Much Ado About Murder (Shakespeare & Smythe 3)

“Aye,” Smythe said, with a grimace. “Jack Darnley and Bruce McEnery were their names.”

“They are the very ones,” said Fleming, nodding emphatically. “After Ben had been with us for a few years, he met those two somehow. I do not know where precisely, perhaps here at the theatre, perhaps in town somewhere… in truth, it matters not. What matters is that he fell in with them and began to spend his free time roaming the streets with that unruly lot of theirs -”

“The Steady Boys,” said Smythe.

“Aye, steady on the road to ruin, if you ask me. I watched him begin to change before my own two eyes, become another Ben… a Ben that I no longer knew, in many ways. And yet, in other respects, he still seemed much the same. When he was with us, he was the Ben that we had always known and loved. But then there were times when it seemed as if he were a changling, as if the faeries came whilst he had slept and stolen him away, leaving in his place some evil creature that merely had his aspect. It puzzled me at first, until at last I understood what was afoot. It always used to happen when he was returning from keeping company with those troublesome apprentices. There was something about those roaring boys that very much appealed to Ben, you see.”

“I cannot imagine what it may have been,” said Smythe.

“Nor could I,” said Fleming, with a grimace of distaste. “But methinks perhaps that what he saw in them in the beginning was something of what he wished to be himself, a sort of adventurer, a man of action and determination, a young gallant… not that they were any of those things, in truth, but I suppose that they believed they were, and spoke as if they were, and so Ben believed it, also. I attempted to dissuade him from their company, to convince him that they were a bad influence upon him and would bring him naught but trouble, yet ‘twas all to no avail, of course. When did youth ever credit the wisdom of their elders?”

“I do not recall that I ever did, myself,” said Smythe. “Well, save for my Uncle Thomas, to whom I always listened with respect. But for the most part, when I was younger, I did not find that my elders seem

ed to possess very much wisdom.”

“Amusing, is it not, how the older one becomes, the wiser one’s elders seem to grow?” said Fleming, with a smile. “Well, as you might imagine, the more I prevailed upon him to abandon this bad company, the more he sought it out. In the end, he drifted away from us. He found a position as apprentice to an armorer, which was just the sort of manly thing for a young gallant to be, I suppose, but then, he soon drifted away from that, as well. The rest you know. He saw how his friends paled in comparison to the genuine adventurers he met at his new master’s shop and ‘twas not long before he left them behind, as well, to make himself yet another life.”

“I do not believe they liked that very much,” said Smythe.

“Aye, that sort never would,” agreed Fleming. “When one leaves that sort of company, ‘tis often perceived as weakening the others, for they find their strength in numbers. But much more than their strength, methinks, they find their very identity in numbers. And so when someone leaves them, they feel threatened and betrayed.”

“I realize that they do, but I am not sure that I understand why they should,” said Smythe.

“Consider who they are and how they live,” said Fleming. “They are young and working class, though not yet old enough or, in most cases, skilled enough to work in their own right as journeymen or master craftsmen. Yet at the same time, they are old enough to consider themselves full grown, though again, in most cases, they have not yet acquired the wisdom of adulthood. And so they find themselves in service as apprentices, at the bidding of their masters and unable to achieve their independence until such time as their masters deem them worthy. They have no ability to determine the course of their own lives, no true feeling of worth, and no power of their own. In their masters’ shops, they labor hard and long and must do as they are told. But when they go out on their own and band together with others like themselves, why then they find within that company a strength of purpose and a sense of belonging to something that gives them worth and a feeling of respect. One becomes more than merely a lowly young apprentice; one becomes a Steady Boy, or a Bishopsgate Brawler, or a Fleet Street Clubman, or whatever other colorful appellation these gangs of apprentices choose for themselves. And this company thus becomes a band of brothers, in one sense a family, in another sense an army… not unlike your highland clans. And if you are a member of this clan, then you are someone worthy of respect, someone to be feared… for when one is young, fear and respect seem much like the same thing. If you should become the leader of such a band, why then you have importance, power, and position, all of which is yours by virtue of the men you lead. The more men, the more power; the more power, the more prestige.”

“So that if one of the men you lead chooses to leave your command, then ‘tis very like a mutiny,” said Smythe.

“Exactly so,” replied Fleming, nodding. “I could not have said it better.”

“Now I understand what transpired earlier today,” said Smythe.

