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, p
erhaps.
“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!”