Simon Hawke - Much Ado About Murder

It was already dark as he drew near the Toad and Badger and due to the lateness of the hour, the streets were for the most part deserted. On occasion, a coach or carriage would drive past, clattering along the cobblestones, but there were few pedestrians. Smythe was still preoccupied with his brief reunion with his father as he walked, and the conflicting emotions the meeting had brought up, and so he failed to note that anything was amiss until he heard the sound of running footsteps very close behind him.

As he turned, the club that would have struck him squarely on top of the head came down instead on his shoulder with a numbing impact. He cried out with pain and brought his arm up to ward off the next blow that came whistling toward him. The shock of it nearly broke his arm. The next blow came so quickly that he couldn’t block it. The club struck him in the side of the head, grazing his skull, and he saw stars.

There were several of them, he could not tell how many, and they were all around him, raining down blows. He couldn’t even draw his knife. He was too busy trying to ward off the blows that just kept coming. In desperation, he put his arms up over his head to protect himself, then lowered his head and charged, bellowing like a bull. He collided with one of his attackers and threw his arms around him, driving him backward until they struck a wall and the impact drove all the wind out of his assailant.

There were more of them, however, and they did not let up. Smythe felt blood running down the side of his head and he could not see straight. With an abrupt finality, it suddenly struck him that he might be killed. Somehow, he found the strength to fight back, absorbing the punishing blows as he wrested a club away from one of his assailants and started dealing out some of his own. Then he heard somebody yelling and a moment later realized that someone else had joined the battle on his side.

His vision swimming, he swung the captured club around in all directions, flailing away madly, and moments later, the attackers were on the run. He sank down to his knees in the street, unable to stand any longer. Everything was spinning.

“Tuck! Tuck !”

He thought he recognized the voice, but he could not be certain. There seemed to be a ringing in his ears. “Ben?”

“Hang on, Tuck. Hang on. I must try to stop the bleeding.”

“Are they gone?”

“Aye, they ran off, the bloody bastards. But not before I drew some blood. I ran one through and slashed another pretty badly. After that, the rest all ran.”

“Well done. I am much obliged to you.”

“Do not try to speak, Tuck. Save your strength. I will-”

But that was the last thing Smythe heard as he lost consciousness and collapsed to the street.

He awoke to the worst headache he had ever experienced. He groaned, involuntarily, and brought his hands up to his head, only to find that it was bandaged.

“Lie still,” Will said, bending over him, his face full of concern. “Do not try to sit up.”

“Where am I?”

“You are back at home, in our room at the Toad and Badger,” Shakespeare replied. “Ben brought you here. Do you recall what happened?”

Smythe touched his bandaged head gingerly. “I was attacked…”

“You remember?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Ben was afraid that you might not. He says that is often a sign of severe injury.”

“God, my head…”

“You took quite a drubbing, my friend. When we saw all the blood, we were afraid that they had split your skull, but ‘twould seem your head is a good deal harder than we had thought. ‘Twas only a flesh wound that bled a great deal, thank God. But aside from that, you are a symphony of bruises, though there do not appear to be any broken bones, thanks to your large frame. A lesser man would have been positively splintered. Doubtless, you shall be sore for quite a while.”

“Well, if this is anything akin to those hangovers you have from time to time, then I want no part of them, believe me. Lord! It feels as if my head is being squeezed between two millstones.”

“Is he awake?” asked Stackpole, from the doorway.

“Aye, after a fashion,” Shakespeare replied. “He is a bit confused and says his head hurts.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Stackpole said. “Poor lad was very nearly clubbed to death. I brought some chicken broth for him.”

“Good of you, Courtney, thank you,” Shakespeare said.

“Aye, thank you,” Smythe added. “ ‘Tis good of you, indeed.”

“Thank Molly,” Stackpole said. “She made it. She said ‘twas her mother’s recipe for when someone in the family fell ill. She asked if she could come up and look in on you when you felt up to it.”

“Of course,” said Smythe. “Anytime she likes.” He tried to sit up, winced with pain, and fell back into bed again.

“I told you not to sit up,” said Shakespeare. “You never listen to me. When you are fetched such a mighty clout upon the head, you truly need to rest awhile. If you move too quickly, then you will grow faint and dizzy and you may fall and do yourself an injury.”

“I have already had my share of injuries,” said Smythe, dryly. “I doubt that falling on the floor would make matters much worse.”

“Suit yourself,” said Shakespeare, with a shrug. “But if you should fall and break your nose or else knock out a few teeth, do not come crying to me. You are a fine looking young man, Tuck, but you would not look quite so handsome were you toothless. And considering your lack of talent as an actor, you might want to hold onto being handsome for as long as possible.”

“Right. I shall stay in bed, then.”

“And while we are on the subject of your various shortcomings,” Shakespeare continued, “this may not be the best time to bring it up, but you might recall that both Sir William and I, as well as others I could mention, have advised you on more than one occasion to start carrying a sword. Sir William even gave you one of his.” He glanced pointedly over to the corner of the room, where the sword Sir William gave to Smythe leaned against the wall in its scabbard and belt. “Of course, it does not do you a great deal of good over there, although I must admit that ever since you put it there, no one has yet attacked that corner of the room.”

Smythe sighed and winced again. He touched his bandaged head gingerly. “Point well taken,” he said. “Methinks from now on, I shall not only wear it everywhere I go, except to bed, but I shall resume my long-neglected fencing practice, also.”

“Considering how often people try to kill you, that does seem an excellent idea,” Shakespeare said. “You do seem to attract more than your share of peril. One might almost think that you were cursed.”

“What o’clock is it?” asked Smythe, noticing the shutters closed. There did not seem to be any daylight seeping through the cracks.

“Past ten of the clock, according to the bellman who went by outside a little while ago,” Shakespeare replied. “You have been senseless for nearly two hours since Ben brought you back. We feared that you might not reawaken.”

“Where is Ben?”

“He has gone to escort Granny Meg back home,” Shakespeare replied.

“Granny Meg was here?”

“Aye. Ben and I went to fetch her while Molly stayed here to look after you. Granny Meg removed the bandage Ben tore from his shirt and replaced it with one of her own that she brought with her. She placed a poultice underneath it to draw out the bad humors and left very strict instructions that ‘twas not to be removed until she herself removed it and once more looked at your wound. She assured us that your head was more or less intact, although she did caution us that you might not remember things if the blow was strong enough.” Shakespeare shrugged. “I asked her how we might possibly be able to tell the difference, since you could not seem to remember things before the blow was struck.”