A Mystery of Errors (Shakespeare & Smythe 1)

“So I did. And what about last night?” “Last night, sir?”

“Aye, last night. When you saw her.” “Sir?”

“Did you not see Miss Darcie last night?” “Last night, sir?”

“Aye, are you deaf? Did you see her last night?” Drummond, looking confused, shook his head emphatically. “Sir, I… No, sir. I never saw her before in my life, sir.” “You liar!” Elizabeth cried out.

“ Elizabeth!” her mother exclaimed with shock. “Mr. Gresham, I am quite simply at a loss to explain my daughter’s behavior! Honestly, I do not know what has gotten into her!”

“Mother, they are both lying!” said Elizabeth.

“ Elizabeth, go to your room, this instant!”

“But, Mother…”

“I said go to your room! Immediately! We shall discuss this when your father returns home. Please forgive me, Mr. Gresham…”

Elizabeth ran out of the room in tears. She was furious with her mother, furious with Gresham and his servant, and furious with herself for crying. Drummond had lied, of course, because Gresham had told him to. That was the obvious explanation. The man was a servant; he simply did as he was told. She told herself that she should not really be angry with him. But Gresham…

She had never hated anyone so much in her entire life. The man was an utter villain! What possible reason could he have for making her out to be conniving and deceitful? Worse than that, a fool. He had seemed so earnest and sincere when he had said he loved somebody else. Was it all a lie? apparently, it was. But why? She could make no sense of it.

Nobody would believe her. If her own mother did not credit her story, her father certainly would not. Especially after she had told him that Gresham said she was unsuitable. Too small bosomed and horse-faced. She never should have added that last part. But then, the whole thing had been his idea in the first place. Now, her father would know that she had made that up, and would, of course, believe that she had made all the rest of it up, as well.

Perhaps that was precisely what Gresham had intended, she thought, as she lay in bed and fought back tears of rage and helplessness. If he had wanted to create a rift between herself and her parents, he could not have succeeded more admirably. They already believed their daughter was too willful and too stubborn, now they would believe she was a liar, too. A spiteful, deceitful, and conniving shrew, she thought. That was what he had made her out to be. And now it would appear as if he were being magnanimous in taking her off her parents’ hands. That might well allow him to turn the terms of the marriage more to his advantage, she thought. Much like a clever bargain hunter in the market, negotiating a cheaper price for a bolt of cloth because he had found a blemish in it. She gritted her teeth. What an utterly loathsome scoundrel he was!

And this, unless she could think of something absolutely brilliant to prevent it, would be the man to whom she would be married! It was unthinkable. It was simply monstrous. There had to be some way to escape this, to expose him…

Surely, someone must have seen her at the Theatre. She had been there with her father dozens of times; he was one of the principal investors, people knew him there, and they knew her… but no. She could not recall running into anyone she knew when she arrived. Most of the audience had already been seated in the galleries, and she would not know anyone among the groundlings, obviously, so nobody had seen her when Drummond had conducted her to Gresham ’s private box. And the box had been screened off, of course, so that no one could have seen her in there unless, perhaps, one of the actors on the stage had recognized her, though she did not really know any of them, had never spoken to them, so there was really no one who… The ostler!

She sat bolt upright in bed. That handsome young ostler had seen her! They had exchanged words! More than words, they’d flirted. Surely, he would remember her! But who was he? What was his name?

Wait, he had told her. What was it? She racked her brain. Something rather common, and yet uncommon. It tripped rather fetchingly off the tongue, as she recalled. But what was it? Smythe! That was it! Something Smythe… Something Smythe… Symington! Symington Smythe!

She had a witness. A witness who could corroborate that she’d been at the Theatre that night. And that she had met Drummond! She had to find him. And as soon as possible. He was her only chance to prove that she had told the truth. She got up and quickly started to change her clothes.

