A Mystery of Errors (3 page)

"What the devil do you mean, how shall we be paying for them?"

"Well, sir, you did say you had been robbed."

The man turned beet red and his eyes bulged with outrage. "Why, you impertinent, cheeky bastard! I ought to thrash you!"

The red-faced man pulled out his riding quirt and looked quite prepared to make good on his threat, but the innkeeper countered by reaching down to his boot and pulling out a dagger. At the same time, he called out,
"Duff!
" and a man the size of an oak tree appeared in the doorway behind him. The bearded giant wore an apron, but he did not look terribly domestic, Smythe thought.

"Trouble, Master Martin?" the giant said, in a voice that sounded like the crack of doom.

"No trouble," said a new voice, and Smythe turned to see a group of men who had just come through the door. There were three of them, two apparently servants, for they were not as well-dressed and were carrying bags. The man in front wore a brown velvet hat with a large red plume and a floppy brim, which he removed as he came toward them with a steady, purposeful stride, his long cloak hanging open and fanning out behind him slightly. A gentleman, by his look and his demeanor, Smythe thought. Elegant hose and boots and a dark brown damask doublet of a shade to match his dark brown hair, worked with gold and silver that looked rather too frail and expensive for traveling. "Put away your pigsticker, innkeeper," he said, "and call off your colossus. There will be no bloodletting here tonight."

"Your man here threatened to thrash me," the innkeeper replied, truculently. But the commanding demeanor of the new arrival had its effect. He put away the knife, albeit reluctantly.

"Did you do that, Andrew?" the gentleman inquired casually, as he removed his lace-trimmed and gauntleted calfskin gloves.

"The scoundrel is impertinent, milord. He presumes to question our ability to pay." At the mention of the word "milord," the innkeeper instantly assumed a more respectful posture.

"Did you inform him that we were robbed back there on the road?"

"Indeed, I did, milord, and the wretch refused to send men in pursuit of that damned brigand."

"Doubtless because he had nothing to gain by it. And if you told him we were robbed, then it seems entirely understandable that he might assume we lack the means to pay for our accommodations. You can scarce blame the man for reaching that conclusion."

"His manner was offensive."

"Well, if you went around thrashing everyone who offended you, Andrew, you would be bloody well exhausted all the time. Now put away your quirt, there's a good lad, and go see to our belongings, or what remains of them." He turned to the innkeeper. "As it happens, the highwayman did not make off with
all
our money, though he did manage an uncomfortably good take for his trouble. We are quite able to pay, thanks to some judicious foresight, and in good English gold, at that. As soon as Andrew sees to your servants bringing in the remainder of our baggage and mine making proper disposition, we shall then be able to secure our accommodations for the night. I trust that will be acceptable?"

"Oh aye, of course, certainly, milord," the innkeeper replied, all sudden subservience. "Four of our best rooms, as your man said. It will be done. They shall be prepared for you at once." He clapped his hands and another servant appeared. The innkeeper barked orders and the gentleman was led upstairs, with Andrew and the rest of his retinue following.

Smythe cleared his throat. "If 'twould not be too much trouble, innkeeper, I would like a room as well. And an ordinary for my supper."

"I have no rooms left," the innkeeper replied.

Taken aback, Smythe assumed that it was his appearance that made the man balk at giving him accommodation, so he held up the coin the brigand gave him. "But I can pay," he said.

"It matters not. I have no rooms left to give you. That gentleman took the last. We are now full up. I can let you make a bed of some clean straw in the barn and I shall let you sleep there without charge if you pay for your supper. That is the best that I can do."

Smythe sighed. "Well, I shall take your offer, then. A bed in the barn is better than no bed at all."

"Perhaps I can make you a slightly better offer," said a stranger, sitting at one of the nearby tables. Smythe turned to face him. "As it happens," the stranger continued, "I already have a room, having arrived earlier tonight. But I am also somewhat short of funds. If you are not too proud to share a bed, then mayhap we could split the expense of our accommodation and both benefit."

