneven surface of the streets and the slick condition of the cobblestones. And sure enough, even as they watched, one of the lead horses went down, pitching its rider off as its hooves slipped on the cobbles, and the rider coming up behind it was brought down, as well. The others did not even slow down as they rode down the rioters, laying about them indiscriminately with their swords and truncheons. One young rioter’s head was split open like a melon in a spray of blood and brains. Another screamed hoarsely as he had his arm and most of his shoulder chopped clean through. Unlike some of the fashionable, rapier-toting toughs, the City Marshal’s men were armed with broadswords. Not as quick, perhaps, but devastatingly effective, especially from horseback.

“We had best get inside someplace and quickly,” Smythe said, “before we get caught up in all that.”

“Aye, they do not seem to care much whom they chop down, do they?” said Shakespeare. “They are a most profligate bunch of butchers.”

“Over there,” said Smythe, pointing out a painted wooden sign for a tavern just a few doors down.

Shakespeare glanced up at the sign. “The Swan and Maiden, eh? Well, by Zeus, it seems like just the place. If we can make it there.”

They made it through the door mere seconds before the carnage would have caught up with them, plunging through it so quickly that they tripped upon the threshold and fell sprawling to the rush-strewn floor. A group of men had gathered at the windows to watch and they were heartily cheering each brutal stroke, raising their tankards, slapping one another on the back, laughing boisterously, and toasting the slaughter outside in the street as if it were being staged purely for their benefit.

“Hah! Well struck!”

“Again! Get him!”

“Kill him!”

“Run him through!”

“Mow down the bloody bastards!”

“Look! Here’s two of them come bursting in here, trying to flee! What do you say, lads? Shall we toss them back out into the street to get their just desserts? Or should we carve them up in here ourselves and save the marshal’s men some trouble?”

Smythe turned, fixed the speaker with a glare, and rose to his feet. The man’s eyes widened and he swallowed nervously, backing off a step. His hand went to his sword hilt. Smythe hefted his staff. The man who’d spoken hesitated, suddenly uncertain if he wanted to draw steel and commit himself to a fight he might not win. He looked to his comrades for support, his gaze quickly flicking from Smythe to them and back again, as if seeking a prompt for action.

Smythe made a quick assessment of his potential opponent. He had the look of a tradesman, middle-aged and bearded, as they all were, in his early to mid-thirties, and fashionably, if not ostentatiously dressed in a brown leather doublet with the rough side out and buttons of polished brass set close together. Slashed sleeves, showing touches of red cloth underneath, were in conformity with the latest style. The sword, too, looked more worn for fashion than for function. Doubtless, it was reasonably functional, but the hilt and scabbard looked a bit too ornamental for serious work to Smythe’s trained eye. The workmanship was gaudy, but strictly second-rate. The man was a barroom bravo, a loudmouthed bully with a few tankards of ale under his belt, but judging by his weapon, he was not a real swordsman.

“Oh, we’ve got ourselves a roaring boy,” one of the others said. This one, Smythe noted, was a larger man, but soft around the middle and bleary-eyed with drink. His large and red-veined nose betrayed his fondness for the cask. His gut-stuffed, ale-stained, blue and buff striped doublet confirmed it. “I think this one wants a fight, lads,” he added, with ale-fueled belligerence.

“He’s a strapping big bugger,” the first one said, uneasily.

“Aye, but he’s only got a staff,” the third man replied. “And the other one’s just a skinny little bloke, and there’s five of us.”

Smythe glanced at the man in the dark green doublet with the puffed shoulders and black-slashed sleeves. He was beefy, though not as heavy as the one in blue and gold. He wore a short black cloak that made it difficult to tell his true dimensions, particularly with the latest padded and puffed fashions. But he did not seem quite as drunk as his fat friend. A more serious threat, perhaps.

“Please, gentlemen,” Shakespeare said, rising to his feet unsteadily and holding out his hands, “we wish to cause no trouble. We are not roaring boys or duelists. As you can see, we have no swords. I am but a poor poet and my friend, here, is an aspiring actor. We were merely caught up in that commotion out there in the street. We had no part in it ourselves, I assure you.”

“Oh, you assure us, do you?” the fourth man replied, mockingly. “Well, a pox on your assurances!”