8

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GREEN OAKS, THE SPRAWLING ESTATE of Sir William Worley, was one of the most palatial homes that Smythe had ever seen. He had heard that the queen herself often visited Green Oaks, usually in late June or early July, when she would habitually leave London in procession with her entire court and make her summer excursions through the countryside, staying at various private residences. Green Oaks was where she usually began. Ostensibly, these excursions were a way for the queen to go out among her subjects every year and see some of the land she ruled. Co-incidentally, they also got her out of London during the height of the plague season and allowed her to vacation in the country at the expense of her hosts. And these royal visits could apparently be quite expensive, as they required that the queen be entertained and could last anywhere from a month up to six weeks, or whenever the queen grew bored and decided to move on. It was not unusual for one of Her Majesty’s hosts to shell out from two to three thousand pounds to pay for such a visit, but most considered the princely, indeed, the queenly sum well spent in exchange for the favor and influence they believed it could procure.

Obviously, if Sir William could afford to entertain the queen in such a fashion on an annual basis, he had to be fabulously wealthy, and his estate gave ample testimony to the size of his fortune. Located well outside the London city limits, on several hundred lushly wooded and meadowed acres, the house was a huge, rough-hewn, gray stone edifice laid out in the shape of the letter “H,” with a windowed hallway as the cross-stroke separating two large interior courtyard gardens.

Smythe had ridden one of the stable post horses out to the estate and as he trotted up the road leading to the house, he wondered what would come of this visit. He had not yet made up his mind about Sir William, but more to the point, he wondered if Sir William had made up his mind about him. He knew that he could very easily disappear during this visit, never to be seen again, and no one would ever think that Sir William could possibly have had anything to do with it. Only Shakespeare would know, or at least suspect what might have happened, and who would listen to a penniless young poet? Especially when it was his word against that of one of the richest men in the land.

As Smythe turned his mount over to one of the servants who came out to meet him, he gazed up at the imposing residence and took a deep breath, marshaling his courage. Just the idea of a visit to such an opulent place would ordinarily have been enough to make him feel intimidated, much less visiting it under such peculiar and possibly even dangerous circumstances. The man who lived here was not only one of the richest and most influential men in the country, he was also a brigand who robbed travelers on the roads leading to London, a flamboyant highwayman who called himself Black Billy. It seemed absolutely insane. And yet, Smythe knew it to be true. And Sir William knew he knew.

What Smythe couldn’t understand was why. The man seemingly had everything. Entering the house, he could see walls paneled in imported woods and hung with rich tapestries, ceilings patterned with delicate plaster ribs forming arabesques, geometrical forms and figures of birds and beasts, each room different from the other. There were ornate staircases, some straight, some spiraled, with solid oak block steps and massive handrailings and newel posts, all heavily and intricately carved by master artisans.

He was conducted to a great hall with a long gallery, just like in a castle throne room, from which people could look down on what was happening below or, alternatively, Smythe thought, from where archers could shoot down at anyone who was being a boorish guest.

He grimaced. The suits of armor standing at either side of the entrance to the chamber had given his mind an unpleasantly martial turn, as did the maces and the battleaxes and the morning stars hanging on the walls, alongside pikes and halberds and great swords and shields and bucklers. It looked like the armory at Tower of London, another place he was anxious to avoid.

I’ve made a mistake in coming here, he thought. There was nothing to be served in doing this. He did not belong here. Was assuaging his curiosity truly worth taking such a risk? He decided, despite his apprehensions, that it was. It could have been pure chance that he had happened on Black Billy on the road to London. Shakespeare had not run into him. The poet had not, in fact, run into any robbers at all on his way from Stratford, but perhaps that was because he had not been traveling alone. He had said that he had fallen in with a company of travelers for the sake of safety in numbers. It must have worked. Smythe had traveled alone and been accosted several times. So, perhaps it was mere chance. But then to run into him again in London, in that tavern-and in the company of Marlowe, when it just so happened that he, too, was in the company of a poet, albeit one who was not yet successful-it simply seemed as if there were some fateful influence at work here. And Sir William had invited him, after all. If he had wanted to dispose of him, he would certainly not have needed to invite him to his home. Assassins could be hired cheaply from among the men who loitered around Paul’s, cheap even for men with far fewer resources than Sir William could command.

“Young Master Smythe, was it?”

Smythe turned to see Sir William entering the hall. He was dressed very plainly in black doublet and hose, and a pair of silver buckled shoes. “Aye, sir,” Smythe replied. “Though I cannot truthfully call myself a master of any art or craft. Did I come at an inconvenient time, milord? I could easily come back another day, if you prefer.”