A Mystery Of Errors

“Why, the queen!” the young man said. “The queen writes poetry! Now I happen to know this for a certain fact, you see.” He brought up his rapier and delicately played its point around the man’s throat. “And I cannot very well stand by and do nothing while you wish a pox upon Her Royal Majesty, our good Queen Bess, now can I?”

“Here, you’d better put that rapier down, lad, before you go and do something rash,” the one in the dark green said.

“Or what?” the young man asked without even glancing his way. His gaze was locked with the man in brown and black, with the swordpoint playing lightly at his throat. And that man was breathing shallowly, eyes narrow, his own gaze unblinking and alert. And very cold.

“Or you’ll have to be taught a lesson in minding your own damn bloody business, you impudent fop.” The man in green began to draw his blade.

Smythe reacted quickly, but the young man was even quicker. Before the man in green could clear his scabbard, the young man’s blade flicked over like an adder’s tongue and slashed across his face, opening up his cheek from temple to jaw. At the same time, the young man smashed the back of his fist into the face of the man in brown and black, who had begun to draw his blade, as well.

By this time, Smythe was moving, but so was the young man. He danced lightly back out of the way to engage the others as the man in green screamed, dropped his sword, and sank to his knees, bringing his hands up to his ruined face. He was clearly out of the fight now, and the odds had been reduced by one.

With a quick glance toward Shakespeare, to make sure he was not immediately in harm’s way, Smythe targeted the man in the brown leather doublet, who was drawing steel as the man in brown and black recovered from the punch and also drew his blade. There was blood running from his nose and he had cold fury in his eyes. As he and the young man engaged, Smythe brought the end of his staff down hard upon his opponent’s wrist. With a cry of pain, the man in the leather doublet dropped his fancy-hilted blade and had little time for anything save a wide-eyed stare of alarm as Smythe brought the other end of his staff up and cracked it hard against his temple. He crumpled to the floor, senseless.

The fat one in the buff and blue was slow to react to the outbreak of hostilities, his wits doubtless dulled by drink, but by the time Smythe’s leather-clad opponent crumpled to the floor, he had realized there was a brawl in progress and rushed forward with a roar, ignoring the blade at his side, instinctively counting on his size to work for him as he launched himself at Smythe and wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, driving him backward. They crashed into the table where the young man’s elegant friend was sitting, but he simply got up in the nick of time and stepped casually back out of the way with his goblet as Smythe and the fat man fell to the floor, splintering the table beneath them.

Knowing that if the fat man fell on top of him, it would drive the wind right out of him, Smythe wrapped his own arms around his antagonist and twisted hard as they fell, with the result that the fat man took the brunt of their crash into the table and fell with the not inconsiderable bulk of Smythe on top of him. His thick layers of fat, however, absorbed much of the impact and kept him from getting the wind knocked out of him. He managed to dislodge Smythe, breaking his hold and tossing him aside, into another table. With an angry roar, he started to get back up, but never made it. Hoisting a bench high above his head with both hands, Shakespeare brought it down hard on top of the man’s head, splintering the wood, and quite possibly bone, as well. Leaning back against the bar, the elegant man in black raised his goblet in a toast, which Shakespeare acknowledged with a bow.

Smythe got up to see the young man hotly engaged with two opponents, the man in red and gold and the man in brown and black. And he was being driven back under their combined assault. However, before he could do anything, Smythe saw the situation resolved neatly by the young man’s black-garbed friend.

It happened very quickly. As the young man backed away, parrying furiously, his opponents passed the spot where the man in black was standing, leaning back against the bar. Moving in a casual, easy manner, the man in black unsheathed his dagger, flipped it so that he could grasp the blade with his gloved hand, then brought it down hard upon the skull of the man in red and gold. He crumpled to the floor as the man in black brought up his booted foot and kicked the other man right in the groin. The man in brown and black made a sound like a pig being stuck with a skewer, then collapsed as the elegant man in black brought the heavy pommel of his dagger down upon his head, knocking him unconscious.