Medium height, medium build, but not muscular looking, Smythe observed, as he appraised the man in the red and gold doublet and floppy, plumed red cap. He seemed more drunk than his compatriots, and even less of a threat on his own. There was nothing about any of them or their weapons from what Smythe could see that indicated serious fighters, but then five drunkards armed with swords and egging one another on were still nothing to be sneezed at. He made a quick determination. If it came to a fight, and he saw that it was looking more and more that way, then he could not be sure if he could count on Shakespeare for much help. Glovemaking and poetry did not normally develop strength or fast responses. And the poet was neither a large nor a strong man. Best look to the one with the brown leather doublet first, Smythe thought, because he seemed the most sober of the bunch and therefore, perhaps, the greatest threat. Then the one in dark green, and then the fat one in the buff and blue, and then the fourth…

“And a pox on bleedin’ poets, too,” the fifth man said contemptuously, staring at Shakespeare with an ugly scowl. As Smythe turned his attention to him, he immediately revised his estimation. No, this one would be the greater threat, he thought, looking him over. He seemed more fit than any of the others, and though he had a large pewter tankard in his hand, he did not look drunk at all. His eyes seemed clear and more alert, like those of the first man, only more so. He also filled out the chest of his brown and black quartered doublet with more thick muscle than the others had, and his shoulders looked more massive, too. This one was a craftsman or a laborer, Smythe thought. A man who did work with his hands and would not shy from getting them dirty. A cooper, or an ironmonger, or perhaps a farrier…

“A pox on poets, did you say?”

The new voice came from one of the tables behind them. Smythe glanced over his shoulder quickly to see a strikingly handsome young man in an elegantly jeweled burgundy doublet of three-piled velvet rise to his feet with the lightness of a dancer. His hair was a light auburn hue and shoulder-length, and his eyes were large, expressive, and a bit dreamy, yet mockingly insolent. A poet’s eyes, Smythe thought, at once. He had a small moustache that curled up slightly over thin, bemused lips and a spare chin beard that framed his well-formed oval face, which had a delicate, boyish, somewhat effeminate cast.

Wonderful, was his first thought. Just what we need. Another drunkard with a blade. Things were liable to get dangerous at any moment.

Another man sat at the same table, but this one kept his seat, resting his elbows on the tabletop and steepling his gloved fingers in front of his face as he watched his young friend with amusement. Smythe had little time to take much note of him, save that he was dark-haired and exquisitely dressed in black brocade and silk. His handsome young friend came sauntering around the table and, in a smooth, lazy-looking, yet deceptively quick motion, drew his rapier before the others could react.

“ ‘Ere now!” the tavernkeeper called out. “I’ll have none o’ that in my place!”

The handsome young man’s dark friend, still seated at the table, merely raised his elegantly gloved hand, without even turning around, and the tavernkeeper fell silent at once.

“You did say a pox on poets,” the young man said, “or were my ears deceiving me? I mean, I could scarcely credit what I heard! It simply seems impossible!”

“What concern is this of yours?” said the man in brown, who had disparaged poets. His hand was still on his swordhilt, but he remained undecided as to whether to draw steel or not. A blade had already been drawn, and the young man wielding it looked very relaxed and confident, indeed. Not in the least bit intimidated by the odds. Smythe could see Leather Doublet calculating. Was this merely some drink-addled young fool looking for trouble, or did he know his business? Smythe was wondering the same thing himself. He glanced over at Shakespeare, who simply looked at him and rolled his eyes.

“As it happens, I too am a poet,” the young man said, as he approached the group, with a casual swagger. “As is my friend, there, who dabbles with a sonnet or two upon occasion. And so, you see, you have cursed not only this excellent young man here, and his friend, the actor, but you have wished a pox upon the two of us, as well, as you have also cursed all those who labor nobly in the dark and lonely hours with quill and parchment to produce some small bit of transitory beauty for an ugly, often unappreciative world. Yet, much more importantly, do you know who else writes poetry, and has thus been cursed by you? Well? Do you?”

Frowning, and looking decidedly uncertain about this new development or the flow of verbiage, the man in the brown and black quartered doublet shook his head. “No, who?”

