A Mystery of Errors (10 page)

"Well, he did not specify what sort of talent, did he?"

"How much talent does it take to be a hotwalker?"

"It takes some. If you do not feel at ease and in control of the animal, 'twill shy, and then it may spook others, and then instead of walking mounts to cool them off, you've got them galloping wildly all over the place. You may not have secured the sort of position that you wanted, Will, but you did manage to get a job and you do have a way with horses."

They put up the animals and went back out again as several other ostlers met them coming in, each of them leading saddled mounts back to the stable. A few others hotwalked patrons' horses around in a circle at the edge of Finsbury field, where the theatre patrons who came to Shoreditch on horseback dismounted and turned their steeds over to the ostlers, either to put them up with some fresh hay in the stables or tie them up in the paddock during the performance, or else walk them around to cool them off if they were lathered from a run or a long trot.

Many of the patrons came by way of the Thames, ferried by the watermen in their small boats, but some of the wealthier ones came by coach or carriage. With those patrons, it was usually their coachmen who took charge of the equipage, either seeing to everything themselves or else directing an ostler or two in the unhitching and walking of the horses, if they needed it, or else watering and sometimes brushing and combing them, depending on what their masters had ordered. There were small fees for these services, of course, and an enterprising ostler who managed to attend a number of wealthy patrons could do reasonably well for himself if the company was putting on a popular play, but it was still a long way from being on the stage. And the Queen's Men seemed to have experienced better days. Dick Tarleton, their biggest draw, was ailing and the attendance was down from what they'd been accustomed to.

Nevertheless, thought Smythe, they had little to complain about, despite Shakespeare's disappointment. Within a day of coming to London, they had found employment, which was more than a lot of people could say, and a place to live, which in itself was something of an accomplishment.

Many people were arriving in London every day from the surrounding countryside, all in search of livelihoods they could not find in the towns and villages from whence they came. In many cases, those with little money had to share rooms with as many as six, eight, ten, or a dozen others, often leaving scarcely enough space for anything except a cramped place to sleep upon the floor. It made for a crowded and often pungent environment. He and Shakespeare had been much more fortunate.

They had found a room at The Toad and Badger, on the second floor over the tavern. It was small and sparsely furnished, a far cry even from the modest room Smythe had when he had apprenticed with his uncle, but it was a room they could afford, and did not have to share with others, thanks in part to Shakespeare's having set aside a little money to make the trip to London. It was also fortunate for them that their chance meeting with Sir William Worley and Kit Marlowe had resulted in a good word put in for them by Mr. Burbage, who had spoken with the landlord and arranged for some consideration with the payments of the rent.

Smythe was under no illusion that Richard Burbage had done so purely out of the goodness of his heart. He was a pleasant enough young fellow, but he was also looking out for his own interests. The theatre that his father had built was dependent upon people attending its productions, and it certainly paid to remain in the good graces of one of the wealthiest men in London, who was known as a patron of the arts. And although Marlowe wrote for a rival company, the Admiral's Men, Burbage had every reason to maintain cordial relations with him, as well.

According to Shakespeare, Marlowe was the most promising young poet of the day and, with
Tamburlane,
he had served notice upon the players' world that a change was in the air. The production had shocked and thrilled audiences with its lyrical bombast and lurid violence, reminiscent of the Greek classics, and in contrast, the broad jests and prancing jigs and ribald songs performed by other companies seemed suddenly dated and low class. At least, this was the opinion Shakespeare held. Smythe had actually
enjoyed
the ribald jests, the funny jigs, and the bawdy songs, and wasn't at all sure that something serious and weighty would be preferable. After all, despite Marlowe's education, university men did not constitute the bulk of the audience and the Theatre was not the Inns of Court, where productions were often staged in Latin by amateur barristers who would one day argue the law before the bench. Nevertheless, Shakespeare seemed convinced that Marlowe's work, as notorious as the man himself, heralded a new sort of drama, one that would cater more to the talents of serious actors such as Edward Alleyn and less to lowbrow jesters like Will Kemp. The days of the prancing clown, Shakespeare had insisted, were over. Of course, it was also possible that Shakespeare was exaggerating, just as he had exaggerated the nature of their relationship with Marlowe and Sir William, which was why Dick

Burbage had helped them with securing lodgings and given them both jobs.

