Much Ado About Murder

1

It was a quiet night in the taproom of the Toad and Badger as Tuck Smythe sat down to a simple supper of dark oat bread, ale, and pottage. A quiet night at the Toad and Badger tavern, however, did not necessarily mean the night was quiet in any generally accepted meaning of the phrase. It simply meant that no crockery was being hurled, no furniture was being overturned, and no skulls were being broken. (Admittedly, broken skulls did not occur as frequently as broken furniture and crockery, largely because players, as a rule, had less of a tendency toward violence than histrionics.) Smythe knew that the occasional broken bone or two was not altogether out of the question, but then such incidents did not often involve actors, who usually knew well enough to make a timely exit to the wings whenever the action center stage became a bit unruly.

Despite the general tumult over which the ursine Courtney Stackpole presided as the innkeeper, Smythe took comfort in the fact that the Toad and Badger was not really the sort of tavern where blood could flow as freely as small beer. Those sorts of places could more readily be found in Southwark or Whitechapel, where seamen from the trading ships and mercenaries from the foreign wars often brawled with the weatherbeaten rivermen and tough drovers from the Midlands. In such places, on any given night, blades could be drawn as readily as ale. The Toad and Badger, fortunately, was not that sort of tavern. It was rowdy and boisetrous, to be sure, but for all that, it was more loud than lethal and its charm lay primarily in the eccentricities of its patrons, most of whom were simple tradesmen and entertainers.

On this particular occasion, the atmosphere within the tavern was unusually subdued, in large part because the fortunes of the Queen’s Men were lately in decline. The previous summer, they had gone out on tour throughout the English countryside, but their performances had not brought in nearly as much as they had hoped. The harvests had been poor for two years running, and while people in the countryside were generally starved for entertainment, many of them were also quite literally starving and could scarcely afford even the very reasonable price of admission to a play.

In many villages where they had stopped, rather than set up in the courtyard of a local inn, as was their custom, the Queen’s Men had erected their stage out in a village square, then played for free to gain an audience. Afterwards, they would simply pass the hat. All too often, unfortunately, they had found that the number of people in their audience had well outnumbered the few coins that they had left behind.

To add insult to their injury, there were numerous bands of cozeners, vagabonds, and sharpers traveling the countryside of late, posing as legitimate companies of players. They would herald their arrival in a town with a fanfare of cornets and sackbuts, then with dramatic gestures, posturings, and declamations, the imposters would announce themselves as “the famed and legendary Queen’s Men,” or “the illustrious and acclaimed Lord Admiral’s Men,” or “the Earl of Leicester’s Own Grand Company of Players,” when, in fact, they had no legitimate noble patron whatsoever and thus possessed no right under the law to perform anywhere as players. Nevertheless, that did not stop scores of enterprising scoundrels from banding together in companies, stealing some wagons and some horses, then dressing up in motley and passing themselves off as legitimate players out on tour from London.

These rogues would come into a country town and stage some sorry travesty of a production they had cobbled together from bits and pieces filched from various plays that they had seen in London or, worse still, put on a play that they had stolen in its entirety by attending several performances en masse and committing different parts to memory. Much of the time, a play that was stolen in this manner resulted in a production that was a hopeless mish-mosh of misremembered lines and markedly inferior performances, which would have been bad enough, thought Smythe, if fraud were the only crime being perpetrated. Unfortunately, no sooner would these imposters leave a town that they had visited than numerous thefts and other crimes would be discovered, leaving little doubt as to the culprits.

Needless to say, the victims of these roving, thieving bands were not very well disposed toward legitimate companies of players who came to visit afterward. The Queen’s Men had been driven from three villages they came to on their tour and Smythe still had some bruises left from being pelted with sticks and stones hurled by the angry townspeople at their last stop.

At least London ’s critics did not hurl anything more hazardous than a few well-turned epithets.

When the company had finally come home to London, they quickly discovered that things there were not much better. The playhouses were all closed down, in part because of plague, and in part because of rioting apprentices who had taken to roaming the streets of the city in large gangs and getting into violent, bloody battles with their rivals on the slightest provocation. There had been numerous complaints of damage done to property by these roving bands of hooligans, not to mention damage done to life and limb, as well. Smythe could not see what the players had to do with it. As he saw it, the blame lay with the guildsmen to whom these roaring boys had been apprenticed. They clearly failed to exercise the proper amount of supervision with their charges and allowed the boys too much free time. But rather than place the blame where it belonged, the authorities had apparently decided that any place where large numbers of citizens could gather was a potential breeding ground for violence, and so the playhouses had all been closed down ‘til further notice.

