A Mystery Of Errors

“Aaaaaahhhh! You pox-ridden, misbegotten son of a sheep tup-perl” Shakespeare cried out.

Smythe winced as he extricated himself from the thorn bushes and then helped the poet out.

“God’s bollocks! I’ll be picking thorns out of my arse for the next two weeks!”

“Oh, stop it, you will not,” said Smythe. “A few scratches, a thorny splinter here and there… you will survive.”

“No thanks to that miserable cur! What in God’s name was he thinking, careering down the road at such a pace? The fool will shake that fancy coach of his to pieces!”

“That was our friend from the inn last night, unless I miss my guess,” said Smythe. “The one who took the last few rooms.”

“What, the grand, well-spoken gentleman with his retinue of servants?” Shakespeare asked.

“The same, I think. He rose much later than we did, but makes much better time. He seems in quite a hurry.”

“Well, I hope he puts that shiny new coach of his into a ditch and breaks his gentlemanly neck, the blackguard!”

“If he keeps up like that, he might well do that,” said Smythe. “Although the road here is much wider and more level, he still goes at an unsafe pace.”

“Blast! Look at this! I am pricked with stickers like a pincushion!”

“Here, let me see.”

“Have a care now… ouch!”

“Oh, come on, now. I’ll not pull these out if you go squirming like a wench upon a haystack. Screw your courage to the sticking place and stop your twitching.”

“ ‘Tis the infernal stickers that are screwed in, not my courage.”

“Will you hold still?”

“Aaah-owww!”

“Such bravery! Such mettle!” Smythe laughed. “Look at you. A thorn or two and you are all undone.”

“Oh, sod off! Yowwwww! Have a care, Tuck, curse you!”

“Oh, don’t be such a mewling infant. It is not so bad. Only a few more.”

“Ouch! Ow! Damn it! I shall take my turn next and then we shall see who is more the mewling infant!”

“I’ll not cry over a few thorns. But I shall remember that gentleman from last night. That’s twice now he’s inconvenienced me.”

“Oh, indeed? And just what do you intend to do about it, your lordship? The man is not someone you can address on equal standing, you know. Or did you fail to note the arms blazoned on the side of his coach?”

“No. Why? Did you recognize them?”

“Nay, I caught but a glimpse of sable and some fleury crosses. I would not know those arms from any other scutcheon save that they mark him for a gentleman of rank. Not exactly someone you can give one of your country thumpings to, young blacksmith.”

“Perhaps not, but I will remember that gentleman just the same.”

The poet snorted. “You would do better to remember your place, my friend, if you do not wish to get clapped into the Mar-shalsea.”

Smythe was tempted to point out to the poet that he could claim an escutcheon of his own, thanks to his father’s efforts, but he decided at the last moment not to bring it up. It meant nothing to him, really, and he liked Will Shakespeare and did not wish him to think that he might in any way hold himself above him. Aside from which, his father might now be a gentleman, but he was in debt up to his ears, for all the good it did him.

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But it still rankles, just the same.”

“So then send an oath or two his way, as I do, and have done with it. There is little to be served in dwelling upon matters that one cannot resolve. Now bend over and I’ll pull your stickers for you.”

“Why, Will, I bet you say that to all the sweet young boys.”

“Look, you want me to pull those thorns from out your bum or put my muddy boot into it?”

Smythe laughed. “Very well. You may dethorn me, but be gentle.”

“I’ll give every one at least three twists for your impertinence!”

“Well, best be quick about it then, or we shall not reach London until nightfall.”

“Just as well,” said Shakespeare, with a scowl, “for I shall very likely be much too sore to sit down until then.”

3

“BUT Father, I don’t want to marry him!” Elizabeth Darcie stamped her foot in exasperation, gritting her teeth with anger and frustration. She turned away to hide the tears that suddenly welled up in her eyes.

“Want? Want? Good God, girl, who in blazes asked you what you want?“ Her father stared at her with open-mouthed astonishment. “What does what you want have to do with anything? You shall do as you are told!”

“I shall not!“ In her exasperation, Elizabeth spoke before she thought and she caught her breath as soon as the words were out. She had never spoken back to her father in such a manner before, and was shocked at her own boldness.

Her father was no less astonished. “You bloody well shall, girl, or I shall take my crop to you, so help me!”

“But Father, please! I do not love him! I do not even know him!”