A Mystery Of Errors Read online

  “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.

  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.

  As they ambled down the road, with the early morning mist undulating lazy tendrils at their feet, they compared their knowledge about the different companies of players and which might be the best one for them to join. They were both in agreement about the Queen’s Players, also known as the Queen’s Men. They had each seen that company perform, and Shakespeare had some contact with the players when they had visited Stratford-upon-Avon while on tour, as they did every season.

  “The Queen’s Men are, without a doubt, a most estimable company of players,” the poet said, apparently none the worse for wear from the previous night’s tippling. “And as they were assembled on the orders of Her Majesty, membership in their company would, of course, provide the opportunity to display one’s talents in performances at court, and there can be no more prestigious audience.”

  “I saw Dick Tarleton and Will Kemp perform with the Queen’s Players while they were on tour,” said Smythe. “ ‘Twas then that I decided to become a player myself. And I thought from the first that was the very company that I would wish to join.”

  Shakespeare smiled. “Well, I felt much the same when they played the Stratford Guildhall. In truth, I was of a mind to leave with them right then and there, and though they did not seem unwilling to take me on as a hired man till I could prove my worth to them, circumstances for my leaving were not favorable at the time. And perhaps ‘twas just as well. One should never make such decisions without proper planning and consideration. Choices made on impulse often have unfortunate results. As for Dick Tarleton, he is an amiable clown, if you like that sort of thing. He is famous for his drollery, but Kemp isn’t half the man that Tarleton is. He can never seem to remember his lines, probably because he does not bother overmuch to learn them in the first place. From what I’ve seen, he fills in what he forgets with extempore or some silly piece of clowning. Some of your more dull-witted groundlings may like that sort of thing, but it is not my meat. I have never cared much for pratfalls and silly prancing and whatall myself. I believe that audiences respond much better to a story, not clowning, jigs, pratfalls and posturing, and silly prancing. And while it is true that a play is a thing to which the entire company usually contributes, a poet labors much too hard over his words to have some clownish player disregard them altogether.”

  “You do not like Kemp?” asked Smythe, with some surprise, recalling that he had quite enjoyed Will Kemp’s performance, pratfalls and all. “Is it merely because he cannot measure up to Tarleton or is it something more personal?”

  “Oh, I have no personal quarrel with him, if that is what you mean, although I think he is an ass,” said Shakespeare. “Tarleton is no longer young, and his energies are clearly waning. You can see the difference from one performance to another. And as his successor, Kemp is clearly champing at the bit. He thinks rather well of himself, and is not hesitant to inform anyone within earshot just how well of himself he thinks. Yet if Tarleton should retire from the stage, I fear the Queen’s Men would lose much of their luster, despite their bombast to the contrary, much of which, I fear, has been inspired by Kemp himself.”

  “Bombast?” Smythe said. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, why, they are the best actors in the world, you know.” Shakespeare’s voice took on a mocking, portentous tone. “For tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited, these are the only men! Or at least,” he added, pulling out a piece of paper and unfolding it, “so they themselves inform us, by virtue of this bill they post.”

  He passed the playbill to Smythe. “Tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical…” read Smythe, aloud. He raised his eyebrows. “They seem to have counted all the points of the dramatic compass.”

  “Save for bawdry and pederasty, and those points they doubtless count offstage. However, Tuck, old bean, we shall forgive them their trespasses if they forgive ours and enlist us among them.”

  Smythe glanced at him and shook his head, not certain whether he was more astonished or amused. “That remark verges either on blasphemy or slander, I am not sure which.”

  “Blasphemous slander, then. Or slanderous blasphemy. Or slanderous-blasphemous-tragical-comical-what-have-you. Either way, those are more the province of Christopher Marlowe than myself. I prefer to remain somewhat less controversial and contentious. ‘Twill be easier to avoid prison that way. Damn me, I need a drink. Hold up a moment.” He stopped in the middle of the road, leaning on his staff, and pulled out a small wineskin from underneath his cloak. He squeezed a stream into his mouth and didn’t miss a drop.

  “I should have thought you would have had enough last night,” said Smythe, shaking his head at the thought of drinking wine so early in the day. The birds were barely even up.

  “There is no such thing as ‘enough,’ my friend. Life is thirst and hunger, and then you die. So drink your fill while you yet live.”

  “That reminds me somewhat of what my Uncle Tom said. ‘Life is short, so live it as you like it.’ ‘Twas his parting advice to me.”

  “Indeed,” said the poet, nodding. “Your uncle is a wise man. Live life… as you like it. I must remember that. ‘Tis pithy.”

