A Mystery of Errors (Shakespeare & Smythe 1)

even sure how one went about trying to join an acting company. Was there a waiting list for openings? He imagined there probably had to be, for he knew that most companies had only a few regular players who were shareholders and the rest were hired men who might be taken on for no more than one production, or even one performance. There would likely be apprentices that the senior actors would take into their homes and train in stagecraft, just as was done with apprentices in every craft and guild, but these would be young boys who would play the female roles in the productions until their voices changed or until they grew too big. And he was already too old for such consideration, to say nothing of his being much too large of frame to play a woman, and too deep of voice.

So what if there were no openings, he wondered as he proceeded on his way. What then? It was not as if there were an unlimited number of opportunities. There were only a few acting companies in London. Much like his father, the London city council did not look very favorably upon actors. The Act for the Punishment of Vagabonds, passed in 1572, stipulated that all fencers, bear-wards, common players in interludes, and minstrels not belonging to any baron of the realm or other honorable personage of greater degree would be taken, adjudged, and deemed rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars. And the punishments were harsh.

A man so charged and then found guilty would be whipped and then burned through the ear with a hot poker. This was done in order to discourage gypsies and others of their ilk from wandering the countryside and making their living dishonestly at the expense of others, or cozenage, as it was known. And such idlers and masterless men were not tolerated within the London city limits, where they could at best make a nuisance of themselves or, at worst, instigate a riot that could cause damage to property and loss of life.

What the law meant for actors was that they had to be members of a company that had a noble for a patron, so they would then be “in service” to that lord, rather than masterless men. Thus, Lord Strange had his own company of players who bore his name, and then there were the Admiral’s Men, under the patronage of Lord Howard of Effingham, as well as Lord Worcester’s Men, and the Queen’s Players, under Her Majesty’s Master of the Revels. But there were not many more established companies than that and taking up with some itinerant band that merely claimed a noble’s patronage was only courting trouble.

Performances still took place in the courtyards of inns in the city and the surrounding countryside, with the audience of groundlings gathered around a stage erected in the courtyard and the wealthier people who had rooms at the inn watching the productions from the galleries. However, in 1576, a former carpenter named Burbage had built a playhouse where the old Holywell Priory had been in Shoreditch and the Theatre, as he called it, became the first permanent building for the purposes of staging plays. With the patronage of the Earl of Leicester, Burbage had secured a royal warrant, granting him permission to perform comedies, tragedies, interludes, and stage plays, subject to the approval of the Master of the Revels. And in the decade since, the Theatre had become famous throughout England.

Ever since he had seen his first play, acted in the courtyard of the local inn, Smythe had obsessively collected every bit of news and information he could glean from travelers and peddlers about the players and their world. He knew, or at least he could imagine, what the Theatre looked like in its arrangement, how James Burbage had departed from the inn-yard layout by designing a building that was circular instead, similar to the rings where bear- and bull-baitings were staged. And while performances continued to be held at some of the larger inns in London, such as the White Hart and the Bell-Savage, this new arena for the production of the drama had spawned similar buildings, such as The Curtin and, most recently, the new Rose Theatre, which had been built by a man named Henslowe in Bankside, just west of London Bridge, primarily as a home for the Lord Admiral’s Men. And it was this distinguished company, Smythe knew, that boasted the greatest actor of them all, the legendary Edward Alleyn.

He had never seen Alleyn perform, but he had heard the name often enough. One could not talk of players without hearing Alleyn’s name invoked. Only some twenty years of age, scarcely two years older than himself, and already he boasted such renown. Smythe imagined what it must be like to achieve fame. Symington Smythe, the actor? Ah, yes, of course, we saw him in that new play by Greene. He could not walk out on stage without all eyes being riveted upon him! Such intensity! Such fervor! Such horsedroppings, Smythe thought, shaking himself out of his reverie. Daydreaming would certainly not get him there.

***

True to the brigand’s word, there was an inn at the next crossroads, only a few miles from the spot where Smythe encountered him. And there was not much more there than that. It was just a crossroads marked by a small, two-storied building that was the inn, a barn and stables to the side, and several small cottages clustered around a sign that showed the way to London.

