“Not even the queen?” Smythe had asked.
“Oh, especially not the queen. But in her case-and I suppose Walsingham’s, as well-that is understandable. They do not live by the same rules as all the rest of us. They cannot afford to. Those two are England, and they must think of England first and foremost, above all else. The true statesman cannot afford a conscience. And if the queen has one, she has hidden it well away and has shown it to no one. I neither think ill of her for that nor fault her in any way. She is, after all, Henry’s daughter, and she has seen firsthand what the caprices of statesmanship and the vicissitudes of politics can do. And Walsingham, her chief minister- some would say her headsman-is merely a creature spawned by such a world, a man who stands forthrightly at her side even as he moves among the shadows like a ghost. Every monarch needs a Walsingham, and every country could benefit from a monarch like our queen. But as for all the rest of them…”
His voice had trailed off in disgust and he simply shook his head. And so, as Smythe rode home at an easy pace, he thought he understood Sir William, perhaps better than any of his elegant friends at court could ever understand him. He knew now not only why Sir William pursued a secret life as a brigand called Black Billy, but why he was a patron to a man like Marlowe, an immoral young rooster of a poet who seemed to thrive on danger and sensual overindulgence. It explained why, instead of eagerly attending the masques and balls at court, which he felt forced to do upon occasion, he much preferred the raucous company of a rowdy Cheapside tavern. And why, instead of sitting stultified with boredom while some court musician played effetely on the virginals, he preferred a lusty, bawdy songfest at a roadside inn where no one knew his name. Sir William was a charming and rakish eccentric, to be sure, but more than that, he was a man out of his element and that often made him feel lonely.
The forge at the smithy on his estate was first rate, as could be expected, and more than large enough for any project. It did not receive much use and Sir William had said that he could help himself to it anytime he pleased.
“I shall hold you to that debt that you incurred. I want to see what you can do,” he had said. “And if your skill with forging steel is anywhere near that of your uncle, then you could have a brilliant future as a swordsmith and forget all about this acting nonsense.”
“But ‘tis what I yearn most of all to do, milord,” Smythe had replied.
“Well, then by all means, go and do it. Perhaps you will work it out of your system. But if you ask me, a life as a player is no fit occupation for man. Still, if acting is your dream, then you should certainly pursue it. Far be it from me to tell a man what he should or should not do, for as much as I have done that which I should, I have done even more that I should not, and have enjoyed the latter far more greatly than the former.”
“I thank you for your sentiment, milord, and for your hospitality. But I fear that I may no longer have a job when I return, for it is getting late and now I shall never make it back in time for the next performance.”
“Never fear,” Sir William said. “I am not without some influence, you know. I shall write out a message to James Burbage, the owner of the Theatre, that you were doing me a service at my bidding and should therefore be excused your absence. Your job shall be safe when you return.”
Smythe had thanked him and departed, feeling in a curious way that he had made a friend, and yet, he knew that true friends truly needed to be equal, and he could never be the equal of Sir William. And perhaps that was what he needed to remember most of all about his fascinating new acquaintance. He could be on equal terms with a brigand, but never with a knight.
As he entered London, his thoughts turned toward his roommate. He knew that Will had worked all night, trying to rewrite the play, and he hoped that he had been successful. But it had seemed to him a monumental task. Almost impossible. How could an entire play be thoroughly rewritten in one night? Burbage had been monstrously unfair in laying such a task on Shakespeare. But then again, Smythe remembered, Shakespeare had volunteered for it himself. It took nerve, but he had been desperate to show what he could do and he had struck when he saw his opportunity. The question was, had he struck too soon?
Another chance might have arisen later, but now, if he failed at this task, a second chance might never come. It was a risky wager and Shakespeare was betting all upon himself. It took considerable faith in one’s own abilities to gamble in this way, but Will had dutifully and purposefully applied himself to the rather daunting task.
Though the poet had tried hard not to disturb him, before he went to sleep, Smythe had heard him mumbling and muttering to himself as he sat hunched over at the table, holding his quill in a gloved hand. On occasion, Will had moaned over some clumsily rendered line, and once, he had straightened on his bench, arching his neck back and gazing at the ceiling, groaning from either muscles sorely tested or sorely tested wits. And he was still hunched over the table and working feverishly when Smythe had left for Green Oaks early in the morning, saying nothing so as not to disturb his concentration.
By now, he thought, all would have been decided, one way or another. It was late in the afternoon and drawing into evening. The performance had long since started and by the time Smythe reached their lodgings, it would have been nearly finished. Had Will managed to deliver the doctored play in time? And had there been time enough for the actors to prepare it, incorporating whatever changes he had made? Or else had Shakespeare failed in his task or, worse yet, finished only to learn that the result had been found wanting? Smythe knew that he would not have very long to wait before he would find out. The company would repair to the tavern downstairs immediately after the performance and he would meet them there.
In the meantime, he would shake the dust out of his clothes, and use the washbasin, and perhaps lie down for a short while to mull over the remarkable events of the day. But when he opened the door to their room, there was yet another remarkable event confronting him. The bed was occupied by a young woman.
Awakened by the creaking door and the weight of his tread upon the squeaky floorboards, she gasped and sat bolt upright in the bed, alarm clearly written on her features. But when she saw him, she seemed at once relieved.
“Oh! ‘Tis you, at last!”
For a moment, Smythe thought he had intruded upon a serving wench from the tavern who had been bedded by his roommate in celebration of the completion of his task, but then he saw that she was fully dressed and suddenly realized why she looked familiar. She was not one of the serving wenches from the tavern, but the young woman who had arrived at the Theatre in that coach… Anthony Gresham’s coach. He had made a point of remembering the name. She was not wearing the same elegant dress she had worn then, and had garbed herself most plainly, but he recognized her nonetheless. And she, apparently, remembered him. Indeed, it sounded as if she had come specifically to see him, which seemed even more remarkable.
“Milady?” Smythe said, taken aback. “Forgive me my impertinence, but am I to understand you have been waiting for me?”
“Oh, for hours!” she said, in exasperation, swinging her legs down to the floor. Smythe caught a tantalizing glimpse of bare calves and ankles nearly to the knee and discreetly looked away. “I had begun to think that you would never come!”
“But… how did you get in here?”