A Mystery of Errors (9 page)

"A chance resemblance," Shakespeare said. "Wasn't that what you had said yourself? I had no idea what you meant when you said it, but… this? 'Tis absolutely ludicrous. Surely you can see that!"

"Aye. Believe me, Will, I can appreciate just how mad it sounds. But 'tis nevertheless the truth. I am quite certain of it. As I said, I cannot account for it, nor understand why, but I know he was the man. And what is more, Sir William knows I know."

Shakespeare leaned back against the wall, where they sat at a small plank table in the corner. The ales came and for a moment they did not speak as the tankards were set down before them. Then, when the serving maid had left to bring their dinners, Shakespeare leaned forward once again, putting his elbows on the table.

"Assuming for the moment that this ludicrous idea is true," he said, in a low voice, "even setting aside the whys and wherefores—which are certainly not lightly set aside, considering the circumstances…" he shook his head with disbelief. "Then if Sir William is indeed the man you think he is… an outlaw… and if he knows you know his secret, as you say… then you are in grave danger."

"No, I do not think so. I saw nothing threatening or intimidating in his manner," Smythe replied.

Shakespeare snorted. "Why should there be? He owns a fleet of ships, my friend, several of them privateers sailing under letters of marque from Her Majesty herself. He may not himself be a Sea Hawk, but he is unquestionably their falconer. His investments are many and varied, and all quite successful, I am told. He is one of the most admired and respected men in England. And one of the most powerful. All he needs to do is flick his little finger and you would be swept away like a cork upon the waves."

"Oh, I have no doubt of that," said Smythe. "Only why bother?" He shrugged. "What threat am I to him? Who would take
my
word over
his,
the word of a penniless commoner over that of a wealthy and influential peer?"

Shakespeare grunted. "Aye. There is that. No one would believe it."

"If I stop to think about it, I am not sure that I believe it, myself. There is no rhyme or reason to it, no sense at all. And yet…"

Shakespeare stared at him. "And yet… you are convinced of it. Beyond all doubt."

Smythe merely nodded.

"Aye, I can see that. Astonishing. And you think he knows?"

"Why else would he have loaned his sword to a complete stranger?"

Shakespeare shrugged. "With his money, it would seem an act of little consequence. The very rich are not like us, my friend. They are liable to do things on a whim that to us would seem incomprehensible.''

"Such as becoming involved in a tavern brawl, say, or highway robbery?"

"Perhaps. Who is to say? There are more things in heaven and earth, Tuck, than are dreamt of in our philosophy. Things beyond the ken of the greatest thinkers of our time. What man truly knows himself and can plumb the depths of his own soul, much less those of other men?" >

"He intends for me to return this sword to him," said Smythe.

"Or else embarrass yourself in attempting to make one better."

"Oh, that will not be very difficult. It will take some time, a bit of sweat, and honest effort, but my uncle taught me well. I do not pretend to be a master swordsmith, but then, neither is Cleve Somersby. The quality of his blades varies greatly, and while this one is entirely adequate, it is still not among the best examples of his craft. I could have bettered this in my third year of apprenticeship."

"Oh, so Sir William really was cheated, then," said Shakespeare.

"If he paid the going price for a Toledo blade, then he was not merely cheated; he was fleeced."

"If that is so, then I do not envy the man who fleeced him. He will wind up in prison before the week is out. Or worse still."

"Or else there is no such man at all," said Smythe. He ladled some meat out of the common bowl and put it on his trencher, then tore off a piece of bread and popped a piece of stewed mutton in his mouth.

Shakespeare gulped his ale and set the tankard down, frowning. "What?" His eyes grew wide. "Oh, I see! You are suggesting that Sir William knew all along the truth about the blade, and he merely said that it was from Toledo just to see if you would know the difference?"

"I suspect so," Smythe replied, washing down the bread and meat with some ale. He felt ravenous and grateful for the free meal.

"Well, I can see the sense in that, I suppose," said Shakespeare, filling his own trencher. "But then, why would a man of his position wear a merely ordinary blade? I should think that he would wish to purchase nothing but the best."

"Indeed. One would certainly think so."

