A Mystery of Errors (Shakespeare & Smythe 1)

“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.

By this time, Smythe was moving, but so was the young man. He danced lightly back out of the way to engage the others as the man in green screamed, dropped his sword, and sank to his knees, bringing his hands up to his ruined face. He was clearly out of the fight now, and the odds had been reduced by one.

With a quick glance toward Shakespeare, to make sure he was not immediately in harm’s way, Smythe targeted the man in the brown leather doublet, who was drawing steel as the man in brown and black recovered from the punch and also drew his blade. There was blood running from his nose and he had cold fury in his eyes. As he and the young man engaged, Smythe brought the end of his staff down hard upon his opponent’s wrist. With a cry of pain, the man in the leather doublet dropped his fancy-hilted blade and had little time for anything save a wide-eyed stare of alarm as Smythe brought the other end of his staff up and cracked it hard against his temple. He crumpled to the floor, senseless.

The fat one in the buff and blue was slow to react to the outbreak of hostilities, his wits doubtless dulled by drink, but by the time Smythe’s leather-clad opponent crumpled to the floor, he had realized there was a brawl in progress and rushed forward with a roar, ignoring the blade at his side, instinctively counting on his size to work for him as he launched himself at Smythe and wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, driving him backward. They crashed into the table where the young man’s elegant friend was sitting, but he simply got up in the nick of time and stepped casually back out of the way with his goblet as Smythe and the fat man fell to the floor, splintering the table beneath them.

Knowing that if the fat man fell on top of him, it would drive the wind right out of him, Smythe wrapped his own arms around his antagonist and twisted hard as they fell, with the result that the fat man took the brunt of their crash into the table and fell with the not inconsiderable bulk of Smythe on top of him. His thick layers of fat, however, absorbed much of the impact and kept him from getting the wind knocked out of him. He managed to dislodge Smythe, breaking his hold and tossing him aside, into another table. With an angry roar, he started to get back up, but never made it. Hoisting a bench high above his head with both hands, Shakespeare brought it down hard on top of the man’s head, splintering the wood, and quite possibly bone, as well. Leaning back against the bar, the elegant man in black raised his goblet in a toast, which Shakespeare acknowledged with a bow.

Smythe got up to see the young man hotly engaged with two opponents, the man in red and gold and the man in brown and black. And he was being driven back under their combined assault. However, before he could do anything, Smythe saw the situation resolved neatly by the young man’s black-garbed friend.

It happened very quickly. As the young man backed away, parrying furiously, his opponents passed the spot where the man in black was standing, leaning back against the bar. Moving in a casual, easy manner, the man in black unsheathed his dagger, flipped it so that he could grasp the blade with his gloved hand, then brought it down hard upon the skull of the man in red and gold. He crumpled to the floor as the man in black brought up his booted foot and kicked the other man right in the groin. The man in brown and black made a sound like a pig being stuck with a skewer, then collapsed as the elegant man in black brought the heavy pommel of his dagger down upon his head, knocking him unconscious.

The young man stepped back with an irritated look and shrugged, spreading his arms and sweeping his rapier out to the side in an elaborately expressive gesture. “I could have handled them, you know.”

The man in black glanced at him and grimaced. “The trouble with you, Kit, is that you are not nearly as good as you think you are.”

“I was doing bloody well all right till you stepped in!” the handsome young man protested.

“You had help,” the man in black said, indicating Smythe.

“ ‘Twas he who helped us,” said Smythe, “for which, sir,” he added, turning to the young man, “I am profoundly grateful. We have only just arrived in London, seeking employment, and our first day in town was very nearly our last.”

“Well, we cannot have louts and bumpkins abusing poets out in public, now can we? No, no, that would never do.” The handsome young man grinned, adding, “We artists have to stick together, you know.”

“Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “Though for my part, I would prefer to do so in a manner somewhat less bellicose.”

“Ah, but you must admit, it was a grand little set-to, was it not?” the young man said. “Just the sort of thing to get a man’s blood up!”

The man in black shook his head with resignation. “If you persist in this sort of foolishness, Marlowe, then I strongly suggest you take more fencing lessons, else I shall find some other young, deserving poet to favor with my patronage. These tavern brawls are going to be the death of you, and I would hate to see my money wasted. You still have many years of decent work in you, Kit. Assuming you survive, of course.”

The young man bowed with an exaggerated, courtly gesture. “I am properly chastised, milord. I shall make an appointment with your fencing master at the earliest opportunity.”

“And I shall have to pay for that, too, I suppose,” the man in black said, with a wry grimace.

“Kit Marlowe?” Shakespeare said. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Christopher Marlowe, the author of Tamburlane?“

The young man smiled, obviously pleased at the recognition.

“At your service, sir. And now I fear you have the advantage of me.”

“William Shakespeare is my name. And this is my friend, Tuck… that is, Mr. Symington Smythe. I know your work, Mr. Marlowe. I admire it very much. ‘Tis a great pleasure to meet you, indeed.”