Smythe thought that it was terribly unfair to penalize the players by denying them the ability to make their living, even though they were entirely innocent of any wrongdoing… however, there was nothing they could do about it. Between their unsuccessful tour and the playhouses being closed, most of the Queen’s Men were now dead broke. They had lost several members who had left the company to pursue other work, and those with any money left would soon be penniless themselves from sharing the little they had with their less fortunate comrades. Even the meanest of them was not above standing a fellow to a meal or a drink. Adversity seemed to bring out the best in them, Smythe thought. The players took care of their own.

He recalled the way his father had railed against them when he first found out about his son’s dream of joining a company of players. “Players!“ Symington Smythe the elder had exclaimed, his voice dripping with scorn as he lifted his chin and gave an elaborate sniff of disdain. “Naught but a frivolous, immoral lot of dirty scoundrels, every last man jack of them! Degenerate and drunken wastrels, all of them, a foul and pestilential pox upon society! No son of mine shall ever be a player! Mark me well, boy, I shall strip the hide right off your back afore I allow you to disgrace the family name in such a manner!”

Well, Smythe thought wryly, as things turned out, his hide was still intact, which was certainly more than he could say for his father’s fortune or good name. The old fool had squandered all his money in his vainglorious attempts to gain a knighthood. Now he had little left to show for all his efforts save for his precious escutcheon, which he had bribed and cozened the College of Heralds into granting him, thinking that once he was a proper gentleman, a knighthood would soon be within his grasp. Alas, Symington Smythe II’s lofty ambition had overreached him and his dreams had fallen into dust. He had only narrowly avoided debtor’s prison and was now living mainly on his younger brother’s charity.

Meanwhile, Symington Smythe III took satisfaction in the knowledge that he was realizing his own dreams. He had left home for London, where he had found and joined a company of players, and though his current state of fortune was not much better than his father’s, at least he was living the life that he had chosen for himself. “Life,” as his Uncle Thomas used to say, “is much too short to be lived for someone else. Go and live it as you like it.”

Smythe often missed his Uncle Thomas, who had always been more of a father to him than his own father had been. Thomas Smythe had never begrudged his older brother his inheritance. He was a simple, unassuming man who lived his own life and was content to make his own way as a farrier and blacksmith in their small village. He had liked nothing better than standing at his forge, his powerful arms corded with muscle, his bare chest, covered only with his well-worn leather apron, glistening with a sheen of sweat as he labored at his favorite task, the careful crafting of a blade. Though he had shod more horses and forged more iron tools than weapons, Thomas Smythe could also forge a blade that could rival the finest fighting steel from Toledo. No less a connoisseur of weapons than Sir William Worley, master of the Sea Hawks and courtier to the queen, had admired his work.

And if it wasn’t for his uncle’s tutelage, Smythe knew all too well that he would have gone hungry on this night. He had been completely broke, but had lucidly managed to make some money earlier in the day by shoeing horses and helping out a local smith named Liam Bailey, who had found himself suddenly short-handed when his young apprentice became caught up in a street brawl and had his head busted for his trouble.

“Damned bloody foolishness, if ye ask me,” the big old smith had sworn, running his rough and liver-spotted hand over his spare and close-cropped, grizzled hair. “Dunno what in blazes is the matter wi’ young people these days. Why, in my day, a young man counted ‘imself lucky to ‘ave someone take ‘im on an’ teach ‘im a good trade. But, blind me, these young scalawags today ‘aven’t got the sense God gave a goose! Not like you, now. I can see straight off that someone’s taught ye well. Ye know yer way around a forge an’ ye ‘ave a way wi’ horses, lad. Ye ‘ave a fine, thick, brawny arm an’ a big, strong chest, all the makin’s of a proper smith. Ye know, ye could do worse than to throw in yer lot wi’ me.”

Smythe had thanked him warmly and explained that he already had a job with the Queen’s Men, quickly adding that he was very grateful for the work because the playhouses had been closed and times were lean, but that he hoped to be on the boards once again before too long.

“A player, is it?” Liam Bailey shook his head, sadly. “Ah, well, ‘tis a waste of good brawn, if ye ask me. Still an’ all, ‘tis yer own life, an’ I’ll not be tellin’ ye how ye should live it. Come around any time ye need some extra work, lad. I can always use a good strong arm.”

It was a kind offer, to be sure, and the way that things were going, it looked as if he would be spending a lot more time at Liam Bailey’s smithy if the playhouses were not reopened soon, for after settling accounts with Stackpole for a couple of his fellow players who were most in need and then standing them to inexpensive ordinary meals, he barely had enough remaining to pay for his own supper.

He did not even want to think about the rent.