He would probably reach the city by tomorrow night if he made good time and started out bright and early in the morning, well rested after a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep in a warm straw bed. The thought filled him with eager anticipation. Strange that he would owe it all to a man who’d meant to rob him! Perhaps it was a good omen, Smythe thought, a potentially bad situation resolved to his advantage. It would be nice to think it was a harbinger of better things to come.

The Hawk and Mouse was an unpretentious roadside inn with a large green-painted sign over the front door that showed a hungry raptor stooping over a panic-stricken rodent. An ironic sight, thought Smythe, to greet the weary traveler, especially with conditions on the road being as precarious as they were. No one paid him any mind as he walked up to the front door, but as he was about to enter, the sound of rapid hoofbeats coming up behind him made him turn back to face the darkening road.

A horseman galloped up to the front door and, immediately, several servants came running out to meet him. One held his horse-a well-lathered, dark bay barb, Smythe noticed-and after the rider had dismounted, the servant proceeded to walk the hard-ridden animal around to cool it before he would lead it to the stable for a rub and feed. The other servant followed, or at least tried to keep pace with the rider as the man swept up the steps past Smythe without giving him a glance, flung open the door, and stepped inside. Smythe entered behind them.

“Call out your servants!” the flushed rider demanded loudly, as the innkeeper approached. “Tell them to arm themselves and mount pursuit! We have been robbed!”

“Robbed, did you say?”

“Aye, robbed! By a mounted brigand dressed in black from head to foot, the ill-omened knave! The coach with my master follows hard upon. If you send your men out now, you might still manage to catch the god-cursed ruffian!”

It seemed, thought Smythe, that Black Billy had made back his silver crown and then some.

“I have no men to send chasing after outlaws,” the innkeeper replied.

“What? Preposterous! What about your servants?”

“They are needed here,” the innkeeper insisted, maintaining his calm in the face of the other’s agitation. “This is not one of your larger inns, sir, and I have but a small staff of servants and a few post horses to serve my guests. I have no men that I can spare to go gallivanting off into the night on a wild goose chase. Leastwise after the likes of Black Billy, unless I miss my guess. He’ll be long gone by now, and if he wasn’t, I would not envy the man who found him. And what men I do have must remain here to look after my guests.”

The already red-faced man turned positively crimson. “This is an outrage! Someone will surely be held responsible for this!”

“As an innkeeper, sir, I am held responsible solely for losses that travelers may sustain while they remain as guests under my roof. That, sir, is the law, and the full extent of the law. Whatever happens while they are not beneath my roof is quite out of my control; thus, I cannot be held responsible.”

Before the angry rider could reply, there came the sounds of a coach pulling up outside and the servants at once ran out to greet it. The man looked toward the door, his lips compressed into a tight grimace, then apparently decided not to pursue the argument. “Well… we shall need four of your best rooms for the night,” he said, curtly.

“Very well, sir. And how, if I might ask, sir, shall you be paying for them?”

“What the devil do you mean, how shall we be paying for them?”

“Well, sir, you did say you had been robbed.”

The man turned beet red and his eyes bulged with outrage. “Why, you impertinent, cheeky bastard! I ought to thrash you!”

The red-faced man pulled out his riding quirt and looked quite prepared to make good on his threat, but the innkeeper countered by reaching down to his boot and pulling out a dagger. At the same time, he called out, “Duff!“ and a man the size of an oak tree appeared in the doorway behind him. The bearded giant wore an apron, but he did not look terribly domestic, Smythe thought.

“Trouble, Master Martin?” the giant said, in a voice that sounded like the crack of doom.

“No trouble,” said a new voice, and Smythe turned to see a group of men who had just come through the door. There were three of them, two apparently servants, for they were not as well-dressed and were carrying bags. The man in front wore a brown velvet hat with a large red plume and a floppy brim, which he removed as he came toward them with a steady, purposeful stride, his long cloak hanging open and fanning out behind him slightly. A gentleman, by his look and his demeanor, Smythe thought. Elegant hose and boots and a dark brown damask doublet of a shade to match his dark brown hair, worked with gold and silver that looked rather too frail and expensive for traveling. “Put away your pigsticker, innkeeper,” he said, “and call off your colossus. There will be no bloodletting here tonight.”

“Your man here threatened to thrash me,” the innkeeper replied, truculently. But the commanding demeanor of the new arrival had its effect. He put away the knife, albeit reluctantly.