Simon Hawke - Much Ado About Murder

“Then that should make the odds just about even,” Dickens replied, as he stepped forward and drew his sword.

“Why is it that this happens every time I go to some strange tavern?” Shakespeare asked, throwing up his hands. “And where are you going?” he asked Smythe as he started to get up.

“To help Ben, of course,” Smythe said, putting his hand on his sword hilt.

“You were very nearly killed the other day,” Shakespeare replied. “Have you not had enough? He said he did not need your help!”

Smythe opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly shut it and raised his eyebrows in surprise as Dickens engaged the first man with a quick circular parry to his lunge that sent his opponent’s sword flying across the room. As patrons ducked their heads beneath their tables to avoid the flying blade, Dickens smashed the basket hilt of his rapier into his suddenly disarmed opponent’s face, then pivoted to strike down the second’s man blade, following that up with a brutal kick to the man’s groin that made Smythe wince.

“Apparently,” said Smythe, “he does not require any help.”

The third man glanced at his two fallen comrades, swallowed hard, then turned and ran straight out the door.

“Well,” said Dickens, turning around and shrugging. “That was rather disappointing.”

Kate’s eyes were shining with hero worship as she gazed at him, awestruck.

“If you gentlemen are finished with your drinks, then I would very much appreciate it if you left,” the tavernkeeper told them.

Dickens turned toward him, still holding his sword at his side.

“However, I shall not insist,” the tavernkeeper added, holding up his hands, palms out.

“Never mind,” said Dickens. “We are leaving. Kate, my dear, when the Queen’s Men stage their next production at the Burbage Theatre, you shall be my guest. Just tell them that Ben Dickens said so.” He bowed to her with a flourish and then sheathed his blade. “My friends, shall we take our leave?”

“By all means,” said Shakespeare, paying the awestruck girl for their ale. “Where to now?”

“Back to the Toad and Badger, I believe,” said Smythe. “We must put our heads together and devise a plan to trap some rats.”

When they returned to the Toad and Badger, everyone was waiting for them. They had missed rehearsal, an offense which usually resulted in a fine among any company of players, for if one actor missed rehearsal, it placed a burden on the others that was directly proportional to the importance of that actor’s role-or roles, since it was not uncommon for a player to have more than one. But for three of the company to have missed rehearsal was unheard of. As a result, the other members of the company were quite concerned, especially in light of the attack on Smythe. And they were not alone. Liam Bailey was also at the tavern, awaiting news. When they came in, they were at once surrounded and peppered with anxious questions.

“What happened? Where were you?” Hemings asked.

“Are you all right?” asked Fleming, with concern. “Where have you been?”

“You three had best have a good excuse for missing the rehearsal,” Burbage said crossly, though it was clear that he, too, had been worried.

“I am so sorry, lad,” said Liam Bailey, pushing his way through. “I only just heard about what happened. When ye did not come to the smithy yesterday, I had assumed the company had need of ye… I never knew that you were injured.” He shook his head in self-recrimination.

“Stay your questions for a moment, everyone!” said Smythe, holding up his hands. “All shall be explained.”

“Aye, just as soon as we have had ourselves a touch o’ grog,” said Shakespeare, as they made their way to a table.

Dickens stared at him. “Where the devil do you put it all?”

“Writing is thirsty work,” the poet replied.

“But you have not been writing,” Dickens said.

“That is because I have been thirsty,” Shakespeare said. “Molly, my dear, a pitcher of your best Dragon’s Blood stout, if you please.”

The others all gathered around their table as Molly went off to bring the ale.

“What happened, Will?” asked Burbage, pulling up a stool. “We have all been terribly worried, thinking perhaps you had been set upon and left bleeding in some alleyway somewhere!”

“We have been making inquiries,” Shakespeare replied, “first at Henry Darcie’s home, then at Master Leonardo’s house, and finally, we paid a visit to the Devil Tavern.”

“The Devil Tavern!” Stackpole said, coming out from behind the bar. “Well, then, if this place does not seem good enough for the likes of you, then you can all three go to the Devil, for all I care!”

“Peace, my good Stackpole,” Smythe said. “We went there out of necessity, to make inquiries, not out of any disloyalty to you, my friend. And thanks to Ben’s charming a serving wench, we learned some things that may, with any luck, help to free young Corwin.”

“Aye, well, Ben is an old, accomplished hand at charming serving wenches,” Molly said laconically, as she set down their ale.

“Molly, let me explain…” Dickens began, but she did not allow him to continue.

“Nay, do not explain, Ben,” she said, airily, “for there is no need. I know just how it went. You smiled at her with that special way you have, cocking your head over to one side and looking up at her…” she mimicked the gesture as she spoke, precisely capturing the way he did it, “… called her your ‘lovely’ and told her what a charming voice she had and how pretty her hands were and how you would simply have to have another drink, just to watch her bring it, and then you sat her down upon your knee and gave her a drink or two or three from your tankard-”

“Molly, ‘twas not like that at all,” Dickens protested.

“In truth, ‘twas just like that, precisely,” Shakespeare said. “I say, Molly, were you there?”

“Will !” Dickens exclaimed.

“Nay, Will, I was not, but I have seen that performance so many times before that I could play the role myself. What disappoints me is that in all this time, he has not changed it in the least. Any good player knows to make a few changes in his performance here and there, to keep it fresh.”

“He did promise her that she could attend the next performance as his guest,” said Smythe.

“Tuck!” Dickens said, turning toward him with a wounded expression.

“I am merely trying to be helpful,” Smythe said.

“Well, I do not require your help, thank you very much!”

“Ah. Indeed,” said Smythe, nodding. “You had said that before. I recall now that you prefer to fight against superior odds. Well, then, have at it. I shall not interfere.”

“I thought you two were my friends!” said Dickens.

“Why, we are, Ben,” Shakespeare replied, “but you know, it strikes me that ‘tis a dangerous thing to be your friend. John Fleming here was your friend, and you left him and his good wife after they had grown as fond of you as if you were their own son. Molly was your friend, and you went off and broke her heart. Corwin was your friend, and now he languishes in prison, awaiting execution. Master Leonardo was your friend, and now he is in his grave. Tuck here became your friend, and was very nearly beaten to death for his trouble. I shudder to think what fate may lie in wait for me.”

Dickens stared at him with openmouthed astonishment. The others all fell silent, completely taken aback by his remarks. Only Smythe remained unsurprised. He had caught a certain look from Will that he had seen before, and his thoughts had already been running in a somewhat similar vein.