"So then… why not the best? Why not a genuine Toledo?"

"Well, in all the commotion just now," Smythe said, "you most likely did not notice Marlowe's weapon, did you?"

"Marlowe's weapon? Tuck, my friend, I was much too busy staying out of the way of those blades to pay much mind to their quality of manufacture."

"Well, in all likelihood, most people would probably have failed to notice, too," said Smythe, "unless, that is, they were apprenticed for seven years to a master smith and farrier, who taught them everything he knew about the art of weaponscraft. Marlowe's rapier, as it happens, was an exquisite example of the finest Spanish craftsmanship. Its cup hilt was worked with gold and its scabbard was bejeweled in a manner I would not think a poet could normally afford."

"You think they had exchanged blades?" Shakespeare said.

"But why? It could not have been to test your knowledge, for Marlowe must have already had that blade in his possession before we had arrived."

"True. Perhaps Sir William gave it to him, either as a gift or perhaps as payment for some service rendered."

"An extravagant gift, indeed. Especially since Sir William seems not to like Marlowe very much. Or at the very least, he disapproves of him."

"He did make that rather strange remark," said Smythe. "About making allowances for talent or some such thing, because otherwise the man would be insufferable. I am not sure what he meant."

Shakespeare smiled. "He was alluding to Marlowe's tastes."

"His tastes?"

"When Sir William said that Marlowe seemed to like you, he meant he…
liked
you."

"What do you mean he… oh! Oh, God's wounds!"

Shakespeare chuckled. "That is why Sir William was so amused by your response. Amiable, indeed. But never fear, Tuck. I shall protect you from predatory poets. If you, in turn, protect me from murderous drunkards with rapiers."

"Done," said Smythe. "Now let's see about finding a place to sleep tonight, and then we shall seek out the Queen's Men."

Chapter 5

THE BRIEF LETTER HAD ARRIVED by messenger. Had it not been sealed and delivered directly into her hand, Elizabeth was certain that her mother would have opened it and nosed through its contents first before she gave it to her. However, the messenger had insisted on delivering it to her in person, firmly stating that those had been his master's specific instructions, and that he was to wait for a reply. So now Elizabeth's mother hovered around her like an anxious hen, fluttering her hands and making clucking noises.

"Well? What is it? Who is from, Bess? What does it say?"

"Why, it is from Mr. Anthony Gresham," Elizabeth said with surprise, feeling a tightness in her stomach as she broke the seal and read the note. "He requests the honor and pleasure of my company in order to discuss a matter of mutual import."

"Oh, how splendid!" Edwina Darcie clapped her hands together like a small girl delighted with an unexpected present. Elizabeth rolled her eyes. It seemed as if her mother was liable to start jumping up and down with glee at any moment. "But this is wonderful news! A matter of mutual import! He means to discuss the wedding plans, no doubt. Upon what date does he invite you?"

"Tonight," Elizabeth said. "This evening."

"Tonight?
Tonight
! Why… why this is most irregular! Tonight! Such short notice! Barely even enough time to get dressed! Whatever could he have been thinking? Goodness, I… I haven't even the proper time to decide what I should wear!"

"I believe the invitation is for me alone, Mother," said Elizabeth.

"What? Oh, nonsense, don't be absurd. Why on earth would you think such a thing?"

"Because that is what the invitation says, Mother," Elizabeth replied. "It says, a matter of import that he must discuss with me
alone.''

"Let me see that!" Her mother snatched the letter from her hand. Her eyes grew wide with affronted dignity as she read it to herself. "Well! I have never heard of such a thing! To invite a young girl out without a proper chaperone… It is most irregular! Most irregular, indeed! We shall have none of this!"

"In truth, I am no longer a young girl, Mother," Elizabeth protested, politely. "I am a grown woman. And I do believe I should accept. Besides, it is not as if he had simply glimpsed me on the street and asked about in order to discover where I lived. There is, after all, an understanding, is there not? These are goods which have already been bartered."

"Honestly, Elizabeth!"

"Honestly, indeed, Mother," Elizabeth replied, matter of factly. "It is nothing but the truth, so why seem so affronted by it? I am merely being traded away to enhance Father's social position."