He mopped up the last of the juices from the pottage with his final crust of bread and gazed ruefully at the empty bowl. He was still hungry. He knew that Stackpole was an understanding soul and would allow him to have some more upon account, but he was reluctant to ask. He had already seen too many of his fellow players run up bills to the point where Stackpole had stopped extending further credit to them until they had paid up what they owed. He did not wish to find himself in a similar position. Understanding could extend only so far, and then a man had to take care of his own business.

Smythe recalled how his father had overextended himself into poverty and had no intentions of repeating his mistakes. Unfortunately, his growling stomach had no such scruples. As he stared longingly at the big iron kettle over the hearth where the pottage was simmering, he couldn’t help but think that, surely, just a small bill on account could not truly be so bad.

As his stomach wrestled with his conscience, Smythe felt his resolve weakening as his appetite increased. He was sorely tempted to give it up and go ask Stackpole if he would let him have another tankard of ale and bowl of pottage on account, but was distracted when the tavern door swung open with a bang and Will Shakespeare entered with a flourish of his dark red cloak, swept off his hat dramatically, and called out, “Hola! Drinks and food for everyone, my good Stackpole! Gentlemen! Good news! Tonight we feast and stuff ourselves!”

For a moment, everybody simply stared at him with disbelief, and then they fell over one another in a race to take advantage of the very generous offer, shouting out their orders and hammering their fists upon the tables for attention from the serving wenches. As Shakespeare spotted Smythe, waved jauntily, and made his way over toward his table, he was surrounded and deluged with questions concerning his sudden good fortune.

“You came into some money, then?” asked Augustine Phillips, one of the senior members of their company. “Who died?”

“Whose pocket did you pick, you rascal?” Thomas Pope asked, clapping him upon the shoulder. His tone was jocular, but the look he gave the poet indicated that he might not have been surprised if that was exactly how Shakespeare came by his good fortune. Times were certainly desperate enough to warrant it. It might have been safer not to ask.

“You had a run of luck at cards?” asked John Fleming, one of the senior shareholders of the Queen’s Men.

Dick Burbage, whose father owned their playhouse, was a bit more practical in his concerns. “You did not sell a new play to some rival company, I trust?” he said, eyeing Shakespeare with an anxious frown. “You promised that we would be the first to see any of your efforts.”

Ever since Shakespeare had started doctoring some of the old plays in their repertoire, the Queen’s Men had been anxious to see any original work he might attempt. He had produced such strong improvements in some of their old standbys that they had made him the bookholder for the company and he was now taking a key role in the staging of their productions. Smythe was pleased for him, for Shakespeare was his closest friend, but at the same time, he felt a little envious. Unlike his friend, he had no skill with words and knew that his own acting abilities left much to be desired.

“Ease yourself, Dick,” Shakespeare replied, patting Burbage on the shoulder reassuringly. “I have, as yet, written no play of my own that can withstand close scrutiny, much less production. When I do, then you shall be the very first to see it, that I promise you.”

“Then to what do you owe this sudden turn of good fortune?” Burbage asked, perplexed.

“I have sold some of my sonnets,” Shakespeare replied, as they both sat down across from Smythe. “You may recall my having mentioned to you that I had several times before written a few verses on commission. Well, I had thought little enough of the endeavor at the time. ‘Twas nothing more than simply a means of making a few extra shillings now and then.”

“Aye,” said Burbage, with a wry expression. “The fashionable young noblemen do dearly love to speak of the poets whose muses they inspire. They commission a few laudatory verses from some poor and starving poet, then pass them around or recite them to one another in the same spirit that a country squire may show off his sporting hounds to all his friends.”

“Well,” said Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows, “I do believe ‘tis the very first time that I have ever been likened to a hound, but then, my dear Burbage, every dog must have his day… and lo, here is mine. Behold!” He dropped a weighty purse onto the wooden planking of the table and it fell with a rather satisfying thud and a metallic clinking.

“Good Lord!” said Burbage, picking the purse up and hefting it experimentally. “All this from a few sonnets?”

“Odd as it may seem, my verses are apparently becoming popular among some of the young aristocrats,” said Shakespeare in a bemused tone. “You see, like a good harlot, my poetic sighs inflame their passions with themselves and thus create increased desire for more. Hence, each commissioned sonnet begets another dozen. All I need do is wax poetically about the graceful charms and charming graces of some overdressed young milksop with more money than good sense and afore you know it, all his friends start lining up and wanting similar effusive verses written about themselves, as well. Being of sound mind and empty purse, I was only too happy to oblige. And so now, like a good harlot,” he added, wryly, “I require some ale to wash the taste out of my mouth.”

“Ale!” Burbage cried out, happily. “We must have more ale! ‘Allo, Molly, my sweet! Our tankards want refilling!”