"You know, one would think that friends of Sir William Worley and Kit Marlowe would deserve rather better than to be given jobs as ostlers," Shakespeare said, irritably.

"Well, for one thing, Will, we are not, in fact,
friends
of Sir William's and Mr. Marlowe's. We can only claim, at best, the briefest acquaintance with them. Quite aside from that, Mr. Burbage did not have to give us jobs at all, you know. And perhaps, under present circumstances, these were the only openings he had available. I am certain that, given an opportunity to demonstrate what we can do, we shall be able to advance ourselves in due course."

Shakespeare sighed. "I suppose you're right. There is a strongly practical streak about you, Tuck, which will doubtless serve you well. But I fear that I am not as patient as you are. I know what I am capable of doing, and I know where I wish to be, and on top of all that, I still have a family to support. And I am not going to be able to provide for them on an ostler's pay."

"I shall help you, Will. After all, you have helped me, from the moment we first met, and I would not now have the lodgings that we share if you did not advance the lion's share of the rent. I shall not forget that."

"You are a good soul, Tuck. And I, for my part, shall remember that, as well. Aha, look there…" He pointed toward the road that led across the field. "A coach and four approaches. Let's run and get that one, it positively drips with money. The owner must be a wealthy merchant or a nobleman. Pray for the nobleman, for merchants give miserly gratuities."

" 'Tis a nobleman, I think, or a proper gentleman, at least," said Smythe, as the coach drew nearer. "Methinks I see an escutcheon emblazoned on the door."

"Indeed," said Shakespeare. "But soft… I have seen those arms before, I think."

"As I have seen that team!" said Smythe. " 'Tis that same high-handed rogue who almost ran us down the other day! Well, I shall have a thing or two to say to him!"

"No, Tuck, wait!" Shakespeare reached out to grab his arm, but he was too late. Smythe was already running toward the coach. "Oh, God's bollocks! He's going to get himself killed." He started running after Smythe.

The driver found nothing at all unusual in the sight of two ostlers running toward his coach as he pulled up to the Theatre, so he reined the team in to a walk as he pulled up in front of the entrance. As the coach came rolling to a stop, Smythe ran up to it, with Shakespeare pursuing in a vain attempt to catch him. He reached out and yanked the door open.

"Damn
it, sir! I'll have you know…"

Fully prepared to unload a torrent of enraged invective on the occupant, Smythe was suddenly brought up short. To his surprise, it was not the man he thought.

It was not even a man.

He stared, struck speechless, at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She gazed back at him, then raised her eyebrows in an interrogative manner. "Do you always damn people so vehemently upon such short acquaintance?"

He flushed and looked down, sheepishly. "Forgive me, milady. I… I thought you were someone else."

"I see. And how, pray tell, did you happen to come to this conclusion?"

"I… well, 'tis of no consequence, milady. Forgive me. I did not mean to offend."

"You will offend me, sir, if you act as if my question were of no consequence. I would like an answer."

" 'Twas the coach, milady," said Shakespeare, from behind him. "This coach… or perhaps I should say, to be more precise, one very much like it… nearly ran us down the other day."

"And so your friend is justifiably incensed," she said. "I quite understand. But as this is not my coach, and I am only riding in it for the first time today at the invitation of Mr. Anthony Gresham, perhaps I could be spared your umbrage and assisted to step out?"

"Why, yes, of course, milady," Smythe said. He reached out to her and she took his hand as he helped her step down out of the coach. She squeezed his hand and, for a moment, their eyes met. Smythe felt a sudden, intense pressure in his chest and his mouth went dry. Was there meaning in that glance? He could have sworn that something passed between them, something pregnant with tension and desire. But surely, he thought, that could not be possible. Could it?

"Miss Elizabeth Darcie?"

