A Mystery of Errors (7 page)

There was noise and tumult assailing them from every quarter, with the squeaking, clomping sounds of ungreased cart wheels jouncing by on cobblestones, the snorting and neighing of the horses and the jingling of their tack, the clacking of the beggars' clap-dishes, the ringing of shopkeepers' bells, and the cries of the peddlers and costermongers—"Hot oakcake! Hot oatcake! Come an' buy! Come an' buy!"

"New brooms 'ere! New brooms!"

"Whaddyalack-whaddyalack-whaddyalack now?"

"Rock samphires! Getchyer fresh rock samphires!"

As they moved through the streets, another cry suddenly went up with great alacrity, rising over and above the din they heard around them as it was taken up by many other voices.
"Clubs! Clubs! Clubs!"

"Clubs?" said Smythe, frowning with puzzlement.

No sooner had he spoken than they found themselves engulfed by a stampeding mob that came streaming out from around the corner like the abruptly released waters of a sluiceway, forcing them back toward the gutter that held all the filth and garbage that would ferment there like an odious, swampy brew until the next rain washed it down into Fleet Ditch.

"Street riot!" Shakespeare cried out, pulling hard at Smythe's arm in an effort to drag him back out of the way, but the crowd had already surged around them and they found themselves caught up in its momentum and carried back the way they came.

It was impossible to tell who was fighting whom or how the whole thing had started. All they knew was that they were suddenly caught up in a crush of people trying to get away from the rising and falling clubs and flashing blades that were at the heart of it. Smythe slipped and tried to keep his footing on the slimy cobblestones near the gutter running down the center of the street, where most of the noxious muck had gathered and where people, forced into it by the press of bodies all around them, were falling down into the stinking, toxic ooze and being trampled. Someone bumped into him and Smythe pushed the man away roughly, sending him sprawling as he glanced around quickly for the poet.

"Will! Will!"

"Tuck!"

He spotted him, reaching out for help, being jostled repeatedly and trying desperately to keep his footing. He had lost his staff and he looked panic-stricken. Smythe stretched out his arm and, just at that instant, the poet lost his footing, slipped, and fell.

"Got you!" Smythe said, seizing his wrist and yanking him up and back from the filthy mire at the center of the street.

"Odd's blood!" said Shakespeare, gasping for breath as Smythe shoved their way roughly through the crowd to the nearest wall. "A man could get himself hurt around here."

"Watch out, the City Marshal's men!" somebody cried.

The sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones rose over the shouting and the clanging of steel as the marshal's men came galloping upon the scene, responding to the riot that had been moving through the streets and causing considerable damage. There was a rather large group of young men, in various styles of dress, going at it with a vengeance with both clubs and swords, though Smythe had no way of telling who was on whose side. It looked like a wild melee. The combatants, however, either did not seem to suffer from that problem, or else they were simply fighting with anyone within reach.

As Smythe pressed back against the wall with Shakespeare, he saw the mounted men come galloping around the corner, an unwise thing to do, it seemed to him, considering the uneven surface of the streets and the slick condition of the cobblestones. And sure enough, even as they watched, one of the lead horses went down, pitching its rider off as its hooves slipped on the cobbles, and the rider coming up behind it was brought down, as well. The others did not even slow down as they rode down the rioters, laying about them indiscriminately with their swords and truncheons. One young rioter's head was split open like a melon in a spray of blood and brains. Another screamed hoarsely as he had his arm and most of his shoulder chopped clean through. Unlike some of the fashionable, rapier-toting toughs, the City Marshal's men were armed with broadswords. Not as quick, perhaps, but devastatingly effective, especially from horseback.

"We had best get inside someplace and quickly," Smythe said, "before we get caught up in all that."

"Aye, they do not seem to care much whom they chop down, do they?" said Shakespeare. "They are a most profligate bunch of butchers."

"Over there," said Smythe, pointing out a painted wooden sign for a tavern just a few doors down.

Shakespeare glanced up at the sign. "The Swan and Maiden, eh? Well, by Zeus, it seems like just the place. If we can make it there."

