Simon Hawke - A Mystery Of Errors

“Tuck! What the devil! Where in God’s name have you been?”

“There is no time to explain, Bobby. We’ve got trouble.”

“You mean you’ve got trouble. Shakespeare was furious when you simply took off in the middle of rehearsal. And now Kemp wants you out of the company entirely.”

“Never mind all that,” said Smythe. “Will is in terrible danger. Four men are here to kill him.”

“What, Kempt?”

“No, Shakespeare!”

“Why would anyone want to kill him? What has he done?”

“Nothing. ‘Tis a mistake. They think that he is someone else.”

“Well, then, explain things to them, for God’s sake. I have no time for this sort of nonsense now, I have to go on in a moment!”

“Damn it, Speed…”

“Hold on, there’s my cue!” He drew himself up, raised his chin, and swept out onto the stage.

Smythe swore in frustration. Toward the end of the first act, most of the company were onstage in a scene that took place at a ball, with everyone who was not delivering lines engaged in milling around and dancing. Several of the hired men would be making rapid entrances and exits, changing pieces of their costume to make the cast seem larger than it was. Smythe rushed up to one of them as he came off the stage and ran to make his change.

“Miles!”

“Smythe! Bloody hell! You’re late!”

“Never mind, where’s Will?” “Kemp? He’s out on stage, of course.”

“No, no, Will Shakespeare!”

“On the other side, standing in the wings and prompting.”

“Miles, listen, you must tell him-”

“No time now, I’m off!”

“Miles!”

But he had already rushed out of the tiring room and back onstage.

“Damn!” Smythe swore and looked out through the curtain, toward the back of the playhouse, where he saw his fellow ostlers all standing at the rear, holding staves and clubs and pitchforks, looking around for him to tell them what to do. “Hell,” he muttered, through gritted teeth. He could see no sign of Sir William, or the killers, or the man in the black cloak who led them. But they were all out there, somewhere. He had to warn Will, and then get back to the ostlers and let them know what they had to do.

He found his sword, which was fortunately right where he had left it earlier that day, buckled the scabbard around his waist, then quickly made his way around across the backstage area and to the other side. Will was standing just offstage, in the wings, holding the book, following the action and making certain everyone picked up their cues and made their entrances on time, with the right props.

“Will! Thank God!”

“Tuck! Damn you, where the devil did you get to?” Shakespeare said, angrily.

“Never mind that. Listen to me, your life is in danger. Four men are here to kill you.”

“What?”

“Look, I do not have much time to explain-”

“Phillip! Now! Your cue! Go on !” said Shakespeare, to one of the young boys playing one of the female parts.

“Blast! Sorry,” said the lad, and lifting up his skirts, he rushed out onto the stage.

“Will-”

“Not now, Tuck, for heaven’s sake! I cannot be distracted! You are getting in the way! The act is almost over. There is still time for you to change and do your part if you hurry.”

“Will, have you even heard what I said? There are people here to kill you!”

“What? Why would anyone wish to kill me?”

“Because they are acting on Gresham ’s orders!”

Shakespeare rolled his eyes. “Oh, what rot! What sort of nonsense has that damned girl filled your head with now? I told you to stay away from her! Burbage told you to stay away from her! You are just going to cause everyone a lot of trouble!” He reached out and grabbed one of the hired men as he was rushing past. “Wait, Adrian, the tray! Do not forget the tray!”

“Shit. Thanks.”

“Will, please… listen to me, Elizabeth has nothing to do with this-”

“She has everything to do with it! That girl is out of her bloody mind. Sir Anthony is a perfectly decent man who deserves a lot better than her, if you ask me. Now forget this nonsense and get back there and change. The first act is ending any moment… no, ‘tis done, they are coming in.”

“Will-”

“I have no time now! We can discuss this later! Right, come on, now, everyone! Costumes and places for the second act! Check the pegboard for your props and cues!”

As the refreshment vendors plied their wares out in the courtyard among the crowd, the other players all came rushing back offstage, heading for the tiring room. The second act followed hard upon the heels of the first, with no break in between. Will Kemp, as one of the leading players, had to go back out on stage almost immediately, along with young Michael Jones, who was playing the lead female role. Kemp’s gaze fell on Smythe and his lip curled down in a sneer.

“Oh, so you finally decided to grace us with your presence, did you, young prodigal?”

Smythe ignored him. “Dick!” he said to Burbage, as he hurried by. “They are going to try to murder Will!”

“What, me?” said Kemp, astonished.

“No! Shakespeare!”

“What?” Shakespeare said, turning around.

“They are going to try to kill you, you fool!”

“What is all this about killing?” Burbage demanded, insistantly.

“I am going to kill someone if you do not all keep quiet!” Kemp said. “I am listening to Fleming for my cue!”

“And you just missed it!” Shakespeare said. “Kemp, Jones, you’re on!”

“Oh, bollocks!” Kemp said, as he and Jones rushed out on stage.

“Tuck, what is this talk of killing?” Burbage repeated.

“Oh, Sir Anthony Gresham wants me dead, it seems,” said Shakespeare, wryly. “You know… Elizabeth.” He made a circling motion with his forefinger by his temple.

“Oh, God’s wounds!” said Burbage, looking heavenward. “Smythe, did I not tell you to keep away from her?”

“Is Smythe going to give his line or do you still want me to do it?” Miles asked, glancing from Smythe to Shakespeare.

“Smythe can do it, now that he’s here,” Shakespeare said.

“Smythe never came on time,” said Burbage, curtly, overriding him. “You do it, Miles.”

“Well, I really do not mind stepping aside,” said Miles, trying to be considerate of his fellow player.

“He was late,” said Burbage, “and he is not even in proper costume. You do it.”

“Somebody damn well do it!” Shakespeare said, in exasperation. “There is the cue!”

“I said” Kemp raised his voice from centerstage, repeating the cue, “I would give a king’s ransom for a horse!”

Smythe and Miles both stepped out on the stage together. Realizing what they’d done, they glanced at one another, trying to decide which of them would say the line. There was an awkward moment of silence, and then suddenly, from out in the audience, somebody neighed loudly.

For a moment, the audience was stunned. Startled, Smythe and Miles both looked toward the sound and, in the same moment, Will Kemp, staying totally in character, turned to face the audience, flung out an arm expansively and pointed in the direction of the offending heckler, crying out, “Never mind the horse! Saddle yon’ braying ass!”

As the audience exploded into laughter and spontaneous applause, Smythe saw who had made the sound. Incredibly, it had been Sir William, standing in the uppermost gallery! He was gesticulating wildly. Smythe turned and looked in the direction he was pointing and there, in the middle gallery clear on the other side, stood the black-cloaked stranger!