  “Do you never feel the morning aftermath of drink, Will?”

  “What? No, never. Well… Hardly ever. Hair ‘o the dog, y’know. And experience. A veritable cornucopia of experience.” He squeezed another stream of wine into his mouth.

&n
bsp; “Veritas in vino?”

  “Oh, dear me. Not again. Was I spouting poor man’s Latin in my cups again last night?”

  “A bit. I caught a little of it, but then I am no scholar.”

  “Tell me, for my memory of recent events seems somewhat hazy for some peculiar reason… last night, was I angry drunk or maudlin drunk?”

  Smythe considered for a moment. “Somewhere in between, I’d say, with a little touch of each.”

  They started walking once again, keeping an easy pace. “Well, ‘tis all right, I suppose,” the poet said, with resignation. “I simply cannot stand it when I become unutterably maudlin. That is to say, I cannot stand hearing about it later. Howsoever, unlike my sweet Anne, at least you have the grace not to throw it up at me when I am sober.”

  “Belike you’re the one who does the throwing up,” said Smythe, grinning.

  “Odds’ blood, I did no such thing! A man who throws up his drink is naught but a profligate wastrel. If you are likely to throw it up, then at least have the good grace not to throw it down. Save it for a man who can hold onto it.”

  “Anne is your wife then?”

  “Were we speaking of my wife?”

  “You were, I think, just now.”

  “Ah. Careless of me. Remind me not to do it again.”

  “I shall make note of that. You do not love your wife?”

  “Well…” The poet grimaced, wryly. “I love her well enough to tup her, I suppose. A dangerous bit of business, that. She is as fertile as a bloody alluvial plain. She swells with child merely at a sidelong glance.”

  “It seems to me that you would have to do some swelling of your own to aid in that,” said Smythe, with a chuckle.

  “You swine! You dare banter with me?” Shakespeare smiled, rising to the bait. The poet in him, Smythe saw with amusement, could not resist the challenge. “Aye, young Tuck, you prick me to the quick! And I, alas, have pricked too quickly. But ‘tis hard to refrain from hardness at such a tempting pair of bosoms and such well rounded buttocks.” He grinned. “Damn me, but her arse is a wondrous piece of work. And thus have I worked my piece. Thrice have we increased the population of the realm and so I have fled Stratford before we further swelled the ranks of the Queen’s subjects and placed a further burden on the land’s resources.”

  Smythe was taken aback. “You have not abandoned her, surely? With children?”

  “Nay, I would not do so mean a thing.” The poet shook his head. “That is to say, I have left her back in Stratford with the children, aye, that is true, but I have not abandoned her. Even though the marriage was not of my own choosing, ‘twas surely of my own making. Had I but held my piece, so to speak, instead of being too quick to dip my quill in her all-too-willing and inviting inkwell, I would have written a different scene entirely and married better and more wisely. And for love, unfashionable as that may seem. But for want of better timing, ‘twas another Anne I would have married.”

  “You loved another, also by the name of Anne?”

  “Aye. For while a rose may be a rose, and while by another other name it may still smell as sweet, it is only once the bloom is off the rose, my friend, that you discover what is truly at the root. The Anne I loved was young and innocent; the Anne I got was older, more experienced and much craftier. And relentless, untamed shrew though she may be, she is nevertheless my shrew and the mother of my children, who could have done better, certainly, than to have a besotted, weak-willed poet for a father, though perhaps they could not have done much worse.”

  “So then you loved a younger woman whom you wanted to keep chaste for marriage, and thus your unquenched ardor made you succumb to an older woman who seduced you,” said Smythe. “And you got her with child, which forced the marriage, is that it?”

  “Aye, but somehow, it sounds much worse the way you put it,” said the poet, frowning.

  “Well, ‘twas the way you put it that got you into trouble in the first place,” Smythe replied, with a grin.

  Shakespeare grimaced. “If you were not so large, my friend, I would give you sound drubbing for that remark.” He chuckled. “But prudence and my desire for survival dictate that I hold my temper.”

  “Forgive me, I do not mean to make fun at your expense,” said Smythe, sympathetically.

  “Yes, you do, confound you, but you do it well, so I forgive you. In any event, to resume my narrative, I knew that I could not, on a mere glover’s takings, make any sort of decent life for us in Stratford. I recall only too well how my father worked his fingers to the bone, cutting tranks and sewing stitches, and doing what else he could withal, but there never was enough. That is to say, we neither starved, nor did we prosper. We survived, after a fashion. He rose as high as alderman for his ambition, did old John Shakespeare, and then he fell from grace when his debts exceeded his ability to pay. I had hoped for rather more than that. Times are hard and people have less money now. And making gloves did not, by any means, ignite my fire.”

