A Mystery of Errors (Shakespeare & Smythe 1)

“Wha’?”

“Get out of bed, you great, lumbering oaf!”

It began to penetrate through Smythe’s consciousness that he was being beaten with something. It took a moment or so longer for him to realize that it was Shakespeare’s shoe, which the poet was bringing down upon his head repeatedly.

“All right, all right, damn you! Stop it!”

He lashed out defensively and felt the satisfying impact of his fist against something soft. There was a sharp wheezing sound, like the whistling of a perforated bellows, followed by a thud.

“Will?”

There was no response. At least, there was no response from Shakespeare. From without, there was all sorts of cacophony. Smythe could hear frenzied hammering on the door, voices, both male and female now, raised in angry shouts, running footsteps, doors slamming open…

“Will?”

He sat up in bed and the room seemed to tilt strangely to one side. “Ohhhhh…” He shut his eyes and brought his hand up to the bridge of his nose. Somewhere right there, between his eyes, someone seemed to have hammered in a spike while he’d been sleeping.

“Tuck! Tuck! Oh, wake up, Tuck, please!“

He recognized the voice. It was Elizabeth Darcie. And she sounded absolutely terrified. He shook off the pain in his head, not entirely successfully, and lurched out of bed.

“I’m coming!” he called out.

“Ruaghhhh!” The growling sound from the floor on the opposite side of the bed scarcely seemed human.

“Be quiet, Will! And get up off the floor!”

“Oh, bollocks! I shall stay right here. ‘Tis safer.”

Smythe unbolted the door and opened it. Elizabeth came rushing into his arms. “Oh, Tuck! You must help me! ‘Twas terrible! Terrible!”

There was a crowd gathered just outside his door. Several members of the company were there, or what little was left of the original company since Alleyn had departed. Dick Burbage was not present, for he did not lodge at The Toad and Badger, but stayed at his father’s house. Will Kemp, however, was there in his nightshirt, as were Robert Speed and several of the hired men who had rooms at the inn.

“What the devil is going on?” asked Kemp, in an affronted tone. “What is all this tumult?”

Elizabeth was sobbing against Smythe’s chest and clutching at him desperately.

“What is this?” demanded the inn’s proprietor, the ursine Courtney Stackpole, elbowing his way through the onlookers. “What is the cause of all this noise?”

“I do not know… yet,” Smythe replied, holding Elizabeth protectively.

“He’s dead!“ Elizabeth sobbed. “Oh, Tuck! He’s dead! Murdered!”

“Who is dead?” asked Speed. “Who was murdered?”

“Murdered?” Kemp drew back. “Good Lord! Who? Where? Here?“

Everyone started talking at once.

“Silence!” Stackpole bellowed. “Go on and get back to your rooms, all of you! We shall determine what has happened here.” He turned to Smythe. “Who is this lady?”

“Her name is Elizabeth Darcie,” Smythe replied. “And I am going to take her inside where she may sit for a moment and compose herself.”

“We still have some wine, I think,” said Shakespeare, from behind him. “A drink might do her good.”

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“Darcie?” Speed said. “Not Henry Darcie’s daughter?” He took a closer look. “Good Lord, it is! God save us!”