Simon Hawke: Much Ado About Murder

“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.