A Mystery of Errors (15 page)

Smythe smiled, despite his discomfort. "In that event, milord, it would be both an honor and a pleasure."

"Excellent. You should find a decanter of port and several glasses over on the sideboard there. Be a good fellow and pour us both a drink. I have given strict instructions that we are not to be disturbed."

Smythe glanced back at him as he made his way over to the heavy, carved mahogany sideboard. "That sounds rather ominous, milord."

Worley raised his eyebrows. "Does it? Are you afraid that I shall do away with you in here and secret your body underneath the floorboards? 'Twould eventually make the room smell rather piquant, don't you think?"

Smythe brought him a glass of port. No pewter or clay goblets here, he thought, but the very finest glassware. "To be sure, milord. In any event, 'twould be a far more elegant resting place than a man of my lowly station would deserve."

Worley raised his glass. "I see. Well, what shall we drink to, then? To… proper resting places? From each according to his ability to each according to his need? Hmm. In that event, paupers would be buried in Westminster and half the men at court would be thrown into Fleet Ditch."

Smythe chuckled. He was finding it impossible not to like the man. "Why not drink to chance encounters?" he said.

Worley grinned. "Splendid! To chance encounters, then."

They raised their glasses and drank.

"And 'twas, perhaps, our chance encounter that you wanted to discuss?" said Smythe.

"Which encounter?" asked Worley. "You mean the first or the second?"

"The first, milord. That day in the country, near the crossroads and the inn known as The Hawk and Mouse."

Worley smiled. "Ah. That encounter. Well, then. What of it?"

Smythe shook his head. "I… do not understand, milord," he said.
"Why?"

Worley simply shrugged. "Why not?"

"But… you have everything, milord. Everything that it seems to me a man could conceivably want. Wealth, position, power, and influence… 'twould seem you lack for nothing. Why play at being some lowly highwayman?"

"I do it for the fun," Worley replied, bluntly.

"Fun?"
said Smythe, with disbelief.

"Aye, fun," said Worley. "Is that so difficult to comprehend? That a man in my position might feel the need for some occasional stimulation? Some skylarking? A bit of fun? Besides, I am not just any highwayman, you know. I am the infamous Black Billy. Why, there are ballads and broadsheets written about me. You can pick them up in the stands down by St. Paul's. I have most of them here. I collect them. True, they exaggerate my exploits considerably, but I find them quite amusing."

"But… what of the risk, milord?"

"The risk?" Worley shrugged. "Oh, I suppose there is some slight risk, but that only makes it part of the fun, you see."

"Surely, you must realize that if they catch you, you shall hang."

"You think? Well… I may hang, I suppose. And then again, I may not. The queen is rather fond of me, you know. But she is a bit of a stickler for form. She might be moved toward clemency, or else she might just have me beheaded. Bit quicker that way. Or so they say. In any event, I should think the odds are greater that I might be killed during a robbery, rather than be apprehended."

"How can you discuss this with so little concern?" asked Smythe, amazed not only at the substance of their conversation, but at Worley's casual tone about it.

"Because it does not concern me," Worley replied.

"But… how can it
not,
milord?" Smythe asked, with exasperation.

"Look, sit down, Smythe, and stop standing there looking like some great self-righteous oak. If you will give me your attention for a few moments, I will endeavor to explain."

Smythe obediently sat.

"Good," said Worley, remaining on his feet, rather to Smythe's discomfort. He did not feel that he should be sitting in the presence of a knight, but then again, sitting in the presence of a brigand certainly seemed permissible. The protocol of the situation seemed rather confusing, not to say unsettling.

"Now then," Worley continued, pacing as he spoke, "as you have quite correctly pointed out, I am a very wealthy man. And I, indeed, have everything. Or so 'twould appear, at least, to anyone such as yourself. I could easily sit back and rest upon my laurels, like the rest of the slothful, parasitic fools who make up the larger part of our blue-blooded nobility, but then, such is not my nature.

