“She has everything to do with it! That girl is out of her bloody mind. Sir Anthony is a perfectly decent man who deserves a lot better than her, if you ask me. Now forget this nonsense and get back there and change. The first act is ending any moment… no, ‘tis done, they are coming in.”
“Will-”
“I have no time now! We can discuss this later! Right, come on, now, everyone! Costumes and places for the second act! Check the pegboard for your props and cues!”
As the refreshment vendors plied their wares out in the courtyard among the crowd, the other players all came rushing back offstage, heading for the tiring room. The second act followed hard upon the heels of the first, with no break in between. Will Kemp, as one of the leading players, had to go back out on stage almost immediately, along with young Michael Jones, who was playing the lead female role. Kemp’s gaze fell on Smythe and his lip curled down in a sneer.
“Oh, so you finally decided to grace us with your presence, did you, young prodigal?”
Smythe ignored him. “Dick!” he said to Burbage, as he hurried by. “They are going to try to murder Will!”
“What, me?” said Kemp, astonished.
“No! Shakespeare!”
“What?” Shakespeare said, turning around.
“They are going to try to kill you, you fool!”
“What is all this about killing?” Burbage demanded, insistantly.
“I am going to kill someone if you do not all keep quiet!” Kemp said. “I am listening to Fleming for my cue!”
“And you just missed it!” Shakespeare said. “Kemp, Jones, you’re on!”
“Oh, bollocks!” Kemp said, as he and Jones rushed out on stage.
“Tuck, what is this talk of killing?” Burbage repeated.
“Oh, Sir Anthony Gresham wants me dead, it seems,” said Shakespeare, wryly. “You know… Elizabeth.” He made a circling motion with his forefinger by his temple.
“Oh, God’s wounds!” said Burbage, looking heavenward. “Smythe, did I not tell you to keep away from her?”
“Is Smythe going to give his line or do you still want me to do it?” Miles asked, glancing from Smythe to Shakespeare.
“Smythe can do it, now that he’s here,” Shakespeare said.
“Smythe never came on time,” said Burbage, curtly, overriding him. “You do it, Miles.”
“Well, I really do not mind stepping aside,” said Miles, trying to be considerate of his fellow player.
“He was late,” said Burbage, “and he is not even in proper costume. You do it.”
“Somebody damn well do it!” Shakespeare said, in exasperation. “There is the cue!”
“I said” Kemp raised his voice from centerstage, repeating the cue, “I would give a king’s ransom for a horse!”
Smythe and Miles both stepped out on the stage together. Realizing what they’d done, they glanced at one another, trying to decide which of them would say the line. There was an awkward moment of silence, and then suddenly, from out in the audience, somebody neighed loudly.
For a moment, the audience was stunned. Startled, Smythe and Miles both looked toward the sound and, in the same moment, Will Kemp, staying totally in character, turned to face the audience, flung out an arm expansively and pointed in the direction of the offending heckler, crying out, “Never mind the horse! Saddle yon’ braying ass!”
As the audience exploded into laughter and spontaneous applause, Smythe saw who had made the sound. Incredibly, it had been Sir William, standing in the uppermost gallery! He was gesticulating wildly. Smythe turned and looked in the direction he was pointing and there, in the middle gallery clear on the other side, stood the black-cloaked stranger!
“Ostlers’.” Smythe shouted, stepping to the front of the stage and pointing up. “Get that man!”
Abruptly realizing that Smythe was pointing straight up at him, the black-cloaked stranger bolted toward the stairs. The ostlers in the yard below moved to intercept him. Sir William ran toward the stairs on the other side. The audience, thinking it was all part of the play, laughed uproariously and applauded.
“Milord,” said Miles, picking up the cue belatedly, “the post horses have arrived!”