“Why, the queen!” the young man said. “The queen writes poetry! Now I happen to know this for a certain fact, you see.” He brought up his rapier and delicately played its point around the man’s throat. “And I cannot very well stand by and do nothing while you wish a pox upon Her Royal Majesty, our good Queen Bess, now can I?”

“Here, you’d better put that rapier down, lad, before you go and do something rash,” the one in the dark green said.

“Or what?” the young man asked without even glancing his way. His gaze was locked with the man in brown and black, with the swordpoint playing lightly at his throat. And that man was breathing shallowly, eyes narrow, his own gaze unblinking and alert. And very cold.

“Or you’ll have to be taught a lesson in minding your own damn bloody business, you impudent fop.” The man in green began to draw his blade.

Smythe reacted quickly, but the young man was even quicker. Before the man in green could clear his scabbard, the young man’s blade flicked over like an adder’s tongue and slashed across his face, opening up his cheek from temple to jaw. At the same time, the young man smashed the back of his fist into the face of the man in brown and black, who had begun to draw his blade, as well.

By this time, Smythe was moving, but so was the young man. He danced lightly back out of the way to engage the others as the man in green screamed, dropped his sword, and sank to his knees, bringing his hands up to his ruined face. He was clearly out of the fight now, and the odds had been reduced by one.

With a quick glance toward Shakespeare, to make sure he was not immediately in harm’s way, Smythe targeted the man in the brown leather doublet, who was drawing steel as the man in brown and black recovered from the punch and also drew his blade. There was blood running from his nose and he had cold fury in his eyes. As he and the young man engaged, Smythe brought the end of his staff down hard upon his opponent’s wrist. With a cry of pain, the man in the leather doublet dropped his fancy-hilted blade and had little time for anything save a wide-eyed stare of alarm as Smythe brought the other end of his staff up and cracked it hard against his temple. He crumpled to the floor, senseless.

The fat one in the buff and blue was slow to react to the outbreak of hostilities, his wits doubtless dulled by drink, but by the time Smythe’s leather-clad opponent crumpled to the floor, he had realized there was a brawl in progress and rushed forward with a roar, ignoring the blade at his side, instinctively counting on his size to work for him as he launched himself at Smythe and wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, driving him backward. They crashed into the table where the young man’s elegant friend was sitting, but he simply got up in the nick of time and stepped casually back out of the way with his goblet as Smythe and the fat man fell to the floor, splintering the table beneath them.

Knowing that if the fat man fell on top of him, it would drive the wind right out of him, Smythe wrapped his own arms around his antagonist and twisted hard as they fell, with the result that the fat man took the brunt of their crash into the table and fell with the not inconsiderable bulk of Smythe on top of him. His thick layers of fat, however, absorbed much of the impact and kept him from getting the wind knocked out of him. He managed to dislodge Smythe, breaking his hold and tossing him aside, into another table. With an angry roar, he started to get back up, but never made it. Hoisting a bench high above his head with both hands, Shakespeare brought it down hard on top of the man’s head, splintering the wood, and quite possibly bone, as well. Leaning back against the bar, the elegant man in black raised his goblet in a toast, which Shakespeare acknowledged with a bow.

Smythe got up to see the young man hotly engaged with two opponents, the man in red and gold and the man in brown and black. And he was being driven back under their combined assault. However, before he could do anything, Smythe saw the situation resolved neatly by the young man’s black-garbed friend.

It happened very quickly. As the young man backed away, parrying furiously, his opponents passed the spot where the man in black was standing, leaning back against the bar. Moving in a casual, easy manner, the man in black unsheathed his dagger, flipped it so that he could grasp the blade with his gloved hand, then brought it down hard upon the skull of the man in red and gold. He crumpled to the floor as the man in black brought up his booted foot and kicked the other man right in the groin. The man in brown and black made a sound like a pig being stuck with a skewer, then collapsed as the elegant man in black brought the heavy pommel of his dagger down upon his head, knocking him unconscious.

The young man stepped back with an irritated look and shrugged, spreading his arms and sweeping his rapier out to the side in an elaborately expressive gesture. “I could have handled them, you know.”

The man in black glanced at him and grimaced. “The trouble with you, Kit, is that you are not nearly as good as you think you are.”