Shakespeare’s gaze fell on the empty bowl, from which Smythe had mopped up every last bit of juice, so that it was now dry as the proverbial bone. “I should say that wants refilling, too,” he added, pointing at the bowl. “Yon Tuck has a lean and hungry look, methinks.”

“Aye, he frequently looks hungry,” Will Kemp agreed, archly, “but I have yet to see him looking anything near lean.”

“Well, we are all looking a bit lean these days,” said Shakespeare as he paid Molly, the serving wench, adding a gratuity that won him a beaming smile and a kiss upon the cheek. “With any luck, however, that may be changing soon. There is word that they may soon be reopening the playhouses.”

“What! When?” asked Burbage, eagerly.

“Where did you hear of this?” echoed Robert Speed, whose financial situation, like most of the Queen’s Men, had long since passed the point of being precarious. They all gathered round to listen.

“ ‘Twould seem that the well-to-do are growing bored,” Shakespeare told his captive audience. “Her Royal Majesty, as you all know, is still out on her progression through the countryside with her entire court, thus there is little of social consequence happening in London. No one is holding any balls or masques; they are all saving up their money for when the court returns and they must once more start spending lavishly upon their entertainments, trying to outdo one another in attempting to impress their betters. Aside from which, need one even remark upon the folly of holding a social event of any consequence while the queen is out of town?”

“Oh, so true,” said John Fleming, nodding in agreement. “Even if Her Majesty did not deign to attend, ‘twould be social suicide to hold any event to which she could not be invited, and most especially if dancing were involved.”

“Indeed,” said Burbage, nodding at the reference to the queen’s well known passion for dancing. “A fall from grace such as Lucifer himself could not imagine would almost surely follow.”

“So then, what does that leave for the jaded pleasures of the wealthy?” Shakespeare continued. “They cannot take in some sport down at the Bear Garden, for that arena has been shut down along with all the playhouses, and one can only take the air at St. Paul ’s so many times before the amusement starts to pall, so to speak.”

“Ouch,” said Smythe, wincing at the pun. Several of the others groaned.

Shakespeare went on, blithely. “The brothels are not without their risks, of course, and tend to become tedious, especially to noblemen who prefer some breeding in their women. Though not all do, one may suppose. The ladies in waiting to the queen are all traveling with Her Majesty and are therefore unavailable, aside from which, pursuing them might well land one in the Tower, as Her Majesty prefers to have her young glories unsullied by masculine attention. So, what to do? Playing primero every afternoon grows tiresome. What other diversions does that leave? There are, at present, no fairs being held anywhere within a reasonable distance of the city, so what, I ask you, is a proper and fashionable young gentleman to do in order to amuse himself?”

“Take in a play!” Thomas Pope exclaimed with a grin.

“Ah, but the playhouses are all still closed by order of the city council,” Shakespeare said, with an elaborate shrug. “Whatever is a rich young gentleman to do?”

“He could always try to bribe a councilman or two,” said young George Bryan, with a grin.

“Why, George, I am deeply shocked at your suggestion!” Shakespeare said, gazing at him with mock outrage. “I will have you know that the members of our august and honored London city council are all fine, upstanding citizens of absolutely impeccable character and reputation!”

“How many have been bribed thus far?” asked Burbage, dryly.

“About half of them, I’m told,” said Shakespeare.

Smythe joined in the laughter, gladdened to see that everybody’s spirits were so much improved. “And from whence comes this most welcome news, Will?” he asked.

“From a certain young nobleman who would prefer not to be known to share such confidences with a mere poet,” Shakespeare replied. “And as my present livelihood-to say nothing of our suppers, my dear friends-depends to a large degree upon his generosity, I am bound and beholden to be respectful of his wishes.”

“So then it would appear that you have found yourself a patron,” said Burbage.

“Well, in truth, I would not say so,” Shakespeare replied. “At the least, not yet. This gentleman is merely one of several who has commissioned sonnets from me. He has introduced to me to some friends of his, and has taken an interest in my work, though he prefers to remain anonymous, at present. A true patron would not hesitate to have his name attached to those who would benefit from his support. He enjoys having it be known that he is a benefactor of the arts. Such is the nature of that sort of relationship.”

“Perhaps Will has found another sort of relationship entirely,” said Molly, with a sly smile and a wink, as she set fresh tankards full of ale before them.

“Why, you cheeky wench!” Shakespeare exclaimed, as the others burst out laughing. “I have a mind to turn you over my knee for that!”

Molly gave him a saucy grin and tossed her fiery red hair back out of her face. “I may have a mind to let you,” she replied.

“Well, if I tried, then you would probably just run away,” said Shakespeare.

Molly looked him up and down. “Nay, good sir, methinks I’d stand and fight.”

The other players laughed again. “Looks like she’s got your measure, Will,” said Speed.

