A Mystery of Errors (27 page)

The crowd was packed so thickly, people were even sitting on the edge of the stage, watching the performance, so close to the actors that they could reach out and touch them. Smythe tried to determine at what point in the play they were. The production ran about two hours long, with the acts divided into roughly equal parts. Two acts in the beginning, two acts at the end, with a break in the middle. They were at least halfway through the first act, perhaps a little more. He wasn't sure. He had enough trouble remembering his one line, much less everybody else's. All he knew was that his line had come a short way into the second act, right after Kemp announced, "I would give a king's ransom for a horse!"

He grimaced.
Now
he remembered his cue! And, inexplicably, he remembered his line, too. "Milord, the post horses have arrived!" Of course, now that it made no difference, he remembered. Well, clearly, someone else would have already been picked to play his tiny part. It would only mean an extra line for one of the other hired men. Something as insignificant as that would pose no difficulty for the production, and would probably improve it, Smythe thought, since he could never seem to get it right and only managed to succeed in getting on Kemp's nerves. But just the same, it rankled him that he remembered now, when it no longer mattered.

As he had made his way toward the front of the stage, he kept looking at the faces all around him, desperately seeking the man that he had seen back at the inn, but from where he was, he could not see much more than several feet around him in the yard. The killers could all be within fifteen or twenty feet of him and he would have no way of knowing. He would need to get some height so he could see better.

He had now reached a spot roughly parallel to the middle of the stage. A bit further and he could get backstage, into the tiring room where he had left his sword and where he could warn the other members of the company about what was going on. He continued to push his way through, coughing hard and hacking like a man on his last legs, trying to get the people to make way for him. It worked, and soon he was even with the rear of the stage and then climbing up and going through into the backstage area. The fist person he ran into was Robert Speed, costumed and waiting to go on.

"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!

"Ostlers'."
Smythe shouted, stepping to the front of the stage and pointing up.
"Get that man!"

Abruptly realizing that Smythe was pointing straight up at him, the black-cloaked stranger bolted toward the stairs. The ostlers in the yard below moved to intercept him. Sir William ran toward the stairs on the other side. The audience, thinking it was all part of the play, laughed uproariously and applauded.

"Milord," said Miles, picking up the cue belatedly, "the post horses have arrived!"

"Just in the nick of time!" said Kemp, returning to the script, "Then I am off, to spur on toward my fate!"

They all left the stage together to thunderous applause.

"What in heaven's name was
that?"
demanded Burbage, as they all came off.

"Dick, you're on!" said Shakespeare, pushing Burbage out on stage before he could receive a reply. "John Fleming, stand by!"

"I am bloody well going to kill you!" Kemp turned on Smythe furiously, shaking his finger in his face.

"What did
I
do?" Smythe said.

"You and that idiot friend of yours up there in the gallery just absolutely
ruined
my scene!"

"Ruined it?" said Shakespeare. "Damn it, Kemp, you were
brilliant
!"

"That 'idiot friend' of mine just happens to be Sir William Worley," Smythe said.

"Sir William Worley?"
Fleming said, with astonished disbelief. "You mean the master of the Sea Hawks?"

"John, your cue," said Shakespeare.

"But… he is an intimate of the queen!" said Fleming.

"Fleming!
Your
cue
!"

"Oh! Good Christ!" Fleming rushed out on the stage.

"You really think I was brilliant?" Kemp asked.

"Your improvisation was not only brilliant, it was absolutely inspired," Shakespeare said. He turned to Smythe. "That was
Sir William
neighing? You cannot be serious!"

"Will!" someone called out from behind them. "Will Shakespeare!"

"What
now?"
Shakespeare turned around.

"Look out, Will!"
Smythe shoved Shakespeare hard. The poet fell, sprawling, to the floorboards. The dagger sailed through the air where he had stood an instant earlier and buried itself in a wooden beam right by Kemp's ear.

"HELP! MURDER!" Kemp cried out and, without thinking, ran straight out onto the stage, where he had no business being until the last scene of the act.

Smythe reached for his sword, but before he could draw it, the man who'd thrown the knife, the burly ostler he'd recognized from the inn, bellowed like a maddened bull and charged him. He struck Smythe hard, wrapping his arms around him in a bear hug, and his momentum carried them both backward, out into the middle of the stage, where they both fell heavily with a resounding crash. The second man came right behind him, charging with a large Florentine stiletto, but before he could reach Shakespeare, Miles kicked his legs out from under him and the man fell, impaling himself on his own blade.

Burbage and Fleming, onstage in the middle of their scene, suddenly found themselves rudely interrupted as Kemp came shrieking out onto the stage from the wings. Seconds later, Smythe and the hired killer came tumbling on, as well, to the immense amusement of the audience, who cheered and applauded the spectacle.

"Defend yourself!" Burbage cried to Fleming, improvising. "We are attacked!"

He drew his sword, just as Shakespeare came running out onto the stage, with the third killer in hot pursuit with a drawn blade of his own. Seeing Burbage with his sword, the man hesitated and then struck. Burbage parried, and in the next instant, what appeared to be a young girl came flying out from the wings and tackled the hired killer as young Mick Jones bravely leapt into the fray to defend his fellow players.

Smythe broke the grip of his antagonist and dislodged him, scrambling to his feet. They both got up at the same time. The man swung, but Smythe blocked the blow with his left forearm and with his right fist knocked the man clear off the stage and into the audience.

"Groundlings, don't let him get away!" Fleming shouted to the audience. "The man's a
pickpocket
!"