Much Ado About Murder (Shakespeare & Smythe 3)

He did not even want to think about the rent.

He mopped up the last of the juices from the pottage with his final crust of bread and gazed ruefully at the empty bowl. He was still hungry. He knew that Stackpole was an understanding soul and would allow him to have some more upon account, but he was reluctant to ask. He had already seen too many of his fellow players run up bills to the point where Stackpole had stopped extending further credit to them until they had paid up what they owed. He did not wish to find himself in a similar position. Understanding could extend only so far, and then a man had to take care of his own business.

Smythe recalled how his father had overextended himself into poverty and had no intentions of repeating his mistakes. Unfortunately, his growling stomach had no such scruples. As he stared longingly at the big iron kettle over the hearth where the pottage was simmering, he couldn’t help but think that, surely, just a small bill on account could not truly be so bad.

As his stomach wrestled with his conscience, Smythe felt his resolve weakening as his appetite increased. He was sorely tempted to give it up and go ask Stackpole if he would let him have another tankard of ale and bowl of pottage on account, but was distracted when the tavern door swung open with a bang and Will Shakespeare entered with a flourish of his dark red cloak, swept off his hat dramatically, and called out, “Hola! Drinks and food for everyone, my good Stackpole! Gentlemen! Good news! Tonight we feast and stuff ourselves!”

For a moment, everybody simply stared at him with disbelief, and then they fell over one another in a race to take advantage of the very generous offer, shouting out their orders and hammering their fists upon the tables for attention from the serving wenches. As Shakespeare spotted Smythe, waved jauntily, and made his way over toward his table, he was surrounded and deluged with questions concerning his sudden good fortune.

“You came into some money, then?” asked Augustine Phillips, one of the senior members of their company. “Who died?”

“Whose pocket did you pick, you rascal?” Thomas Pope asked, clapping him upon the shoulder. His tone was jocular, but the look he gave the poet indicated that he might not have been surprised if that was exactly how Shakespeare came by his good fortune. Times were certainly desperate enough to warrant it. It might have been safer not to ask.

“You had a run of luck at cards?” asked John Fleming, one of the senior shareholders of the Queen’s Men.

Dick Burbage, whose father owned their playhouse, was a bit more practical in his concerns. “You did not sell a new play to some rival company, I trust?” he said, eyeing Shakespeare with an anxious frown. “You promised that we would be the first to see any of your efforts.”

Ever since Shakespeare had started doctoring some of the old plays in their repertoire, the Queen’s Men had been anxious to see any original work he might attempt. He had produced such strong improvements in some of their old standbys that they had made him the bookholder for the company and he was now taking a key role in the staging of their productions. Smythe was pleased for him, for Shakespeare was his closest friend, but at the same time, he felt a little envious. Unlike his friend, he had no skill with words and knew that his own acting abilities left much to be desired.

“Ease yourself, Dick,” Shakespeare replied, patting Burbage on the shoulder reassuringly. “I have, as yet, written no play of my own that can withstand close scrutiny, much less production. When I do, then you shall be the very first to see it, that I promise you.”

“Then to what do you owe this sudden turn of good fortune?” Burbage asked, perplexed.

“I have sold some of my sonnets,” Shakespeare replied, as they both sat down across from Smythe. “You may recall my having mentioned to you that I had several times before written a few verses on commission. Well, I had thought little enough of the endeavor at the time. ‘Twas nothing more than simply a means of making a few extra shillings now and then.”

“Aye,” said Burbage, with a wry expression. “The fashionable young noblemen do dearly love to speak of the poets whose muses they inspire. They commission a few laudatory verses from some poor and starving poet, then pass them around or recite them to one another in the same spirit that a country squire may show off his sporting hounds to all his friends.”

“Well,” said Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows, “I do believe ‘tis the very first time that I have ever been likened to a hound, but then, my dear Burbage, every dog must have his day… and lo, here is mine. Behold!” He dropped a weighty purse onto the wooden planking of the table and it fell with a rather satisfying thud

and a metallic clinking.

“Good Lord!” said Burbage, picking the purse up and hefting it experimentally. “All this from a few sonnets?”

“Odd as it may seem, my verses are apparently becoming popular among some of the young aristocrats,” said Shakespeare in a bemused tone. “You see, like a good harlot, my poetic sighs inflame their passions with themselves and thus create increased desire for more. Hence, each commissioned sonnet begets another dozen. All I need do is wax poetically about the graceful charms and charming graces of some overdressed young milksop with more money than good sense and afore you know it, all his friends start lining up and wanting similar effusive verses written about themselves, as well. Being of sound mind and empty purse, I was only too happy to oblige. And so now, like a good harlot,” he added, wryly, “I require some ale to wash the taste out of my mouth.”

“Ale!” Burbage cried out, happily. “We must have more ale! ‘Allo, Molly, my sweet! Our tankards want refilling!”

Shakespeare’s gaze fell on the empty bowl, from which Smythe had mopped up every last bit of juice, so that it was now dry as the proverbial bone. “I should say that wants refilling, too,” he added, pointing at the bowl. “Yon Tuck has a lean and hungry look, methinks.”

“Aye, he frequently looks hungry,” Will Kemp agreed, archly, “but I have yet to see him looking anything near lean.”

“Well, we are all looking a bit lean these days,” said Shakespeare as he paid Molly, the serving wench, adding a gratuity that won him a beaming smile and a kiss upon the cheek. “With any luck, however, that may be changing soon. There is word that they may soon be reopening the playhouses.”

“What! When?” asked Burbage, eagerly.

“Where did you hear of this?” echoed Robert Speed, whose financial situation, like most of the Queen’s Men, had long since passed the point of being precarious. They all gathered round to listen.

“ ‘Twould seem that the well-to-do are growing bored,” Shakespeare told his captive audience. “Her Royal Majesty, as you all know, is still out on her progression through the countryside with her entire court, thus there is little of social consequence happening in London. No one is holding any balls or masques; they are all saving up their money for when the court returns and they must once more start spending lavishly upon their entertainments, trying to outdo one another in attempting to impress their betters. Aside from which, need one even remark upon the folly of holding a social event of any consequence while the queen is out of town?”

“Oh, so true,” said John Fleming, nodding in agreement. “Even if Her Majesty did not deign to attend, ‘twould be social suicide to hold any event to which she could not be invited, and most especially if dancing were involved.”

“Indeed,” said Burbage, nodding at the reference to the queen’s well known passion for dancing. “A fall from grace such as Lucifer himself could not imagine would almost surely follow.”

“So then, what does that leave for the jaded pleasures of the wealthy?” Shakespeare continued. “They cannot take in some sport down at the Bear Garden, for that arena has been shut down along with all the playhouses, and one can only take the air at St. Paul ’s so many times before the amusement starts to pall, so to speak.”

“Ouch,” said Smythe, wincing at the pun. Several of the others groaned.

Shakespeare went on, blithely. “The brothels are not without their risks, of course, and tend to become tedious, especially to noblemen who prefer some breeding in their women. Though not all do, one may suppose. The ladies in waiting to the queen are all traveling with Her Majesty and are therefore unavailable, aside from which, pursuing them might well land one in the Tower, as Her Majesty prefers to have her young glories unsullied by masculine attention. So, what to do? Playing primero every afternoon grows tiresome. What other diversions does that leave? There are, at present, no fairs being held anywhere within a reasonable distance of the city, so what, I ask you, is a proper and fashionable young gentleman to do in order to amuse himself?”