  “So you decided to forego the glover’s trade and make your way to London to seek your fortune as a player?”

  “As a poet, actually. At any rate, that would be my preference. Mind you, I shall take work as a player, if I can get it, for one must eat, after all, and working as player will allow me also to write plays. And writing plays and selling them will bring more profit, if the audiences come and I make a reputation for myself and become a shareholder of the company. And then, if I am fortunate enough to find a noble patron, that too can bring increase.” “How so?”

  “How? Why, through poetry, of course. Poetry that extols the virtues of your noble patron, or a nobleman that you hope to have as patron. You make a dedication-it is considered proper to ask permission, of course, usually through some friendly intermediary- and then you find some scrivener to make fair copies for them for distribution to their friends, or else have it bound and printed, if ‘tis a longer work, although it seems that short Italian sonnets are all the rage among the fashionable nobility these days.”

  “And for this they give you money?”

  “Aye, if the work should please them. Which is to say, if it proves popular and reflects upon them favorably. Many of your honorable Masters of the Arts, such as Marlowe, whom I mentioned, receive small stipends for their laudatory scribblings about Lord This or Earl That or Duke The Other. It is a common enough practice.”

  “But… why?” asked Smythe, puzzled. “Why would anyone pay money merely for being complimented in verse form?”

  “They contend with poets nowadays as they once used to contend with arms in tournaments. Mine turns a sweeter rhyme than yours and what not. ‘Tis not, perhaps, such manly sport, but ‘tis considerably safer. Besides, what do you mean, ‘merely’ complimented in verse form, you great lout? Can you write a poem?”

  “No. Well, that is to say, I have never tried writing any verses.” He shrugged. “But then, it does not seem so very difficult.”

  “Oh, you think so, do you? Right, then. Give me a rhyme for ‘orange.’ “

  “Orange? Very well.” Smythe thought a moment. “Let me see… Orange… orange…”

  “Well? Come on.”

  “Hold on, I’m thinking.” Smythe frowned, concentrating. “Orange…”

  “Mmmmm?” The poet raised his eyebrows. “Well? I am still waiting.”

  “I… uh… that is… uh…” “Ummm?”

  “Hmpf! I cannot seem to think of one.”

  “Indeed? I thought you said it was not so very difficult?”

  “Bah! It is a trick. I’ll warrant there is no rhyme for orange.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Well, you come up with one, then!”

  “Door hinge.”

  “Door hinge?”

  “Orange, door hinge… it rhymes.”

  “And you call yourself a poet? What sort of rhyme is that?” “A perfectly serviceable one.”

  “Indeed? I would like to see what sort of poem you’d write with that!”
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br />   “Well, you merely asked me for a rhyme, not an entire poem.”

  “ ‘Twas you who asked me for the rhyme! Knowing all the while a better one could not be found. Is that what poets do, then, sit up all night drinking and thinking of such things?”

  Shakespeare nodded. “More or less, aye.”

  “And they pay you for this?”

  “Not nearly well enough, if you ask me.”

  The sound of rapid hoofbeats from behind them caused them both to turn in time to see a coach come barreling around the bend, bearing straight for them. The driver made absolutely no effort to rein in and there was no place for him to turn, not that he showed the slightest inclination for so doing. It was only by diving off to the side of the road, into the thorny brush, that they avoided being run down.

  “Aaaaaahhhh! You pox-ridden, misbegotten son of a sheep tup-perl” Shakespeare cried out.

  Smythe winced as he extricated himself from the thorn bushes and then helped the poet out.

  “God’s bollocks! I’ll be picking thorns out of my arse for the next two weeks!”

  “Oh, stop it, you will not,” said Smythe. “A few scratches, a thorny splinter here and there… you will survive.”

  “No thanks to that miserable cur! What in God’s name was he thinking, careering down the road at such a pace? The fool will shake that fancy coach of his to pieces!”

  “That was our friend from the inn last night, unless I miss my guess,” said Smythe. “The one who took the last few rooms.”

  “What, the grand, well-spoken gentleman with his retinue of servants?” Shakespeare asked.

  “The same, I think. He rose much later than we did, but makes much better time. He seems in quite a hurry.”

  “Well, I hope he puts that shiny new coach of his into a ditch and breaks his gentlemanly neck, the blackguard!”

  “If he keeps up like that, he might well do that,” said Smythe. “Although the road here is much wider and more level, he still goes at an unsafe pace.”