“Aye, and a very small measure it is, too,” Molly added, holding her thumb and forefinger about two inches apart.

“Mayhap a measure large enough to fill your cup may one day come along,” said Shakespeare, with a bow, “but until then, ‘twould seem that none may measure up to you, milady.”

The players laughed at the riposte, but before Molly could reply, Shakespeare continued, adding in a casual tone, “None, that is, save perhaps for a certain former armorer’s apprentice recently returned to England from the wars.”

Smythe noticed that Molly looked completely taken aback for a moment, then as quickly as the reaction had come over her, she recovered her habitual pose of saucy insolence and went on wiping off the table.

“And what would I have to do with foolish young apprentices who knew no better than to leave their trades and go running off to war?” she asked.

“Well, far be it from me to know, Mistress Molly Beatrice O’Flannery,” said Shakespeare, “save that ‘twould seem I had heard in passing somewhere that you once had a deal to do with this particular apprentice… or former apprentice, I should say, as he has by all reports proven himself a brave and stalwart soldier, having much distinguished himself in feats of arms on foreign soil.”

“Good Lord! You are not speaking of Ben Dickens?” asked Will Kemp.

“Indeed, I do believe that was his name,” Shakespeare replied.

“What, our own Ben Dickens?” asked John Fleming.

“The very same, by his own report,” Shakespeare responded.

“You saw him, then?” said Speed. “You spoke with him?”

“I did, indeed, both see and speak with him,” said Shakespeare, “and you may know he did inquire after all of you, as well, and did bid me give you all his warm regard and, furthermore, this message: that he would come here and call upon you all this very evening.”

“Oh, now that is good news, indeed!” said Burbage.

“By God, that calls for another round of drinks!” said Speed. And then he glanced uncertainly at Shakespeare, all too mindful of his own empty purse. “That is, of course, assuming your good graces…”

“Oh, by all means, Bobby, have another round on me,” said Shakespeare airily, with a wave of his hand.

“Your newfound wealth shall not last out the night, at this rate,” Smythe cautioned him.

“Oh, ‘tis a weighty purse, and there is always more where that came from,” said Shakespeare, lightly.

“Just the same,” said Burbage, “we would be poor companions if we drank up all your earnings. ‘Tis good news, indeed, that the playhouses may soon be open once again, but have a care, Will. We do not yet know how soon that ‘soon’ shall be. Unless, that is, you happen to be privy to more knowledge than you have thus far shared with us.”

“In good time, Dick, in good time,” said Shakespeare. “For now, let the lads enjoy themselves. ‘Tis money well spent if it gladdens them, for then it gladdens me. I shall not begrudge them so much as a farthing.”

“Who is this Ben Dickens of whom everyone is speaking?” Smythe asked, puzzled. “I do not recall the name.”

“That is because you have never met him, Tuck,” Burbage replied. “He was with the company some years ago, when he was just a lad. Fleming took him on as an apprentice, to play the women’s parts, but he left us before you and Will came to join the company.”

“Do you mean to tell me that he left the players to become an armorer’s apprentice?” Smythe asked, with surprise.

Burbage chuckled. “You know something of the armorer’s trade, so you are thinking, no doubt, that Ben Dickens left an easy trade for one much more laborious. However, in truth, his heart was never in the player’s life. He was a real roaring boy, and playing at adventure on the stage never truly suited him when there was genuine adventure to be had. Besides, his voice changed early on and grew much too deep to play the female roles, though he was still too small to play the adult male parts. We would still have kept him on, of course, for we all loved him well and he would have grown into his voice soon, but then he found an armorer to take him on as an apprentice and so he chose to leave us, thinking to learn the trade of arms from the crafting to the plying of them.”

“We parted on the very best of terms,” added John Fleming, “and he still came to see us now and then, whenever he could spare the time, but then one day his master fell to a palsy and the shop was closed, so Ben went off to war with some of the soldiers he had met.”

“How did you happen upon him?” asked Burbage, turning to Shakespeare.

“He was part of the company at dinner with the gentleman who was kind enough to give me this,” Shakespeare replied, picking up his purse and tossing it lightly in his palm to hear it jingle before putting it away. “When he discovered that I was a player with the Queen’s Men, he introduced himself and greeted me with such warmth and affection as to win me over on the instant.”

“Aye, that’s Ben,” said Fleming, smiling. “He faces all the world with open heart and countenance. I have never met a man who from the start could not perceive his merits.”

“Nor has Ben Dickens ever met a man to whom he would not recite them,” Molly added wryly, as she swept by with several tankards.

“Nay, Molly, you do him an injustice,” said Will Kemp. “Ben was ever modest to a fault.”

“If he were modest to a fault, then he would find it needful to abandon modesty, the better to be faultless,” she tossed back over her shoulder.

