“Striking, I should say. S’trewth, she did not seem hard at all upon the eyes, but her face had rather too much… too much…” He searched for the right words as his hand floated up in front of him, as if grasping at something. “Too much forth-rightness, I should say, to call it pretty.”
“Ah,” said Shakespeare. “A face with strength of character.”
“Just so, precisely.”
“Tell me about her gaze.”
“Her gaze?”
“The eyes, when she looked upon you… Did they sparlde with a pleasant humor? Or did they seem cold and distant? Cruel? Mocking? Lustful, perhaps?”
“Lustful!” Smythe snorted. “Surely, you jest! The woman had a swordpoint at my throat!”
“Well, with some women, that sort of thing might induce an… excitation.”
“Odd’s blood! I shudder to think what sort of women you must have known!”
“I shudder to think what sort I married,” Shakespeare replied, dryly. “But that is quite another matter. What I meant was, did you have any feeling that having you so at a disadvantage gave her a sense of satisfaction or, perhaps, of pleasure?”
“She did seem to enjoy my discomfort, come to think on it,” Smythe said.
“What about after you turned the tables on her?” Shakespeare asked. “When you had your knife to her throat… what then? Was she afraid?”
“Not in the least,” Smythe said. “She was aware of the danger, I should say, and from what she asked me later, I do not think she was truly sure if I would have used my knife or not, but she seemed to take it all in stride. I found that quite extraordinary.”
“Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “The portrait you have painted has a most unusual aspect. And not at all unpleasing, at that. It brings to mind our mutual friend, Black Billy, does it not?”
“Sir William’s other self?” said Smythe. “Aye, there does seem to be a sort of family resemblance.”
Shakespeare’s eyebrows raised. “You don’t suppose…?”
“Certainly not!” Smythe said. “What an astonishing idea!”
“Any more astonishing than a knight of the realm galloping about the countryside as a common highwayman?” countered Shakespeare.
“Aye, perhaps not, when you put it that way,” Smythe replied. “Still, they are much more different than the same. Moll’s speech has a Highland ring to it, w
hich tells me for a certainty that she did not grow up in England, as did Sir William. And their faces are both shaped rather differently. Sir William’s has a sharp and hawkish cast, whilst Moll’s is rounder, with somewhat gentler features.”
“But you said that you could not see her all that clearly.”
“I saw her clear enough to know her face again. I could not tell you for certain what the precise hue of her hair was, whether ‘twas black or chestnut rather than auburn, or if she was more pale than ruddy, but I believe that I would know her features.”
“Then you must be sure to point her out to me if we should chance to pass her in the street,” said Shakespeare. “I wonder what she was doing with our Molly.”
“I was wondering the same,” said Smythe. “Moll and Molly. Two women with the same name, or near enough, and yet they could not be more different. Of course, ‘twas not her real name, Moll Cutpurse, but her canting name, as she admitted to me. I wonder who she really is. Truly, ‘tis a different world these people live in, what with their own made-up names and manners of speech, even their own society, with its own rules.”
“One might say the same of the queen’s own court,” said Shakespeare. “Save that with the thieves guild, we have less pomp and more circumstance. Did you think to ask our Molly what she was doing abroad with such a wolf’s head?”
“How could I? Then she would know that I had followed her.”
“And are you ashamed of that? Were your motives less than honorable in that regard?”
“Surely, Will, you know me better! Besides, you know that my affections are already spoken for.”
“Aye, indeed, I do know that, my friend. But when it comes to women, men oft’ do such addle-pated things as to defy and mystify all those who know and love them. Although, once all is said and done, Molly is a much more suitable object for the affections of a player than your Elizabeth, who stands well beyond your humble reach, as I have told you more than once.”
“Indeed, you have,” said Smythe, “but I assure you nonetheless that any affection that I have for Molly are the affections of a friend and not a lover.”