“I was doing bloody well all right till you stepped in!” the handsome young man protested.

“You had help,” the man in black said, indicating Smythe.

“ ‘Twas he who helped us,” said Smythe, “for which, sir,” he added, turning to the young man, “I am profoundly grateful. We have only just arrived in London, seeking employment, and our first day in town was very nearly our last.”

“Well, we cannot have louts and bumpkins abusing poets out in public, now can we? No, no, that would never do.” The handsome young man grinned, adding, “We artists have to stick together, you know.”

“Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “Though for my part, I would prefer to do so in a manner somewhat less bellicose.”

“Ah, but you must admit, it was a grand little set-to, was it not?” the young man said. “Just the sort of thing to get a man’s blood up!”

The man in black shook his head with resignation. “If you persist in this sort of foolishness, Marlowe, then I strongly suggest you take more fencing lessons, else I shall find some other young, deserving poet to favor with my patronage. These tavern brawls are going to be the death of you, and I would hate to see my money wasted. You still have many years of decent work in you, Kit. Assuming you survive, of course.”

The young man bowed with an exaggerated, courtly gesture. “I am properly chastised, milord. I shall make an appointment with your fencing master at the earliest opportunity.”

“And I shall have to pay for that, too, I suppose,” the man in black said, with a wry grimace.

“Kit Marlowe?” Shakespeare said. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Christopher Marlowe, the author of Tamburlane?“

The young man smiled, obviously pleased at the recognition.

“At your service, sir. And now I fear you have the advantage of me.”

“William Shakespeare is my name. And this is my friend, Tuck… that is, Mr. Symington Smythe. I know your work, Mr. Marlowe. I admire it very much. ‘Tis a great pleasure to meet you, indeed.”

“Well, you are most kind. And now it seems you have the advantage of me once again, for I fear that I am not yet familiar with your work, sir. Perhaps I will have the opportunity to become acquainted with it in due time.” He turned to the man in black. “Milord, allow me to present Mr. William Shakespeare and Mr. Symington Smythe. Gentlemen, my esteemed patron, the honorable Sir William Worley.”

The man in black inclined his head slightly and touched the brim of his hat. Smythe met his gaze and, in that instant, struck as if by lightning, he realized he knew this man, although he could scarcely believe it. “I am indebted to you, milord,” he said. “Once again.”

“Again?” said Worley, raising an eyebrow. “Have we met before?”

“Perhaps I am mistaken,” Smythe replied. “It is possible that I took you for someone else, milord. Mayhap some chance resemblance to another gentleman in black.”

“Indeed? Well, I shall have to speak to my tailor, then. He swore to me that no one else had clothes like these. If I find he has been selling copies, I shall have the fellow flogged.”

“In any event, we are both indebted to you, milord,” said Smythe. “Had Mr. Marlowe and yourself not intervened, I fear things would have turned out rather badly for us.”

“Perhaps. Though you seem quite capable with that staff, I suggest you get yourself a more serious weapon, Mr. Smythe. This is London, after all, not some small village in the Midlands. A man needs to look out for himself around here. You know how to use one of these?”

He drew his sword and tossed it to Smythe. Smythe caught it by the hilt. Worley smiled slightly, seeing his quick reaction. Smythe examined it and felt its balance.

“ ‘Tis a good blade, milord.”

“You seem to know the way to hold it. Keep it as a loan. You shall return it to me when you obtain one of your own.” He unbuckled his swordbelt and handed it to Smythe. “And if you do not return it in good time, and in good condition, mind you, then I shall have you found post haste and beaten mercilessly.”

“If I can get access to a forge, milord, then I shall endeavor to make you one still better,” Smythe replied. “And you may have that in trade, if you prefer.”

“Indeed?” Worley raised his eyebrows. “Those are rather bold words, young man. That is a Toledo blade.”

“ ‘Tis a fine blade, milord,” said Smythe, a bit hesitantly. “A good weapon, and very serviceable. But I would place its origin much closer, right here in England rather than in Spain.”

“The devil you say! It so happens I was assured that blade was made by Sebastiani of Toledo. Do you dispute this? Explain yourself, sir.”

