A Mystery Of Errors

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!”

13

THOUGH SMYTHE WAS THOROUGHLY PERPLEXED about Sir William’s part in these events, there was no time for any questions as they galloped through the streets of London, scattering all those before them. Sir William led the way on a bay barb, riding switch and spurs as he set a breakneck pace, his cloak billowing out behind him. Smythe was hard pressed to keep up. He had grown up around horses and could ride almost as soon as he could walk, but he was no match for Sir William, who rode as if he were a centaur. As they galloped like berserk cavalrymen in a charge, Smythe knew that on these often slippery, refuse-strewn city streets, if either of their horses fell at this pace, chances were that neither horse nor rider would survive. As for anyone who happened to be in their way, Lord help them if they did not move quickly enough.

As they approached Shoreditch, Smythe realized that it was later in the day than he had thought. He could hear the final trumpet blowing from the Theatre, and it struck him that he had been so intent upon following Gresham that he had lost all track of time. He had completely forgotten about that afternoon’s performance… the very performance that was to have been his debut upon the stage with his one line.

It made no difference anymore, he thought with resignation. It was much too late to worry about that now, and missing his first performance was now the least of his concerns. Those killers had a head start on them, though it was doubtful they had ridden as quickly. Smythe wondered if there was any chance that they could catch them. And for that matter, if they did, Smythe wasn’t sure how much help he would be. Like a fool, he had left his sword back at the Theatre, in the tiring room. Carrying his dagger was second nature to him. He simply tucked the sheath into his belt without even thinking about it. But having never worn a sword before coming to London, he could not seem to get into the habit and he kept forgetting it. And even if he had remembered it, he was under no illusion that he was any kind of swordsman. He had received instruction from his uncle, but he would be no match for a trained mercenary, an assassin. He recalled that set-to in the tavern with those drunks during the street riot. If Marlowe hadn’t been there, things might have gone quite badly. These were not taproom bravos they would be up against, but sober and clear-headed killers. Sir William had his own fencing master. All Smythe had were some lessons from his uncle… and no sword.

As they raced across the field toward the Theatre, in the distance, Smythe could see the people gathering for the play. By now, most of the audience would have already gone inside. The groundlings would be packing the yard and the galleries would be almost full. Ahead of them, he thought he saw the four riders they were chasing, but he wasn’t certain.

“There they are!” Sir William shouted, pointing.