"You see, Smythe, I did not inherit the fortune I now possess. I earned it. Or else stole it, depending upon one's perspective. Either way, 1 worked damned hard to get it. And I enjoyed getting it. Every damned bit of it. From my very first business venture, in which I risked every single penny I had earned since boyhood and parlayed it into my first ship, to the latest addition to my fleet, which is even now under construction in Bristol and promises to make Drake's
Golden Hind
look like a river barge, I have played the game of risk and won. Well, occasionally I lost, but losing is just part of the game. And the ones who play it best are those who are not afraid to lose.

"Look about you, Smythe," said Worley, indicating their surroundings with a sweeping gesture. "What do you see? Opulence. Grandeur. Elegance. Taste… Well, I am not so sure about the taste part, for some of this monstrosity I call a home is rather overdone, I must confess, but the point is, it is the refined and genteel residence of a knight of the realm, soon, perhaps, to be a lord, as strange as that may seem. And yet… and yet… how did I
get
here? How did I achieve all of this?"

Smythe simply stared at him, uncertain as to whether the question was rhetorical or not. Worley was looking at him as if he expected an answer, but Smythe had none to give. Or else, all he could do was repeat back what Worley had just told him.

"Through hard work, milord?"

Worley snorted. "Through piracy, my lad. Through piracy. I worked hard at it, to be sure, but it was piracy, nevertheless."

"Piracy,
milord?"

"Aye. Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, the rest of them who either sail my ships or else have bought them from me… all pirates. A slightly better class of pirate, I will grant you, than your tarry-haired, rum-swilling, eyepatch-wearing, smelly buccaneer, but pirates, nonetheless. They attack ships and loot them, take them as prizes when they can and sink them when they cannot, and they are wined and dined as heroes here in England, instead of being strung up to dangle from the gallows. And why? Because they attack
Spanish
ships. And because the queen gets a share of all their booty. And that makes the queen no less a pirate than all the rest of them."

"I cannot believe that you would call the queen a pirate!" Smythe said, with astonishment.

" 'Tis the truth," said Worley, with a shrug. "And believe it or not, in private, she would even admit to it. Her Majesty is nothing if not practical. She always sees a thing for what it is, and not for what it should be or could be. And if she is not always honest with her ministers and courtiers and other heads of state, she is unfailingly honest with herself, which is why I rather like the old girl. She is a woman who has made her way in a man's world without ever once submitting to a man, and she has done so with courage and intelligence, duplicity and guile, good-heartedness and malice, trickery and effrontery, and pure, unadulterated rapaciousness, God bless her great black heart, and I love her better than I loved my own sweet mother because I understand that wondrous royal bitch. She, young Smythe, is every bit as much a thief as I am. And what is more, she revels in it!"

"As do you," said Smythe, as comprehension dawned. "Except that it sits ill with you to be so far removed from it as her. You cannot be a sea-going brigand, at least not anymore. It would ill suit a man of your position. But if you are going to be a thief, then you prefer to do the stealing with your own two hands, rather than have others do it for you. That way, at least, you own what you have done, and experience the thrill of it."

Worley pointed a finger at him and shook it slightly. "Ah, there, you see? I knew you were a smart lad from the moment I laid eyes upon you."

"You are most gracious, milord," said Smythe. "But the one question which puzzles me above all others is… why me? Why take
me
into your confidence? Merely because you know that I could never be a threat to you?"

"In part, that," admitted Worley. "But also because there was something about you that bespoke a difference from your usual, common sort of lout. 'This one has promise,' I said to myself. 'This one, given half a chance, is going to amount to something.'

I always recognize talent when I see it. 'Tis a gift. I felt the same sort of thing about young Marlowe when I met him."

"Have you taken him into your confidence, as well?"

"Marlowe? Perish the thought! He, unlike you, is dangerous. He is the most rash, impetuous, demented young fool that I have ever met, for all his brilliance."

"I should not think that he would be any more capable of being a threat to you than I could," Smythe said.

"On his own, perhaps not," Worley replied, "but Marlowe has some secret friends. Powerful friends. And he does not even realize how powerful and unscrupulous they are, more's the pity. More wine?"

"Uh… Aye. Please."

"Help yourself. Oh, hell, bring the whole decanter over. Are you hungry?"

"I could eat, milord."

"I have some of the queen's own venison being prepared. There is plenty. You shall stay for supper."

