“No, no, no!” Shakespeare said, standing in front of the stage and holding the book as Smythe missed his entrance cue for the fifth time in a row. “The cue is, ‘I would give a king’s ransom for a horse!’ And then you enter from stage left, come to the center of the stage, and say your line. You do not enter before the cue has been given, nor do you enter while the cue is being given. You enter after the cue has been given. God’s wounds, is that so difficult?”
Smythe sighed. “No, ‘tis not difficult at all. I am sorry, Will. Truly, I am.”
“Aye, you certainly are sorry,” Will Kemp said, as if the comment had been addressed to him rather than the other Will. “You are the sorriest excuse for a player that I have ever seen.”
“Oh, come on now, Kemp,” said Speed, from stage right. “Give the lad a chance.”
“Aye, ‘tis only his first time,” said Fleming. “I am quite sure that you were not perfect your first time on the stage, either.”
“Perfection is one thing,” Kemp replied. “And doubtless ‘tis entirely unreasonable to expect perfection from a novice player. But with this one, even bare adequacy seems utterly beyond him!”
There were times, thought Smythe, when he wanted nothing quite so much as to hammer Will Kemp into the ground like a tent peg. Instead, he held his temper, took a deep breath, and said, “You are quite right. I have been making a thoroughgoing mess of it. I shall try once more. And I shall keep trying until I get it right.”
Will Kemp sighed dramatically. “Send out for victuals,” he said. “We may be here all night.”
“All right, everyone, I think a break would be in order at this time,” said Shakespeare. “We shall resume from this point in a few moments. But let us take a little time to clear our heads.”
“With some of us, that will take less time than with others,” Kemp said, wryly. He turned and stalked offstage.
Smythe stared daggers at his back.
“Tuck,” said Shakespeare, coming up to the edge of the stage and gazing up at him. “What the devil is wrong with you? Are you unwell?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort,” said Smythe, sitting down on the edge of the stage. He sighed. “I just keep thinking about Elizabeth.”
“What you need to be thinking about is the play,” said Shakespeare, irritably. “The way you have been acting-or perhaps I should say not acting-you have already convinced Will Kemp that you have no ability as a player whatsoever. The rest of the company is disposed to be somewhat more lenient, since this is only your first time upon the stage, but if you keep this up, their patience will wear thin, as well.”
“I know, I know.”
“After all,” said Shakespeare, “ ‘tis just one line! How difficult can it be to remember just one entrance cue and just one line? You come in on your cue… you walk to center stage… you say your line… and then you leave the stage. I do not see how I could possibly have made it any simpler for you!”
“You are quite right, Will. ‘Tis really very simple. Just that I cannot seem to get it right. I do not know why. My head is all muddled.”
“See here, Elizabeth will be fine,” said Shakespeare, placatingly. “Her troubles, for the most part, are now over. All the portents were quite favorable. What you need to do now is get her out of your mind completely. Move on. She is much too far above your station. So stop mooning over the wench. ‘Twill only drive you to drink.”
“You speak from experience, do you?”
“Oh, sod off! Just learn your one damned line, come on at the right time, and say it right; ‘tis all I ask.”
“I know. And I am grateful, Will. I truly am. I greatly appreciate this chance.”
“Then stop cocking it up, for God’s sake!”
“I shall, Will. That is, I shall get it right, I promise.”
“You had damn well better, or you will be back to holding horses at the gate.”
“Well, I shall have to do that anyway, both before and after I complete my scene.”
“Oh, your scene, is it? One line, and now ‘tis an entire scene. Tell you what, I shall settle for one line, and then we shall see about a scene, all right?”
“You needn’t be so peevish about it!”
“No, Kemp is peevish. I, on the other hand, am exasperated! I am trying my best to help you, Tuck. I am trying to help us. We have a chance here, both of us. We must not muck it up. All you need to do is walk onstage and say, ‘Milord, the post horses have arrived.’ And Kemp shall say his line and then you shall walk off with him. And that is really all you need to do! Is it not simple?”
Smythe exhaled heavily and nodded his head. “I know. ‘Tis very simple, truly. I do not know why I cannot get it right.”
“Because you have got your mind fixed upon that damned girl! Forget about her, will you please? She is not for you and never shall be. The odds are you shall not even be seeing her again.”
“I say, Smythe,” said Fleming, from the entrance to the tiring room, “is that not your lady from last night?”
They both looked in the direction he was indicating and, sure enough, there was Elizabeth Darcie, standing at the entrance to the playhouse, together with Dick Burbage and his father, James, along with another older gentleman and a younger, well-dressed man who looked vaguely familiar. Smythe frowned. And suddenly, it came to him.
“Good God! Gresham!”
“What, the man Elizabeth said was murdered?” Shakespeare said.
“Aye!”
“Are you quite certain?”
“Aye, we both saw him at the inn the night we met, remember?”
“In truth, I remember very little of that night,” said Shakespeare. “I do seem to recall a gentleman arriving, but I do not believe I’d know him if I laid eyes on him again. And you are saying this is he?”
Smythe nodded, dumbstruck.
“How curious,” said Shakespeare, turning back to look at the group. “I have heard it said that ghosts walk at the witching hour, but I have never heard of one who went abroad in daylight.”
Smythe jumped down off the stage to the ground. “I do not understand this. Elizabeth said she saw him killed last night!”
Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, he seems to have recovered nicely.”
Elizabeth spotted them and glanced in their direction. She did not say anything, nor did she gesture, but Smythe saw a look of desperate panic on her face. Gresham appeared hale and hearty, but she was the one who looked white as a ghost.
“I shall soon get to the bottom of this!” Smythe said.
Shakespeare grabbed him by the arm. “Hold off a moment,” he said, in a level tone, “before you go making a complete fool of yourself.”
At the same time, Dick Burbage saw them and quickly detached himself from the group and hurried toward them, gesturing to Smythe to stay where he was.
“What the hell is going on here?” Smythe muttered.
“1 suspect we are about to find that out,” Shakespeare replied.
12
“You are, ‘twould seem, as surprised by this turn of events as I was,” Burbage said, as he approached them. He shook his head and beckoned to one of the hired men, who came running up to the edge of the stage. “Miles, tell the others that we are sticking to our story about last night. And to betray no surprise, whatever they may hear. I shall explain all in due course.”