Simon Hawke - A Mystery Of Errors

For a moment, she simply stared at him with disbelief, shaking her head repeatedly, as if not wishing to accept what he had told her, but then the logic of his reasoning became apparent to her and as Smythe saw it sink in, he prepared himself for tears. Instead, she bunched her slender fingers into fists and raised them, as if taking a pugilistic stance, trembling with barely repressed fury.

Fearing that she might swoon from such overpowering emotion, Smythe raised his hands, palms toward her, and said, “Strike my hands, milady. ‘Twill help to vent your anger.”

He did not expect such an immediate and spirited response. With a cry of pure rage, she came off the bed like a tigress leaping on its prey, swinging at his hands, and he caught one blow on his outstretched right palm and then the next one on his left, surprised at the vigor with which they were delivered, and then her momentum carried her forward and the bench went crashing to the floor as they both fell backward and landed in a heap, with Elizabeth on top of him.

Momentarily stunned, Smythe could only gaze up at her with complete astonishment as the shock of the fall broke through her rage and she stared down at him, herself amazed at what she’d done, and then her gaze intensified, becoming soft and dreamy, and Smythe was pulled into that gaze as he kissed her full upon the lips.

“Success! Victory!” shouted Shakespeare, throwing open the door and startling them both. His eyes widened as he saw them on the floor. “Odd’s blood! Victory on two fronts, it would appear!”

They both scrambled to their feet. Elizabeth ’s face turned red and Smythe had a feeling that his own was flushing deeply. He certainly felt warm. “Damn it, Will! You could at least knock!”

“At the door of my own room? How the hell was I to know you would be entertaining company?”

“ ‘Twas you who let her in, you twit!”

“Ah. Well, so I did. In all the excitement, I had quite forgotten.” He bowed. “My abject and sincerest apologies to you both. I shall withdraw to a pint of ale downstairs. I beg you to forgive the interruption. Carry on…”

“Will! Wait…”

But he had already stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Smythe shook his head and sighed, then turned to Elizabeth. “I am sorry,” he said.

“For what?” she countered, archly. “For the kiss or for the interruption?”

He felt himself blushing. “To be quite honest, I am not sure. And perhaps, under the circumstances, you had best be on your way back home. ‘Twould not help your reputation, nor my credibility as witness for you, should people think that anything had passed between us other than a perfectly innocent conversation.”

“You are a gentleman,” she said.

“No, milady. Merely an ostler, and one whose word, I fear, shall carry very little weight. But you shall have it just the same.”

“Well, I trust the lady has been honorably served,” said Shakespeare, coming up to him and handing him a pot of ale as he came into the tavern. “Here am I, rushing home to share the tale of my first theatrical success, and you chase me out of my own room while you entertain a lady. Odd’s blood, but you are a cold-hearted fellow.”

“Forgive me, Will, I…” Smythe cleared his throat, uneasily. “ ‘Twas all perfectly innocent. I came home and simply found her there, sleeping on the bed. She said that you had let her in to wait for me. I was quite taken by surprise, you know.”

“I would call that being very pleasantly surprised, indeed. It looked to me as if she took you like Drake took the Armada. Heave to, young Tuck, and prepare for boarding.”

Smythe grimaced. “The poet, it seems, can turn a phrase not only at Robert Greene’s expense, but mine, as well.”

“Oh, well said!” Shakespeare replied, with a grin. “An excellent riposte. There may be hope for you yet. Some of me must be rubbing off on you.”

“Then I must remember to scrub harder.”

Some of the other players were still engaged in drinking and sharing bread and cheese. The actors waved them over and they engaged in some good-natured bantering for a while, discussing the performance of that night, which had apparently been quite a success. For the first time, Smythe felt as if they were being treated as members of the company, rather than outsiders, and this seemed largely due to Shakespeare’s efforts. The first stage of his rewrite of Greene’s play had improved greatly on some of the jokes and puns and physically amusing scenes, and now they would immediately begin preparing to add the second round of changes to the first. Everyone had been quite pleased with the job that he had done, even the normally petulant Kemp, who had benefited greatly from new lines and bits of foolery that gave him bigger laughs.

Burbage had been quite impressed and had spoken with his father, with the result that Shakespeare would be given the opportunity to look over some of the other plays within their repertoire to see if he could effect similar improvements. Moreover, they had paid him two pounds for the job he’d done, and would pay more if he could do the same for other plays. It was not yet an offer of regular employment, but it was a good beginning and Shakespeare was justifiably excited. After they had spent some time drinking with the other players, Shakespeare took his leave of them and led Smythe to a nearby table.

The poet chuckled and clapped him on the back as they sat down together in a corner, dimly lit by the candle on the tabletop. He was clearly in high spirits. “All in all, a good night for us both, it seems. See, I told you there would be opportunities for you aplenty once we got to London. I must admit, though, I did not expect them to come knocking directly at our door. You must have really charmed her that night when you met her coach.”

“In all honesty, Will, ‘twas not why she came to see me,” Smythe said. “She came to ask a favor.”

“I see. She had lost her virtue and you were helping her to look for it upon the floor?”

“We were not doing anything upon the floor! She merely came to speak with me!”

“It must have been an exhausting conversation,” said Shakespeare. “When I came in, I saw you resting from it. But do go on. I am curious to hear what happened.”

Over more ale, Smythe recounted the story she had told him and Shakespeare listened with interest. When Smythe was done, the poet simply sat there for a moment, stroking his wispy beard and thinking.

“So, seriously now, what do you make of it all?” asked Smythe, after a few moments.

“Well… to be honest, I am not quite sure,” Shakespeare replied, slowly. His mood seemed to have shifted as he had listened to Smythe’s tale. The euphoria of his success, having already been indulged in the company of the Queen’s Men, now gave way to a contemplative puzzlement. “There seems to be much here we do not know,” he continued. “Or at the very least, we have only the lady’s word that certain events transpired as she claims they had. Mind you, I do not say she has lied to you, merely that ‘tis only people’s nature to describe things in a manner favorable to their own predispositions. Someone else, observing these same events, might see them rather differently. And then, of course, not to cast aspersions, but merely to recognize a possibility, there is always the chance that she has lied.”

“Do you believe she has?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “I do not know. I have had too little contact with the lady to form a reliable impression of her character. However, all jesting aside, in the short time that we did speak, she struck me as sincere. And as someone who was greatly agitated. I certainly believe she is sincere when she tells you that she does not want this marriage to take place. I cannot imagine any reason why she would lie about that. I cannot see anything that she would have to gain. Indeed, ‘twould seem she would stand to gain much more if she went along with it. So I conclude we can accept her at her word there and safely assume there are no hidden reasons why she would play at intrigue in this matter.”