Fleming looked at him. “What happened?” he asked, and briefly Smythe described their encounter with the Steady Boys while he and Dickens were on their way to the theatre.

“I just knew those two would be trouble,” Fleming said, when he had finished. “And now, regretably, you have become mixed up in it. You would do well to avoid them, if you can.”

“Did you expect me to run off and leave Ben to face them by himself?” asked Smythe.

“Of course not,” Fleming replied hastily. “I know you better than that, Tuck. But just the same, I wish you had not become involved. Ben knows what they are like, and he knows what to expect of them. And not meaning to slight your abilities in any way, Ben is also a trained soldier who has been to war. He knows well how to take care of himself.”

“Well, ‘tis not an army we are talking about, after all, John,” said Smythe, “just a few young malcontents and troublemakers.”

“Just the same, they can be dangerous,” insisted Fleming. “If you do not wish to give me credence, then go ask your blacksmith friend, Liam Bailey, whose former apprentice was killed in one of their street brawls. Do not underestimate them merely because they are young, Tuck. Aside from which, those two, Darnley and McEnery, are of an age with you, or very nearly so. Some of the others might be younger, but put enough of them together and they can be trouble enough, believe me. They might forgive Ben, in consideration of the past, but they have no reason to grant you any such consideration.”

Smythe nodded. “I shall keep that in mind, John. But ‘tis not in my nature to run away from trouble.”

“Just see that you do not run toward it,” Fleming said, “ ‘Allo, what have we here?” he added, looking out past the stage into the yard. “ ‘Twould seem that Master James has brought us visitors.”

The rehearsal stopped as the players came down off the stage into the yard to greet James Burbage, Richard’s father and the owner of the Burbage Theatre, who had arrived with a party among whom were Henry Darcie, one of the investors, his daughter, Elizabeth, Ben’s friend, Corwin, and another gende-man, dark and foreign looking, richly dressed in silks, who came in company with a beautiful young woman whose pale skin was a striking contrast to her jet black hair. Even before they were introduced, Smythe had already guessed that this was Master Leonardo, the wealthy Genoan merchant trader, and his lovely daughter, Hera, who had so captivated Corwin.

There was yet another gentleman who came along with them, a man Smythe did not know. He was large, heavy, and robust-looking, with a florid face and a thick, bushy gray beard. Shoulder-length gray hair came down from beneath a soft, dove-gray velvet cap, which matched the three-quarter length cloak and short, soft gray leather boots that set off his burgundy hose and quilted black doublet shot through with silver thread. They must have come in carriages, thought Smythe, for otherwise those new, expensive clothes would have been filthy from the mud outside.

The red-faced gentleman turned out to be Master William Peters, the goldsmith to whom Corwin had been apprenticed and in whose shop he now worked as a journeyman, well on his way to establishing a successful reputation as a craftsman in his own right. James Burbage made the introductions, pointing out the individual players to his guests. Henry Darcie and Elizabeth, of course, already knew them all, but this was apparently the first time that Master Leonardo and his daughter had ever seen the Burbage Theatre. Master Peters had attended several of their productions in the past, but he was apparently not a regular. He came, primarily, to act as an intermediary for Master Leonardo with James Burbage and Henry Darcie. And doubtless he also came for Corwin’s sake, for it was clear from the way his eyes never left Hera for an instant that the young journeyman was very much in love.

“Well met, good players, well met all!” said Master Peters in a jovial tone, after Burbage had completed the introductions. “I beg you, do not allow our merry company to interfere with your busy preparations. We have merely come to visit and observe. My friend, Master Leonardo, late of Genoa and newly arrived upon these shores, is in the mind of considering new ventures here in London and, in that regard, was curious to learn something about the business of a company of players. Thus, upon learning of his interest, I could think of nothing better than to introduce him to my old friend, Henry Darcie, whom I knew to be an investor in your theatre. Therefore, ‘tis my great pleasure to introduce Master Leonardo, and his fair young daughter, Hera, and the rest here, I believe you all already know.”

“Indeed, we do, good Master Peters,” the younger Burbage said, speaking for them all, “and you are all most welcome to the Theatre. Sad to say, we cannot regale you with a play, for as you doubtless know, by order of the council, the playhouses of the city are all closed ‘til further notice and we are thus enjoined from performing for you.”

“Indeed,” said Master Leonardo, speaking excellent English, albeit with a pronounced Italian accent, “I was aware of the decree, though ‘tis a pity, for I had hoped to learn something of your work and, at the same time,