“He never held himself to be so,” Kemp replied. “Why blow your own horn when you can have heralds trumpet all your fanfares for you?” Molly said, as she served some patrons at another table. “Ben gathers friends who extol his virtues the way a vain woman surrounds herself with mirrors, the better to bask in her reflections. Much as you all seem to love him, I vouchsafe he loves himself the better.”

“ ‘Twould seem as if you have some grievances against him, Molly,” Smythe said. “Has the man done you some injury?”

“Oh, no injury was done to me, though one might think his own vaunted opinion of himself effects an injury to good prudence,” she replied, as she retrieved some empty tankards and wiped off a table. “As for grievances against Ben Dickens, I have none. Why should I? What is Ben Dickens to me? I pay no more heed to him that I would to the wind which constitutes the greater part of him.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” said Shakespeare, in an aside to the others. “If she truly cared so little for Ben Dickens, ‘twould seem she would not speak so much of him. Or, perhaps, so ill.”

“She does seem to dislike the fellow,” Smythe said.

“You must not mistake her, though,” Burbage replied. “There always was a kind of merry war betwixt them, and they never met without some skirmish of wit between them. In truth, I do believe that Ben and Molly share a more than passing fancy, though neither would admit to so much as a brass farthing’s worth of fondness for the other.”

“Well, disdain is oft the obverse of the coin of fondness,” Shakespeare said. “And skirmishes of wit can oft preclude the larger and more earnest battle of the sexes, known as marriage.”

“I like that,” Burbage said. “Skirmishes of wit precluding the battle of the sexes. Perhaps we can use that line somewhere.”

“ ‘Tis yours, my dear Burbage,” said Shakespeare, with a magnanimous gesture. “Make what use of it you will, so long as you put to good usage.”

“So then, who else was present, Will, ‘mongst this distinguished company where you met our Ben?” asked Fleming.

“Well, now let me put memory to the test,” said Shakespeare, frowning. “There were several in the company, along with the gentleman I mentioned, among them a stout, older, balding fellow called Master Peters by the others, by which tide and by whose fine apparel and accoutrements I would infer that he must be a guildsman of some standing in his company, though which company that was I cannot say.”

“Oh, well, I can tell you that,” interjected Burbage. “He is a master in the company of goldsmiths. He likely has more journeymen and apprentices in service at his shop than any other hammerman in Cheapside. He comes often to our theatre, where he takes a box up in the galleries and entertains his friends. Word has it he may soon be made a peer, for he surely has the means and the connections to move up. You were civil to him, I trust?” “I am civil to the world, Dick,” Shakespeare replied. “And as Master Peters was civil in regard to me, so was I to him. Never fear, I did not embarrass your fine patron, nor did he give me cause to. He had with him a handsome young man by the name of Corwin, whom I might have taken for his son, but for the lack of any resemblance between them, for his manner toward the lad was very much that of a father or perhaps an uncle.”

“There, too, I may supply elaboration,” Burbage said, “for I have met the young man of whom you speak. Master Peters might indeed show favor to him, for Corwin is a journeyman in his shop, lately raised up from an apprentice. His work as an artisan in gold and silver has garnered much praise and is thus a favorable reflection on his master.”

“He seemed to be on close terms with your friend, Ben Dickens,” Shakespeare said.

“They doubtless knew each other when both were still apprentices, albeit to different masters,” Fleming said.

“Aye, that would account for it. They seemed to be old friends,” said Shakespeare. “There was one other present in the company, a dark and foreign-looking fellow by the name of Leonardo. He wore a seaman’s boots, and spoke English passing well, but with an accent that sounded Genoan to me.”

“Him I know not,” said Burbage, “but if you say he is a seaman, and a Genoan at that, then I would venture that he must be a merchant trader, doubtless the master of his own ship, for I cannot quite see Master Peters breaking bread with common seamen. Methinks that he would find their company a bit too coarse for his tastes.”

“Why, no more coarse than the company of players, I should think, eh, Burbage?” a deep and resonant voice came from behind them. “A man who would suffer the company of players might well be said to suffer the insufferable.”

“Ben!” cried Fleming, jumping to his feet and rushing to embrace him. The older players eagerly surrounded him as well, while the younger ones who had joined the company after he had left looked on with interest, having heard so much about him.

“Odd’s blood!” Will Kemp exclaimed, embracing him in turn. “Look how you’ve grown, my boy! How time hath flown! Step back now and let me look at you! How you have changed!”

Ben Dickens grinned at him. “And you have not changed at all, Will Kemp. Tell me, are you still as cantankerous as ever? Or has time’s passage mellowed you, like wine?”

