“Then why are you afraid to tell her that you followed her tonight?”
“Why? Well, because… because she might not understand my motives.”
“Which were concern for her safety and well-being, purely as a friend, of course.”
“Just so, precisely.”
“Just so, my rump and bollocks,” Shakespeare said. “You followed her for no other reason than that you were curious to see who it was that she was meeting and what would transpire between them.”
“Not so,” Smythe replied. “I went out to take a walk, so as not to disturb you at your work, and when I saw Molly come out all alone, why, I was going to offer to escort her home, as the streets are not safe at night-”
“And on how many previous nights had you offered to escort her home, out of concern for her safety and well-being, as you put it?” Shakespeare asked. “Or was tonight merely the first time that the notion of her safety and well-being alit upon your chivalrous young brain? How long has she been working at the Toad and Badger, hmm? She has been in service here ever since we came to London, and yet you never once before evinced an interest in her safety!”
“Well… I… I suppose it simply never before occurred to me…”
“Nay, it did not, Tuck, which is just my point. You followed the girl out of simple curiosity and nothing more. You followed her because you, my friend, are as curious as a marten sniffing round a henhouse. Tis a thing we have in common, so do not attempt to tell me that your motives were any loftier than that. And ‘tis why you are afraid to tell Molly that you followed her, because that is the truth of it, and if you tell her any different, then she will think there is a stronger reason for your interest and you know it!”
Smythe simply lay there for a moment, without speaking. Then he sighed. “Very well, then. I suppose ‘tis true. I followed her more for the sake of curiosity than for any other reason. And if I told her that, then she might be offended, or else she might misconstrue my motives. Either way, you see my dilemma. I cannot tell her that I followed her, and so I cannot ask what she was doing with a brigand like Moll Cutpurse. So… where does that leave us?”
“Us? How did I become involved in this?”
“Because you are now as curious as I. Admit it.”
“Oh, I suppose I am,” Shakespeare conceded, grudgingly. “But I do not intend to lose my sleep over this conundrum. I suspect it shall resolve itself upon the morrow.”
“How so?”
“Because even if you do not tell Molly that you followed her, there is a very good chance that your new friend, Moll Cutpurse, will,” said Shakespeare. “And I must admit that I am curious to know how she shall respond to that. You will be sure to tell me, won’t you?” He smiled and blew out the candle. “Good night.”
4
AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT MORNING, Molly said nothing as she served them their ordinaries, but Smythe did not find that surprising. In all likelihood, Moll Cutpurse would not have had a chance to speak with her, and so Molly would have no way of knowing yet about the events of the previous night. For that matter, Smythe had no way of knowing when or even if she might be seeing the notorious female thief again. He debated following Molly once again when she went home at the end of the day, but then decided that doing so could only bring him trouble. He did not wish to risk another encounter with Moll Cutpurse and her henchmen on a dark and foggy street at night. The next time might not go so well. And even if he avoided any such encounter, if Molly became angry upon learning that he had followed her last night, as she very well might, then doing so a second time would make matters even worse. Nevertheless, he was still nagged by curiosity. What connection could Molly the tavern wench have with Moll the thief?
After breakfast, he went back up to his room and took from his chest one of Greene’s cony-catching pamphlets that he had purchased at the bookstalls in St. Paul ’s. It had an illustration depicting Moll Cutpurse dressed in men’s clothing and wearing a sword. The drawing was rather crude and did not even remotely do her justice. One would certainly never recognize the real woman from the rudimentary illustration. In all likelihood, the illustrator had never even seen his subject. But then, that was not the point. The point was to convey the idea of a woman living in a man’s world, dressing as a man and acting in a manner contrary to all the natural inclinations of her sex. And certainly, Moll Cutpurse would never have sat for any sort of much more lifelike portrait, such as those of the queen or other well-known aristocrats that were commonly sold at the bookstalls. Having her likeness so widely distributed and well known would doubtless have been a detriment to one in her profession!
According to what Greene wrote, Moll Cutpurse was not only a thief, but a dealer in stolen goods, or a “brogger” in the canting tongue of London ’s underworld. She was also supposed to be a leading figure in the Thieves Guild, which struck Smythe as one of the true ironies of London society, for while thievery itself was unlawful, there was no actual law against thieves having a guild, and so such a guild did, indeed, exist and apparently met at regular intervals in one or another of the city’s taverns. If Moll Cutpurse was one of the leaders of this guild, as Robert Greene claimed, then it should be no surprise that she could quickly summon up a band of surly henchmen to do her bidding. But whatever could Molly O’Flannery be doing associating with such a person?
Smythe tucked the pamphlet away inside his doublet, took his cloak, and went outside. Shakespeare had already left, without saying where he was going, but they knew they would be meeting later on that afternoon to rehearse with the rest of the Queen’s Men at the Theatre. The playhouses might still be closed, but with the news that they might be reopening soon, it was best to be prepared to greet their returning audiences with a well-staged and polished production. Always assuming, of course, that there would be returning audiences, Smythe thought, rather glumly.