They made it through the door mere seconds before the carnage would have caught up with them, plunging through it so quickly that they tripped upon the threshold and fell sprawling to the rush-strewn floor. A group of men had gathered at the windows to watch and they were heartily cheering each brutal stroke, raising their tankards, slapping one another on the back, laughing boisterously, and toasting the slaughter outside in the street as if it were being staged purely for their benefit.

"Hah! Well struck!"

"Again! Get him!"

"Kill him!"

"Run him through!"

"Mow down the bloody bastards!"

"Look! Here's two of them come bursting in here, trying to flee! What do you say, lads? Shall we toss them back out into the street to get their just desserts? Or should we carve them up in here ourselves and save the marshal's men some trouble?"

Smythe turned, fixed the speaker with a glare, and rose to his feet. The man's eyes widened and he swallowed nervously, backing off a step. His hand went to his sword hilt. Smythe hefted his staff. The man who'd spoken hesitated, suddenly uncertain if he wanted to draw steel and commit himself to a fight he might not win. He looked to his comrades for support, his gaze quickly flicking from Smythe to them and back again, as if seeking a prompt for action.

Smythe made a quick assessment of his potential opponent. He had the look of a tradesman, middle-aged and bearded, as they all were, in his early to mid-thirties, and fashionably, if not ostentatiously dressed in a brown leather doublet with the rough side out and buttons of polished brass set close together. Slashed sleeves, showing touches of red cloth underneath, were in conformity with the latest style. The sword, too, looked more worn for fashion than for function. Doubtless, it was reasonably functional, but the hilt and scabbard looked a bit too ornamental for serious work to Smythe's trained eye. The workmanship was gaudy, but strictly second-rate. The man was a barroom bravo, a loudmouthed bully with a few tankards of ale under his belt, but judging by his weapon, he was not a real swordsman.

"Oh, we've got ourselves a roaring boy," one of the others said. This one, Smythe noted, was a larger man, but soft around the middle and bleary-eyed with drink. His large and red-veined nose betrayed his fondness for the cask. His gut-stuffed, ale-stained, blue and buff striped doublet confirmed it. "I think this one wants a fight, lads," he added, with ale-fueled belligerence.

"He's a strapping big bugger," the first one said, uneasily.

"Aye, but he's only got a staff," the third man replied. "And the other one's just a skinny little bloke, and there's five of us."

Smythe glanced at the man in the dark green doublet with the puffed shoulders and black-slashed sleeves. He was beefy, though not as heavy as the one in blue and gold. He wore a short black cloak that made it difficult to tell his true dimensions, particularly with the latest padded and puffed fashions. But he did not seem quite as drunk as his fat friend. A more serious threat, perhaps.

"Please, gentlemen," Shakespeare said, rising to his feet unsteadily and holding out his hands, "we wish to cause no trouble. We are not roaring boys or duelists. As you can see, we have no swords. I am but a poor poet and my friend, here, is an aspiring actor. We were merely caught up in that commotion out there in the street. We had no part in it ourselves, I assure you."

"Oh, you assure us, do you?" the fourth man replied, mockingly. "Well, a pox on your assurances!"

Medium height, medium build, but not muscular looking, Smythe observed, as he appraised the man in the red and gold doublet and floppy, plumed red cap. He seemed more drunk than his compatriots, and even less of a threat on his own. There was nothing about any of them or their weapons from what Smythe could see that indicated serious fighters, but then five drunkards armed with swords and egging one another on were still nothing to be sneezed at. He made a quick determination. If it came to a fight, and he saw that it was looking more and more that way, then he could not be sure if he could count on Shakespeare for much help. Glovemaking and poetry did not normally develop strength or fast responses. And the poet was neither a large nor a strong man. Best look to the one with the brown leather doublet first, Smythe thought, because he seemed the most sober of the bunch and therefore, perhaps, the greatest threat. Then the one in dark green, and then the fat one in the buff and blue, and then the fourth…

"And a pox on bleedin' poets, too," the fifth man said contemptuously, staring at Shakespeare with an ugly scowl. As Smythe turned his attention to him, he immediately revised his estimation. No, this one would be the greater threat, he thought, looking him over. He seemed more fit than any of the others, and though he had a large pewter tankard in his hand, he did not look drunk at all. His eyes seemed clear and more alert, like those of the first man, only more so. He also filled out the chest of his brown and black quartered doublet with more thick muscle than the others had, and his shoulders looked more massive, too. This one was a craftsman or a laborer, Smythe thought. A man who did work with his hands and would not shy from getting them dirty. A cooper, or an ironmonger, or perhaps a farrier…

"A pox on
poets,
did you say?"