They turned to see a liveried servant standing behind them, and Smythe at once recognized the man from the inn at the crossroads, the one who had come galloping ahead to announce that they'd been robbed. The other man, however, seemed not to recognize him. Indeed, Smythe thought, why should he? A mere ostler was beneath even the notice of a servant.

"I am Drummond, milady. Mr. Gresham's man. I am to escort you to his private box to join him for the performance."

"Certainly," she said. And then she paused and turned back to Smythe. "And thank you so much for you assistance, Mr… ?"

"Smythe, milady. Symington Smythe."

"He's just an ostler, milady," Drummond said, in a tone that clearly indicated she had no need to bother with anyone so insignificant.

"Aye, but a very handsome one," she said, with a wink at Smythe.

Drummond looked scandalized and did his best to rush her off through the theatre entrance before there could be any further exchange between them. Smythe stared after them for several moments before he finally realized that the coachman was giving him instructions for what he wanted done. The horses were to be unhitched and given some hay in the paddock, then watered and brushed and hitched back up in their traces once again in time for Mr. Gresham and his guest to leave in a timely manner as soon as the production ended. Smythe knew what needed to be done and wasn't really paying very close attention. He could not get his mind off Miss Elizabeth Darcie, and how she had winked at him and said that he was handsome.

"Do not even think about it," Shakespeare said, as they were unhitching the team.

"Think about what?"

"Oh, please! Spare me the coy innocence. That Darcie woman, that's what. And pray do not tell me that you were not thinking about her. I could feel the heat coming off you from six feet away."

Smythe grinned, self-consciously. "She said that I was handsome. Did you hear? And did you see the way she winked at me?"

"Aye, and so did Drummond. And you can be sure that he will report it to his master."

"Mr. Anthony Gresham," Smythe said.

"I believe that was the name she mentioned," said Shakespeare, wryly.

"You realize that she made a particular point of telling us whose coach it was?"

"I realize that she is trouble on the hoof," said Shakespeare. "I have seen her sort before. She is the type that likes to stir things up. She has a rich gentleman sending a fancy coach to bring her to the theatre, where she will enjoy the production from the intimacy of a private box screened off from the remainder of the audience, and yet she takes the time to flirt with a mere ostler, and in so obvious a manner that the servant of the gentleman who squires her cannot help but notice. So, if you can stop being blinded by Miss Darcie's admittedly radiant charms long enough to think clearly for a moment, then what conclusion can you draw from this?"

"You believe that she was flirting with me in front of the servant on purpose, only to make this Gresham jealous?"

"Well, far be it from me to pretend I know a woman's motives for anything she does," said Shakespeare, wryly. "As for her doing it in front of Drummond on purpose, there can be, I think, no doubt of that. 'Twas clear to her you had a bone to pick with the owner of the coach that nearly ran you down. And so, as you observed, she made a point of telling you his name, when there was no need at all for her to do so. Especially after I had told her it could easily have been another coach that merely looked like this one. It seems clear to me she is intent on pointing you toward Gresham… and at the same time, giving Gresham ample reason to bear a grudge against you."

"But why? What reason could she have for causing trouble between the two of us?" said Smythe, as they led the horses to the paddock. "She does not even know me."

"Who is to say? She may have taken offence at your manner. Or else it had nothing to do with you at all. Perhaps she simply enjoys making Gresham jealous. Some women like to see men demonstrate their power, the more so if 'tis done on their behalf. In any event, the rhyme or reason of it really does not matter. The potential consequences do, for they represent nothing but trouble. Stay away from these people, Tuck. As I said before, they are not like us. And we mean less to them than the dirt clods they crush beneath their boots."

Smythe sighed. "I see the sense in what you say. You are right, of course. What possible interest could a lady such as that have in a lowly ostler?"

"Be of good cheer, Tuck. She was right in one respect at least; you are a handsome fellow, and this is London, after all, with opportunities at every corner. There shall be sweet young girls aplenty for you in good time. Just see to it that you are not incautious, and that you do not shoot your bolts at targets far beyond your reach."