“Soured him like vinegar, more like, if ye ask me,” said Speed.

“Bob Speed, as I live and breathe!” said Dickens, clapping him upon the shoulders. “ ‘Tis good to see you, my old friend. How well I remember all you taught me!”

“Do ye remember how to drink, then?” asked Speed.

“Often and prodigiously,” Dickens replied, with a grin.

“Marry, then you remembered the most important part,” said Speed, slapping him upon the back. “Come join us!”

“That I will,” said Dickens, “if you wouldst allow my good friend Corwin to join your merry company, as well.” He indicated a young man who had politely stood back a bit while he had greeted all the others.

As Ben Dickens made the introductions, Smythe took the measure of both men. They each looked to be roughly the same age as himself, which would have put them in their early twenties, and they both looked very fit, though of the two, Ben Dickens seemed somewhat more robust and carried himself with a greater air of confidence. Perhaps that was not surprising for someone who had fought on foreign soil and distinguished himself in battle. Many men never had such a chance to prove themselves, thought Smythe, and Dickens had the air and bearing of a man who had faced up to the test and passed with colors flying. He bore himself with self assurance but not arrogance, and his manner was open, natural, and direct, rather than forced, studied, or pretentious. His chestnut colored hair was worn loosely to his shoulders and he took no trouble to arrange it beyond simply combing it to keep it neat. His brown leather doubtlet was likewise simple, functional, and unpretentious, as was most of his apparel. Like his woolen cloak, it matched his boots and breeches, and the only touch of bright color in his clothing was his crimson shirt, visible through his fashionably slashed sleeves. He wore a blade, as did most men in London, but it was a utilitarian rapier rather than a showpiece, well made, probably of Spanish origin, with a basket hilt and no fancy embellishments for decoration. It was the sort of blade a soldier would wear, useful, but not ostentatious.

Corwin, on the other hand, took rather more trouble with his appearance. His dark blond hair was worn longer, down below the shoulders as was fashionable among many of the young aristocrats at court these days, and his short, elegant beard and moustache were carefully trimmed in the French style. He obviously spent more money on his clothes, as evidenced by his three-piled, burgundy velvet doublet with twin rows of pewter buttons and slashed sleeves displaying a black silk shirt, his new black leather kidskin breeches, his fine hose in the dark eggplant color known among the fashionable tailors as “dead Spaniard,” his stack-heeled shoes with silver buckles, and his silk-lined burgundy wool cloak. He looked very pretty, Smythe thought wryly, like a journeyman who spent all his money on his clothes and skipped meals in order to look prosperous. Save that in Corwin’s case, he corrected himself, it was very likely that he might not have to skip meals, if what they said about his work was true. Either way, thought Smythe, it still looked as if he were trying a bit too hard, and next to Dickens, he still came up a little short, despite the plainness of the latter’s apparel. All in all, a decidedly odd couple, it seemed. Somehow, they were not two men he would have put together.

Corwin greeted everyone politely, yet without the same warm enthusiasm as did Dickens. True, these were not old friends of his, thought Smythe, but at the same time, he marked how Corwin’s gaze held a touch of condescension in it that he either disguised poorly or else made a poor effort to disguise. And there was a smug superiority in his manner for which Smythe did not much care. His recent elevation from an apprentice to a journeyman must have made him dizzy, so much so that the height seemed rather greater to him than it was.

At that moment, Molly came out from the back. She saw Dickens and her step faltered for a moment, though Smythe did not think that anyone but he had noticed, and then she swept into the taproom, carrying her tray, her manner blithe, carefree, and a touch sardonic, as usual.

“Hark, I thought I heard the door fly open and a great wind come blowing through,” she said, without even glancing at Dickens.

Dickens turned and saw her, cocked his head, and smiled. “What, my dear Lady Disdain,” he said, insouciantly. “Are you still living?”

“Now how could disdain die with such abundant food as you to feed it, Ben?” she countered, as she went about her work.

“Oh, marry, that was well struck!” said Shakespeare. “Would that I had thought of that!”

“Never fear, doubtless you shall,” replied Smythe, with a smile.

“Burbage, strike him for me,” Shakespeare said. “He sits too far away, I cannot reach him.”

“Not I,” said Burbage, shaking his head. “He would make two of me.”

“Two of you? He looks more like three of you,” said Speed.

“I am not too far away to reach you, Bobby,” Smythe cautioned him good naturedly.

“Then I shall bestir myself and get me hence,” said Speed, changing his seat to a nearby table. “Here, Ben, take my old seat, next to this stout infant.”

“I shall, indeed, afore yon lady’s lashing tongue doth trip me up,” said Dickens.

“It takes no tongue lashing from the likes of me to do that, Ben,” Molly said. “I must have seen your own tongue trip you up a thousand times.”