"Now what sort of talk is that? I simply cannot comprehend what makes you say such things! Perhaps your father was right that your tutor filled your head with all manner of nonsense. Lord knows, I certainly never raised you that way! Bartered goods, indeed! You speak as if we have never had your best interests in mind at all."

"Did you?" Elizabeth asked, softly.

Her mother's mouth simply opened and closed repeatedly, like that of a fish out of water, as she struggled for an answer and couldn't seem to find one that was appropriate to the occasion. So Edwina Darcie did what she always did whenever her wits were not up to the task of formulating a suitable riposte. She raised her chin and sniffed contemptuously, then turned demonstratively and left the room in a flurry of skirts and umbrage.

Elizabeth sighed, then turned to the messenger, who still waited patiently for her response. "You may tell your master that I should be glad to accept his kind invitation."

"Thank you, milady," said the messenger, bowing slightly. "In that event, I am instructed to inform you that my master shall be sending his coach for you."

"You may thank him for me and tell him I am most grateful for his consideration," said Elizabeth, with a smile.

Mr. Anthony Gresham, it seemed, was nobody's fool. The betrothal may have already been arranged and, in the minds of both their parents, the marriage could well be
a fait accompli,
but he clearly wanted to see his intended for himself before he set off for the church. What other reason could there be for such an invitation? It was very nearly an imperious summons. It had been well and politely phrased, to be sure, but on such short notice, it was presumptuous and there was an air of arrogant expectation that it would be obeyed, right down to ordering the servant to deliver it directly into her hand and then await her response, which presumed that she would not even take any time to think it over. Her mother could not see the arrogance of it, because the subtleties escaped her. Her father certainly would, but then he would probably expect it from somebody like Gresham and excuse it, for wanting to attain a position where he could be as arrogant himself. Elizabeth sighed.

Well, she thought, with any luck, in their eagerness to see the matter settled, neither of them would think too much about what motives Mr. Gresham had behind this invitation. There was even a good chance that his coach would arrive to pick her up before her father came home for the evening. He often worked late. In that event, he wouldn't even have a chance to think about it and come up with some reason to postpone the meeting at the last moment, until such time as he would be in a position to exercise some more control over how and when it was conducted. For if he
did
have a chance to think about it, then he might realize that Fate had just handed his daughter the perfect opportunity to thwart his plans for her.

So, she thought, the high and mighty Mr. Anthony Gresham wanted to see the goods displayed before he bought them, did he? Elizabeth smiled, smugly. Well then, see them he would. And she would display herself in such a fashion as to make him blanch. It would be an evening that he would not soon forget. And then, she thought, chuckling to herself, we shall see if there shall be a wedding.

She hurried to get ready.

"When we came to seek employment with the Queen's Men, this was not the sort of position that I had in mind," said Shakespeare, wryly, as he held the horse while the gentleman dismounted.

Smythe came up beside him, leading a saddled bay by its reins. "Well, one has to start somewhere, I suppose. But I must admit that this was not quite my idea of working in the Theatre, either."

"Ostlers,"
said Shakespeare, with a grimace, as they led the patrons' horses to the stable. "We came to London to be players, and instead, we are mere ostlers. Stable boys! Odd's blood, I could have stayed in Stratford and done far better than this!"

"But you would not be in the Theatre," Smythe said, as they led the horses toward the stalls.

"And I would not have shit upon my boots, either."

"I thought you had previously arranged a position with the company when they had come through your Stratford whilst on tour," said Smythe.

Shakespeare grunted. "Well, I thought so, too. It seems, however, I was misled as to precisely what sort of position it was. 'Tis my own damned fault for listening to that pompous blowhard, Kemp."

"He was the one you made arrangements with? I thought you said he was an ass?"

"And I stand heartily by my first assessment, as you can see it proven out. But at the time, I thought he was in earnest. 'Oh, aye,' he says, 'you would be welcome to come with us when we leave Stratford to go out upon the road again. Or else, come and join us when you get to London! Always a place for likely lads in the Queen's Men! Always room for talent!' Talent, my damned buttocks!"