Smythe looked the stranger over carefully. He was not richly dressed, so the claim of being short of funds did not seem hard to credit. He wore a short, dark cloak over a plain russet cloth doublet with a falling collar and simple, inexpensive pewter buttons, loose, country galligaskins, and sensible, sturdy, side strap shoes. Good kidskin gloves, almost new, well made. He wore no gold or silver rings, no enameled chains, no bracelets; his one affectation was a golden earring worn in the left ear. His hair was a dark brown, with a wispy, slightly pointed beard and mournful eyes to match, eyes that bespoke intelligence, alertness, and a touch of sadness, but not—to Smythe's perception, anyway—corruption. There was a softness about the face that suggested femininity, but did not proclaim it. The forehead was high, like his Uncle Tom's, a prophecy, some said, of wisdom, but more often merely a harbinger of baldness coming early. He looked between twenty-two and twenty-five years old, too old for a roaring boy, too young for a settled ancient, and yet, somehow, there was an unsettled ancientness about him.

The stranger flushed at Smythe's coldly appraising gaze. "It was, I should perhaps make plain, merely my room and bed that I proposed to share… and nothing more. My frugality, born of necessity in this event, led me to speak perhaps too boldly. Forgive me, I did not mean to presume."

"No, 'twas not taken as presumption," Smythe replied. He approached the stranger and perceived he had been drinking. "You have an honest face. And I, too, am short of funds and would benefit from a sharing of expense." He held out his hand. "My name is Smythe. Symington Smythe."

The stranger stood only a bit unsteadily and took his hand. "Will Shakespeare, at your service."

Over a hearty ordinary of meat stew, bread, and ale, they began to know each other. Smythe told his story, without any elaborations or embellishments, not making much of it, and when he reached the part about his traveling to London in hopes of joining a company of players, his companion smiled and his dark eyes sparkled with amusement.

"You think it is a foolish notion," Smythe said, in anticipation of some moralizing lecture.

"Nothing of the sort," Shakespeare replied, with a grin. He tapped his temple with his index finger. "That is my plan, exactly."

"You jest."

"Not at all. Save that it is not acting that is my main ambition, so much as the writing of the plays. I fancy myself something of a decent hand with verses. It is a small conceit of mine, but I do love to write. But acting, writing, prompting, helping with the props and scenery, helping mend the costumes, I would perform whatever tasks were asked of me to get on and make a start."

"That is my intent, as well," said Smythe. "Though I must admit," he added, uncertainly, "I did not think that writing might be asked of me."

"You cannot write?"

"Oh, I can read and write," said Smythe. "I was given my first hornbook early and my uncle saw to it that I attended grammar school and had some Latin. But I am no hand at all with verses. I could no more write a song nor concoct a story for a play than I could fly. I had never even thought that such would be expected of me."

"Nor shall it be," his new friend assured him. "Never fear, most men in a company of players are not poets. Each player may, from time to time, contribute a line or two or an idea, perhaps even a speech, but no one expects every man to write. The Benchers and the Masters of the Arts residing at the Inns of Court have written, in their spare time, many of the plays they act today. Indeed, many plays were first performed there by the young barristers for the better class of people."

"That is much as I would have assumed," said Smythe, "that one would have to be a learned scholar in order to write a play. It would seem quite an undertaking."

"Aye, well, that is what all the academic gentlemen would have you think," said Shakespeare, with a grimace. "But herein lies the truth of it: No amount of academic training can bestow the gift of words, my friend. It can add to one's vocabulary, as indeed can a sojourn among Bristol whores and seamen, but it cannot teach the skill of putting words together in novel and surprising patterns which reflect some previously unguessed truth of life. A proper scholar from the Inns of Court might pepper his dramatic stew with references to the Greek classics or to Holinshed, but all the learning in the world will bring him no true insight into the soul of man."

He set his tankard down upon the table a bit more solidly than necessary and then belched. "Bollocks. We need more ale. And you have scarce touched yours."

"I have no head for it, nor stomach," Smythe replied.

"You know, they say you cannot trust a man who will not drink."

"Well, I think I would hesitate to trust one who drinks too much."