“A thousand! Zounds, a thousand, you say?”

“Well, at least a hundred, surely.”

“Look how she retreats from her first estimate,” he said to the others.

“But never from my first impression,” Molly added, to the amusement of the others.

“Tart,” said Dickens, with a wry grimace.

“What speech is this?” asked Molly, rounding on him, her eyes flashing.

“I said that I do believe your wit has grown more tart.”

She grimaced. “As yours has grown more stale.”

“Have a care,” said Smythe. “Another moment and they shall come to blows.”

“Oh, not I,” said Dickens, shaking his head emphatically. “I fear I may be overmatched.”

“You need fear no match for bluster, nor yet for arrogance,” said Molly.

“The lady would seem to bear you little love,” said Corwin to his friend.

“Bear you a mountain, sir,” she said to him, “then I assure you, ‘twould be as a kernel next to the love he bears for his own self.”

“I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, Molly,” said Dickens, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I know you of old, and I see now you have not changed.”

“Aye, nor have you, and more’s the pity,” she said, as she picked up the empty tankards and departed.

Dickens looked after her and sighed. “Go as you will, Molly,” he said. “Keep your way, for I have done.”

“And well done, I should think,” said Corwin. “The lady’s temper is as fiery as her hair.”

“Ah, you noted that, did you?”

“I did, indeed. As I did also note that Master Leonardo has a daughter of surpassing beauty. I meant to ask you about her. Did you mark her when they left together in his carriage?”

Dickens shrugged. “I recall a dusky-looking wench with long, dark tresses, but beyond that, I did not mark her in any one particular. In truth, she did not strike me as any great beauty.”

“Then you must not have marked her well,” protested Corwin, “for to me she was the sweetest lady that ever I had looked on, a girl with a temperament as modest as your Molly’s is tempestuous.”

“Think you so?” He turned to the players with a smirk. “How do you like my friend here? So astute a judge of character and nature is he that he may deduce a lady’s temperament merely by observing how she sits inside a carriage! Faith, and I would swear that she did never utter but one word, modestly or otherwise, in the brief time that we saw her!”

“You may jest, Ben,” said Corwin, “but her demeanor was demure and sweet, ‘twas clear and evident to me. I tell you that I have never seen such a rare jewel.”

“You speak as if this were a jewel you would possess,” said Dickens.

“Indeed, I would, if there were a way to make her mine,” said Corwin, “for after seeing her, I do not believe that I could suffer to have any other man but me possess her.”

“This lady must be a jewel of great rarity, indeed, to make a man so covet the possession of her,” Smythe said.

“Had you but seen her, sir, then you would have had no doubt upon that score, despite what my friend Ben says. He sees no special virtue in any one woman, as he loves all the fair sex equally. Or so he claims.”

“Well, some better than others,” Dickens said, with a grin. “Or at least more often.”

“Again, you jest, but I remain in earnest,” Corwin said. “I was hoping that you would speak on my behalf to Master Leonardo.”

“Odd’s blood, but you must truly be in earnest! Do you mean to turn husband, then?”

“Though I had often sworn the contrary, I daresay I would forswear myself if sweet Hera would agree to be my wife.”

“Good Lord! Has not the world but one man who will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again? Why do you come to me with this? Why not ask Master Peters to speak on your behalf, instead?” asked Dickens.

“I shall, indeed, ask him to speak for me. But Master Leonardo knows you better, and I could see that he held you in high respect.”

“You flatter me from selfish motives. I see you are a knave, sir.”

“Nay, Ben, truly____________________”

“Oh, very well then, thrust your neck into a yoke and wear the print of it if that is what you wish. I shall speak to Master Leonardo for you.”

“Who is this Master Leonardo, Ben?” asked Burbage.

“He is a merchant trader with his own ship, lately come from Genoa,” Dickens replied. “I sailed from the Netherlands with him. He has made his fortune in voyages to the New World and has now come to make his home in London.”

Burbage looked as if he might have had another question, but at that moment, their attention was distracted by all the noise coming from outside. The sounds of people shouting, screaming, and running rose rapidly outside on the street, followed by the sounds of hoofbeats clattering on the cobblestones.

“Another bloody riot,” Courtney Stackpole said gruffly, coming out from behind the bar with a thick adze handle in his hand. “If they break my windows once again, so help me, I’ll have somebody’s guts for garters!”

“It sounds as if the sheriffs men are riding them down to break it up,” said Fleming.

No sooner had he spoken than the front door was flung open with a bang and two tough-looking young men came stumbling in, out of breath from running. They slammed the door behind them and leaned against it, as if to hold off pursuit. One of them, Smythe noticed, was brandishing a club, while the other held a good-sized dagger.