The new voice came from one of the tables behind them. Smythe glanced over his shoulder quickly to see a strikingly handsome young man in an elegantly jeweled burgundy doublet of three-piled velvet rise to his feet with the lightness of a dancer. His hair was a light auburn hue and shoulder-length, and his eyes were large, expressive, and a bit dreamy, yet mockingly insolent. A poet's eyes, Smythe thought, at once. He had a small moustache that curled up slightly over thin, bemused lips and a spare chin beard that framed his well-formed oval face, which had a delicate, boyish, somewhat effeminate cast.

Wonderful, was his first thought. Just what we need. Another drunkard with a blade. Things were liable to get dangerous at any moment.

Another man sat at the same table, but this one kept his seat, resting his elbows on the tabletop and steepling his gloved fingers in front of his face as he watched his young friend with amusement. Smythe had little time to take much note of him, save that he was dark-haired and exquisitely dressed in black brocade and silk. His handsome young friend came sauntering around the table and, in a smooth, lazy-looking, yet deceptively quick motion, drew his rapier before the others could react.

" 'Ere now!" the tavernkeeper called out. "I'll have none o' that in my place!"

The handsome young man's dark friend, still seated at the table, merely raised his elegantly gloved hand, without even turning around, and the tavernkeeper fell silent at once.

"You
did
say a pox on poets," the young man said, "or were my ears deceiving me? I mean, I could scarcely credit what I heard! It simply seems impossible!"

"What concern is this of yours?" said the man in brown, who had disparaged poets. His hand was still on his swordhilt, but he remained undecided as to whether to draw steel or not. A blade had already been drawn, and the young man wielding it looked very relaxed and confident, indeed. Not in the least bit intimidated by the odds. Smythe could see Leather Doublet calculating. Was this merely some drink-addled young fool looking for trouble, or did he know his business? Smythe was wondering the same thing himself. He glanced over at Shakespeare, who simply looked at him and rolled his eyes.

"As it happens, I too am a poet," the young man said, as he approached the group, with a casual swagger. "As is my friend, there, who dabbles with a sonnet or two upon occasion. And so, you see, you have cursed not only this excellent young man here, and his friend, the actor, but you have wished a pox upon the two of us, as well, as you have also cursed all those who labor nobly in the dark and lonely hours with quill and parchment to produce some small bit of transitory beauty for an ugly, often unappreciative world. Yet, much more importantly, do you know who
else
writes poetry, and has thus been cursed by you? Well?
Do
you?"

Frowning, and looking decidedly uncertain about this new development or the flow of verbiage, the man in the brown and black quartered doublet shook his head. "No, who?"

"Why, the queen!" the young man said. "The queen writes poetry! Now I happen to know this for a certain fact, you see." He brought up his rapier and delicately played its point around the man's throat. "And I cannot very well stand by and do nothing while you wish a pox upon Her Royal Majesty, our good Queen Bess, now can I?"

"Here, you'd better put that rapier down, lad, before you go and do something rash," the one in the dark green said.

"Or what?" the young man asked without even glancing his way. His gaze was locked with the man in brown and black, with the swordpoint playing lightly at his throat. And that man was breathing shallowly, eyes narrow, his own gaze unblinking and alert. And very cold.

"Or you'll have to be taught a lesson in minding your own damn bloody business, you impudent fop." The man in green began to draw his blade.

Smythe reacted quickly, but the young man was even quicker. Before the man in green could clear his scabbard, the young man's blade flicked over like an adder's tongue and slashed across his face, opening up his cheek from temple to jaw. At the same time, the young man smashed the back of his fist into the face of the man in brown and black, who had begun to draw his blade, as well.