"Aye, well, there's the rub," said Shakespeare, as he signaled for another pot of ale with a raising of his tankard. "
In
vino Veritas…
and so truth served, in his cups, did he like Caesar
vidi, vici, veni
and then hoisted on his own petard into the bloody state of matrimony…"

Smythe frowned. "I have but a little Latin learning, Will." What was he babbling? Something about truth in wine and Caesar? What was it? "I saw, I conquered, I came?" That did not sound quite right. It seemed that his new friend had not the head for drinking, either, and yet he drank to rapid stupefaction, as if all in a rush to get there. He found it difficult to follow the man's cant.

" 'Tis nevermind to thee, Symington, old sport." A frown. He had rather badly slurred the name. "We shall need another name with which to call you, Smythe, old sod, one that trips more off the tongue than trips it up. What shall it be, then? Faith, an' you barely touch your ale, an' I am on my fourth pot, or is't my fifth or sixth? Yet you inhale your food as if Hephaestus himself did hammer in your belly, tucking into it like some ravening beast withal…
Hal
There we have it!
Tuck!
You shall be Tuck!" He raised his tankard. "A toast to you, my new friend Tuck! Tuck Smythe, my friend and fellow player!"

"Tuck?" said Smythe. He considered briefly, then he shrugged. "Why not?" It was, to be sure, a lot less cumbersome and high-flown than Symington, and he had always despised having his Christian name shortened to some horrid and cloying familiarity as Symie or Simmie, as they used to do back home. Symington he was christened, and Symington his name would stay, but Tuck his friends would call him. Tuck Smythe. It even sounded like a player's name. Ned Alleyn and Tuck Smythe. "Why not, indeed?" he said.

"Well, Tuck, my new old friend, I fear I am inebriated."

"Come on, then, poet," he said, rising and reaching out to help Shakespeare to his feet. "Let us go and find our room, before we have to lay you out right here, beneath the table."

"Ah, I have laid beneath the table once or twice before. And lustily upon it, too."

Smythe wrapped Shakespeare's arm around his shoulders to support his weight as he staggered toward the stairs, dragging his feet. "Oh, bloody hell," said Smythe, "hang on. 'Twill be much easier to carry you."

"Nay, I am too heavy…"

Smythe hoisted him up onto his shoulder effortlessly. "Zounds! You are strong as an ox!"

"And you are drunk as a lord," said Smythe, with a grin as he climbed up the stairs.

" 'Tis my only lordly ambition."

"Well, before you swoon, milord, be so kind as to inform me which room is yours."

"Second door from the top of the stairs."

"Second door it is."

"Or perhaps 'twas the third."

"Well, which is it?"

"Second. Aye, second door."

Smythe came to the second door and opened it. However, the room was already occupied. The gentleman who had arrived in the coach earlier that night stood bare-headed and without his cloak in the center of the room and opposite him stood a dark-haired woman Smythe had not seen before. They both turned, startled, at the intrusion, and Smythe caught only a brief glance of them before the servant, Andrew, stepped in front of him, scowling, and slammed the door in his face.

"I think you meant the third door," Smythe said.

"Third. Aye, third door," slurred the dead weight on his shoulder.

Smythe sighed and shook his head. He found the right room, entered, and deposited his burden on the bed. The poet rolled over onto his back and promptly started snoring.

"Wonderful," said Smythe, with a grimace. He sighed. "I start out on my new life and my first bedmate is a drunken poet. But I suppose it does beat sleeping with the horses in the barn." Though perhaps, he thought, not by very much.

Chapter 2

THEY GOT AN EARLY START the next day, leaving the inn as the first grayness of the dawn began to lighten the sky. Having paid for their lodging and victuals the previous evening, they had no accounts left to settle, so they simply packed what few possessions they had (which in Smythe's case amounted to nothing more than the clothes upon his back, his staff, and the dagger on his belt, and in Shakespeare's, merely the contents of a small leather satchel) and set off to resume their journey before most of the other travelers were awake.

The road ahead of them was quiet and deserted, and they proceeded without incident, for which Smythe was rather grateful. He observed that the road had grown somewhat wider since they had left the inn, and was clearly more traveled and in better condition, which was a sure sign that they were approaching London. It made him feel excited to know that they would reach the city soon. A new life beckoned.