Simon Hawke: Much Ado About Murder

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.”