Smythe cleared his throat. “Well, milord… ‘tis true there is an S stamped on the ricasso of the blade, but I can assert with confidence that it stands for Somersby, a Sheffield cutler of some small repute. I know his makers’ mark quite well; I have seen it many times at my uncle’s shop, when we had occasion to sharpen or repair his blades for several of our customers. He is an able craftsman, but certainly not up to the standards of the masters of Toledo, something I am quite sure he would readily admit, as I am told he is an honest man. I… uh… would hope that whoever sold the weapon to you asked a price in keeping with its proper origin.”

Worley cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, no. It would appear I have been cheated.”

“Then perhaps you would like to take this back, milord, so that you may seek proper recompense for the effrontery.”

“No, no, you keep it. At least for the present. I shall let it serve as an object lesson to me to seek a more qualified opinion before I make a similar purchase in the future. You intrigue me, Mr. Smythe. For a number of reasons. You shall have your forge. Come to my estate at your convenience. Most anyone of consequence in London can direct you. We shall put your claim to the test. If you make good upon it, I can warrant that I shall have employment for you. If not, then you shall owe me the price of the materials and forging costs. If you lack the funds, then I shall take it out in labor. Fair enough?”

“More than fair, milord,” Smythe said, with a small bow.

“Excellent. Marlowe, be so good as to find a likely lad to have my carriage brought around. The coachman doubtless prudently drove off when that riot began outside, and he’ll be somewhere on a nearby side street, or I’ll know the reason why. Oh, and Mr. Shakespeare, if you are even half as confident in your abilities as your friend seems to be in his, then perhaps there is a chance that you might find employment with the Queen’s Men. They are keen to compete with Marlowe here, and Kyd, and as yet have found no resident poet who can measure up. That morose old stewpot, Greene, is lately drowning his rather mediocre talent in a bottle, and Lyly’s shot his bolt, I think. They could do with some new blood.”

“You will doubtless find the company disporting themselves at The Toad and Badger, in St. Helen’s,” Marlowe added. “Ask for one Dick Burbage and give him my compliments.”

“Thank you,” Shakespeare said. “I shall do that, Mr. Marlowe. I am in your debt.”

“Well, now there’s a switch,” said Marlowe, with a grin. “ ‘Tis usually I who am in debt to others.”

“My carriage, Kit,” said Worley.

“Your word is my command, milord.” Marlowe gave a sweeping bow, winked at Smythe, and left.

“I think he likes you,” Worley said.

“And I like him, milord,” Smythe said. “He seems a most amiable young man.”

Worley raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “Amiable? Aye, well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose. ‘Tis a good thing he has talent, else I should find his company insufferable. But one must make allowances for talent. ‘Tis a rare commodity, and often does not come without some baggage.”

“Your carriage awaits, milord,” said Marlowe, sticking his head inside the door. “ ‘Twas standing by just around the corner.”

“Well, at least my coachman does his job properly,” said Worley. He turned to the tavernkeeper. “You may send me a bill for the damages, but see that you do not inflate it.”

“Very good of you, milord,” the tavernkeeper said.

“Oh, and add something for these two young chaps,” said Worley. “They look as if they could use a meal and a drink. Good night, gentlemen. And good luck to you.”

He followed Marlowe out the door.

“What a splendid gentleman!” said Shakespeare. “Tavernkeeper, two ordinaries and a couple of ales! Ah, yes, indeed! There, you see, Tuck? That is the sort of patron a poet truly needs! A cultured man! An educated man! A titled man! A…”

“A highwayman,” murmured Smythe.

“What?”

“A highwayman,” he repeated, keeping his voice low. “An outlaw. A road agent. A brigand.”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“Do you recall when we met and I told you how I was accosted by a highwayman upon the road? And how instead of robbing me, because I had no money, he tossed a crown to me, instead?”

“Yes, I recall you told me that. A singular occurrence. But what of it?”

Smythe pointed toward the door. “That was the man.” “Sir William?” “The very same.”

Shakespeare stared at him with disbelief. “Sir William Worley? Are you mad?” He glanced around quickly and lowered his voice when he noticed he was attracting some attention. “Tuck… Sir William Worley is one of the richest men in London! And a knight of the realm, no less.”

“Well, he is also a highwayman,” said Smythe, softly.

“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.”