There was, unfortunately, no denying that the future of the Queen’s Men seemed anything but bright. Even before they had their recent unsuccessful tour, they had suffered two devastating setbacks. Dick Tarleton, their popular clown, had succumbed and passed away after a long illness and the thundering Ned Alleyn, star of their company and the undisputed leading actor on the English stage, had defected to the Lord Admiral’s Men. Alleyn had left in part because the Rose was a much better playhouse than the Burbage Theatre and in part because its owner, Philip Henslowe, had a pretty, buxom daughter and no sons to inherit his fortune.
It was, on a smaller and much lower scale, not unlike an alliance of nations, Smythe reflected wryly. Henslowe offered up his young daughter in marriage, in return for which he got England ’s finest and most popular actor to play upon his stage and draw larger audiences to his theatre. Alleyn got a better playhouse in which to showcase his talents, a brilliant young poet to write new plays for him, a pretty young wife, and upon his father-in-law’s death, he stood to inherit a small fortune in business interests, including the Rose Theatre and a chain of brothels.
For Alleyn, it had been a smart decision and an excellent investment in his future. Sadly, the result of this strategic theatrical alliance did not bode well for the Queen’s Men. With the combination of a better playhouse, the country’s finest actor, and brilliantly innovative new plays produced by their flamboyant young resident poet, Christopher Marlowe, the Lord Admiral’s Men had quickly started to draw audiences away from the Burbage Theatre. The new life that Shakespeare had breathed into their old repertoire had given them something of a respite, but some of the more seasoned players in their company now believed that it was merely postponing the inevitable. At one time the leading players in the land, the Queen’s Men had been reduced to second-raters and, given the sorry state of their finances and the closure of the playhouses, there was serious doubt as to whether or not they could survive.
Smy
the did not know what the answer was. Some of the hired men had already given up and found other employment, which was in itself no easy task these days. The city was teeming with people from the country, desperate for work of any kind, and with the shortage of jobs and housing, crime was on the increase. Ministers were preaching sermons from their pulpits in which they not only spoke out against the evils of crime, but also sought to advise the members of their congregations how to avoid being victimized. And if Robert Greene was no longer able to write plays successfully, or even sell his poetry, he was finding a new and thriving market for his cautionary pamphleteering. Even Shakespeare, whose passion for writing plays burned more brightly than the candle flames with which he illuminated his dogged efforts late into the night, was making his money elsewhere, selling laudatory poems to foppish noblemen. He was not too proud. He had a family in Stratford to support, not to mention helping out his fellow players.
For his own part, Smythe knew that his connection to the theatrical world was rather tenuous, at best. He had no illusions about what he could offer to the Queen’s Men. Much as he was loath to admit it, he had no talent as an actor. It was a constant struggle to remember the few lines he was given, and though he felt that he was making some slight improvements in that regard, those few lines were doled out grudgingly and more and more sparingly as time went on. More often than not, he was nothing more than a mere spear carrier. His value to the company was primarily for the strength of his limbs and his skills as a blacksmith and farrier. He was constantly repairing things, or else lifting heavy objects, or ejecting troublemakers and seeing to the horses and making sure the ostlers did their jobs properly during the performances. He had been promoted, in a sense, from a mere ostler to a sort of general, all-around hired man, a sort of apprentice stage manager, but his acting responsibilities were still slight compared to all the others. To some extent, he provided a visual appeal that Shakespeare had termed “stage-dressing.” Will had told him, trying to be reassuring and supportive, that it was always good to have some good-looking bodies on the stage and, regretably, there were few good-looking bodies left among the Queen’s Men. Somehow, Smythe had not felt very reassured to know that he was valued more for his brawn than for his brains.
On the other hand, Liam Bailey believed he had a future as a craftsman. While not quite openly contemptuous of his job with the Queen’s Men, Liam merely shook his head anytime Smythe mentioned it. The burly old smith was not unsympathetic. He understood, at least, what it meant to have a dream. In that, he reminded Smythe of his beloved Uncle Thomas.
The two men had much in common, Smythe thought, as he made his way to Liam Bailey’s smithy. They were both simple and plainspoken men, honest and direct, who enjoyed their work and believed in doing it well and charging for it fairly. But where Thomas Smythe supported his nephew and urged him to follow his dream if that was what he truly wanted, Liam Bailey had no such avuncular disposition and believed in simply saying what he thought. And what he thought was that Smythe was wasting his time working as a player when he could make an honest, useful living as a smith.
Liam Bailey was already busy working at his forge when Smythe arrived. Though it was a cool morning, he was shirtless, wearing only breeches and his well-worn brown leather apron, which was covered with dark singe marks. His torso glistened with a sheen of honest sweat. The curly hairs on his chest and arms were gray and white, giving him something of a bearish aspect, and his grizzled hair was cropped close to his skull, as usual. Few men wore their hair so short, unless they were completely bald, in which case they usually wore wigs, but Liam found long hair both a hazard and a distraction in his work and so he kept it shorn. For an old man, he was in remarkable condition, with a strong, thick chest and big, heavily muscled arms that easily swung sledgehammers that a lot of men would have difficulty even lifting.
He had never even once been to a complete performance at a playhouse, which was a point of pride with him. He understood what plays were all about, of course, and had a general idea of what it was like to see one in a playhouse, for on several occasions he had been called upon to do some work at inns were plays were being performed. He came away with little regard for what he called “the silly posturings and prating noise” of players.