He thought back to the times they’d seen each other. The first time had been at that roadside inn outside of London, The Hawk and Mouse. When Gresham had come in, he hadn’t even glanced at him. There had been no reason for him to have noticed him. He was, after all, just another poor, common traveler sitting at a table with a friend and Gresham had been intent on getting rooms. The only time they had actually confronted one another, if indeed it could be called a confrontation, had been a short while later, when Smythe had carried a nearly insensible Will Shakespeare up the stairs and, paralyzed with drink, the poet had directed him to the wrong room. There had been that moment when Smythe had opened the door and briefly seen Gresham standing in his room, in conversation with a young woman, and Gresham and the woman turned and glanced toward him, then Drummond had quickly stepped up and closed the door right in his face.
Aside from that, the only other time he had actually seen Gresham had been just a short while ago, back at the Theatre. And though their gazes had met briefly across the playhouse yard, Gresham had shown no sign of having recognized him. Might his memory be jogged if he saw him yet again? Or did he simply not remember him at all from that night at the inn? And what of Drummond? The servant had seen him close up, at least once, the night he had met Elizabeth at the Theatre. And Andrew Drummond had, of course, been there at The Hawk and Mouse that night, as well. But Smythe felt fairly certain that neither Gresham nor Drummond had noticed him that night.
He decided to take the chance. He rode up to the inn, right past Drummond waiting with the coach. The servant did not even glance toward him. Smythe turned his mount over to a burly ostler at the inn and went inside. Inside the tavern, he looked around. The place was reasonably full, with men drinking and eating and, in some cases, consorting with the women. The atmosphere was fairly noisy and pipe smoke filled the air from the long, clay churchwardens that were all the rage. Someone was playing on a cithern, brushing the wire strings with a plectrum and singing some new ballad that was making the rounds. Some of the other patrons joined in on the chorus and Smythe suddenly realized that the ballad was about none other than Black Billy the brigand, whom he knew better as Sir William Worley. He wondered what these good, working class tradesmen, artists, and apprentices might think if they knew that the bold outlaw who had captured their imaginations was, in reality, one of England ’s wealthiest noblemen. In all likelihood, he thought, they never would believe it.
There was no sign of Gresham. He went up to the bar and bought a pint of ale. He drank it slowly, not wishing to become tipsy when he needed to have his wits about him. If Gresham was not in the tavern, then he had to be in one of the rooms. He had obviously come to see someone here. But if he had not come to sport with some strumpet in one of the rooms upstairs, then for what purpose had he come?
A moment later, he spotted Gresham coming down the stairs near the entrance to the tavern. And there was someone with him, someone in a black, full-length, hooded cloak. The hood was up, covering the entire head and face, so Smythe could not see who it was. They headed outside. Smythe followed.
They walked out to Gresham ’s coach and stood there talking for a few moments. Smythe had to keep far enough back so as not to be noticed, so unfortunately, he could not hear what was said. After a moment or two, Gresham got back into the coach, alone.
Smythe had a quick decision to make. Follow Gresham, or try to find out who the mysterious stranger in the hooded cloak was? He hesitated, then decided just as Drummond whipped up the horses and the coach drove away. He could find out where Gresham lived easily enough. The ominous-looking stranger in the hooded cloak was the greater mystery for the moment.
The stranger turned and headed not back toward the tavern, but the stables. Smythe followed at a distance. From the courtyard of the inn, he could observe the entrance to the stables, where he saw three big, rough-looking men approach the stranger from inside. One of them was the very ostler to whom Smythe had given his horse. They spoke briefly, then Smythe frowned as he saw the black-cloaked stranger take out a purse and shake it out into a gloved hand. He saw the glint of the gold. The money exchanged hands.
Clearly, these tough-looking men were being paid for something. And whatever it was, Smythe had the feeling it was not for the care and feeding of some horses. Smythe tried to move in closer, to see if he could hear what they were saying. But at the same time, the three men and the stranger went inside the stables. Smythe moved quickly toward the entrance. The men were back inside, in the stalls. He could hear movement, the clinking of tack, the whickering of horses, and the creak of saddle leather. He tried to listen over the sounds.
“… so then it makes no difference to you how we do it, eh? Right, then. We are your men. Consider it as good as done. This Will Shakespeare fellow is a dead man.”
The words fell upon Smythe’s ears like hammer blows. Thunderstruck, he leaned back against the wall, eyes wide with disbelief. Shakespeare! What in God’s name had Will to do with any of this? And why in heaven would Gresham want him dead? For it was clearly Gresham who had to be behind it all for some reason he simply could not fathom.
But Gresham had only met Shakespeare that very morning! Burbage had introduced them merely hours earlier! And yet, after pausing only long enough to drop off the Darcies at their home, Gresham came straight here to meet with the dark-cloaked stranger and, apparently, to give him money. Money which had now been used to hire these blackguards to help kill his friend! Smythe knew he had to get back to the Theatre as quickly as possible and warn Will of the danger. But his horse was in the very stable where the men were standing even now.
In the next instant, he heard the sound of hooves on the hard-packed dirt floor in the stable and he just had time to duck back out of the way as four riders came trotting out, led by the dark-cloaked stranger. They spurred up to a canter and headed off down the street… in the direction of the Burbage Theatre.
Smythe bolted into the stable and ran to get his horse. He did not even know which stall the murderous ostler had put his horse in. Desperately, he started checking all the ones that weren’t empty. The fourth one he checked held his mount, still saddled, fortunately. The ostler had merely loosened up the girth to let the animal breathe more easily. As Smythe quickly cinched up the girth, he felt a hand upon his shoulder. Startled, he spun around, raising his fist… and came face-to-face with a masked man, holding a dagger to his throat.
“Easy there, Tuck,” he said, pulling down the black scarf covering the lower portion of his face. “You wouldn’t want to hit your old friend, Black Billy, would your”
“Sir William! Good Lord! What the devil are you doing here?”
“I might well ask you the same thing, sport.?
??
“Damn it, sir, there is no time for explanations, they have gone to kill him!”
Worley frowned. “Kill whom?”
“Will! Will Shakespeare!”
“Shakespeare? You mean your poet friend?”
“Aye! I heard them! The stranger in the cloak has paid those men to go help murder him! ‘Twas all done on Gresham ’s orders, I am certain of it!”
“Bloody hell!” Sir William swore. “They are after the wrong man.”
“What?”
“They have mistaken your friend Shakespeare for Chris Marlowe.”
“What? But why would they want Marlowe dead?”
“Because he works for me. Now come on, get on your horse! There is no time to lose if you wish to save your friend.”
Smythe needed no encouragement. He quickly backed the horse out of the stall and swung up into the saddle. Sir William had already gone outside. As Smythe came out, Sir William was running across the courtyard. Near the entrance, a man was holding two horses. Sir William spoke to him quickly as he mounted one of them and Smythe saw the man nod emphatically, then mount the other and set spurs, kicking up into a gallop.
As Smythe came riding up, Sir William shouted, “I have sent for help. But we shall get there first. Come on! Bide like the Devil himself is on your heels!”