A Mystery of Errors (Shakespeare & Smythe 1)

Will Kemp sighed dramatically. “Send out for victuals,” he said. “We may be here all night.”

“All right, everyone, I think a break would be in order at this time,” said Shakespeare. “We shall resume from this point in a few moments. But let us take a little time to clear our heads.”

“With some of us, that will take less time than with others,” Kemp said, wryly. He turned and stalked offstage.

Smythe stared daggers at his back.

“Tuck,” said Shakespeare, coming up to the edge of the stage and gazing up at him. “What the devil is wrong with you? Are you unwell?”

“No, no, nothing of the sort,” said Smythe, sitting down on the edge of the stage. He sighed. “I just keep thinking about Elizabeth.”

“What you need to be thinking about is the play,” said Shakespeare, irritably. “The way you have been acting-or perhaps I should say not acting-you have already convinced Will Kemp that you have no ability as a player whatsoever. The rest of the company is disposed to be somewhat more lenient, since this is only your first time upon the stage, but if you keep this up, their patience will wear thin, as well.”

“I know, I know.”

“After all,” said Shakespeare, “ ‘tis just one line! How difficult can it be to remember just one entrance cue and just one line? You come in on your cue… you walk to center stage… you say your line… and then you leave the stage. I do not see how I could possibly have made it any simpler for you!”

“You are quite right, Will. ‘Tis really very simple. Just that I cannot seem to get it right. I do not know why. My head is all muddled.”

“See here, Elizabeth will be fine,” said Shakespeare, placatingly. “Her troubles, for the most part, are now over. All the portents were quite favorable. What you need to do now is get her out of your mind completely. Move on. She is much too far above your station. So stop mooning over the wench. ‘Twill only drive you to drink.”

“You speak from experience, do you?”

“Oh, sod off! Just learn your one damned line, come on at the right time, and say it right; ‘tis all I ask.”

“I know. And I am grateful, Will. I truly am. I greatly appreciate this chance.”

“Then stop cocking

it up, for God’s sake!”

“I shall, Will. That is, I shall get it right, I promise.”

“You had damn well better, or you will be back to holding horses at the gate.”

“Well, I shall have to do that anyway, both before and after I complete my scene.”

“Oh, your scene, is it? One line, and now ‘tis an entire scene. Tell you what, I shall settle for one line, and then we shall see about a scene, all right?”

“You needn’t be so peevish about it!”

“No, Kemp is peevish. I, on the other hand, am exasperated! I am trying my best to help you, Tuck. I am trying to help us. We have a chance here, both of us. We must not muck it up. All you need to do is walk onstage and say, ‘Milord, the post horses have arrived.’ And Kemp shall say his line and then you shall walk off with him. And that is really all you need to do! Is it not simple?”

Smythe exhaled heavily and nodded his head. “I know. ‘Tis very simple, truly. I do not know why I cannot get it right.”

“Because you have got your mind fixed upon that damned girl! Forget about her, will you please? She is not for you and never shall be. The odds are you shall not even be seeing her again.”

“I say, Smythe,” said Fleming, from the entrance to the tiring room, “is that not your lady from last night?”

They both looked in the direction he was indicating and, sure enough, there was Elizabeth Darcie, standing at the entrance to the playhouse, together with Dick Burbage and his father, James, along with another older gentleman and a younger, well-dressed man who looked vaguely familiar. Smythe frowned. And suddenly, it came to him.

“Good God! Gresham !”

“What, the man Elizabeth said was murdered?” Shakespeare said.

“Aye!”

“Are you quite certain?”