"You are most kind, milord. But you were speaking of Master Marlowe and his secret friends? Why secret?"

"Because they deal in secret things," said Worley. "Among them, murder."

"Murder?"

"Aye. Murder and intrigue. And at the highest levels."

"The highest levels of what, milord?"

"Of government, my lad, of government. Marlowe is a spy, the wretched soul."

"A
spy!
"

"Aye, he allowed himself to get drawn into it while he was pursuing his studies at Cambridge. A nasty, complicated business. Papist versus Protestant, Rome versus England, with dashing young Kit Marlowe all caught up in it and playing both ends against the middle."

"He told you all this?"

"Nay, I have other sources. Astonishingly enough, Marlowe
can
keep his mouth shut about some things. To a point, anyway. But he is irrepressible and, as his patron, I have been duly 'cautioned.' As an intimate of the queen, you see, I do receive some consideration. Especially since my ships have been so instrumental in helping line the pockets of the Privy Council. But enough about Marlowe. Believe me, the less you know about his intrigues, the better. You wanted to know why I am telling you all this, why I should take you into my confidence."

"Aye, milord. It seems… rather unusual. I mean, you do not know me, really. True, 'tis most unlikely that anyone in his right mind would take my word about anything over yours, but nevertheless, there is still the possibility that I might compromise you— or Master Marlowe—in some way. That is to say, I assure you that I would not, at least not intentionally, but how do you
know
that I would not?"

Worley chuckled. "Because you say such things, that is how I know. And because I do not know as little about you as you think. I have made inquiries. I know all about your father and his recent difficulties, for one thing, and I know about your uncle, for another. I was most especially interested in him, considering your claim that you could craft a sword superior to the one I loaned you. Was it merely arrogant boastfulness or simple honesty? As your uncle was the man who taught you, I was keen to learn what sort of work he did. Now, I believe you." Worley reached down to his side and drew a dagger from a sheath at his belt. He placed it on the table and slid it across to Smythe. "You will recognize the workmanship, of course, even without your uncle's maker's mark on the ricasso. The craftsmanship is among the best that I have ever seen."

Smythe picked up the dagger, already knowing it to be his uncle's work. He swallowed nervously. "I take your point, Sir William."

"I think you miss it," Worley replied, seeing the expression on his face. "I am not threatening your family, Smythe. I could, of course, but that was not my purpose. I wanted to find out more about you. That day on the road, I saw something in you that I do not see in men very often. I saw a remarkable forthrightness, and a complete lack of fear. Those are very admirable qualities. Admirable and rare. And they should be encouraged."

"I am not fearless, Sir William," Smythe said. "In all honesty, I was a bit afraid to come here."

Worley shook his head. "I do not believe you were, else you would not have come. I have no doubt you felt some apprehension, some uncertainty, to be sure… but fear? You are not the sort. You do not seem to have it in you. I sat astride my stallion with a pistol aimed straight at your chest and you did not blink an eye. You exercised the proper caution that the situation called for, yet you kept your head and even bantered with me. I admired that in you. It reminded me… of me. And you know, as enjoy-ably diverting as it may be to be Black Billy, the infamous highwayman that every schoolboy sings about, a large part of that joy is lost in not having anyone to
tell
about it. Well… now I have you." He smiled. "So, what say we take a quick look at that forge I promised you before sitting down to supper? You still owe me a sword, you know."

The play, thought Shakespeare, was appallingly inept. Its failure to draw a decent audience at the Theatre was not due to any particular failing of the actors, although from what he'd seen, the only really good performer in the company was Ned Alleyn, and he had just quit. Things were not looking very promising for the Queen's Men, but despite any flaws in the company's performance, the main fault lay in the play itself.

Part of the problem was that it was not a new play, but one that had been adapted from other sources and rewritten many times, so that he no longer had any idea who the original author was or precisely what had been intended. This particular version was credited to Greene, and it had his stamp all over it.
The Honorable Gentleman
was full of literary references and high-flown academic speech which suffered from the same pretensions that it aimed to satirize, and in those cases where these allusions did not go straight over the heads of most people in the audience, they were explained awkwardly by other characters, who were simply leaden in their coarseness and derision.