“I said” Kemp raised his voice from centerstage, repeating the cue, “I would give a king’s ransom for a horse!”
Smythe and Miles both stepped out on the stage together. Realizing what they’d done, they glanced at one another, trying to decide which of them would say the line. There was an awkward moment of silence, and then suddenly, from out in the audience, somebody neighed loudly.
For a moment, the audience was stunned. Startled, Smythe and Miles both looked toward the sound and, in the same moment, Will Kemp, staying totally in character, turned to face the audience, flung out an arm expansively and pointed in the direction of the offending heckler, crying out, “Never mind the horse! Saddle yon’ braying ass!”
As the audience exploded into laughter and spontaneous applause, Smythe saw who had made the sound. Incredibly, it had been Sir William, standing in the uppermost gallery! He was gesticulating wildly. Smythe turned and looked in the direction he was pointing and there, in the middle gallery clear on the other side, stood the black-cloaked stranger!
“Ostlers’.” Smythe shouted, stepping to the front of the stage and pointing up. “Get that man!”
Abruptly realizing that Smythe was pointing straight up at him, the black-cloaked stranger bolted toward the stairs. The ostlers in the yard below moved to intercept him. Sir William ran toward the stairs on the other side. The audience, thinking it was all part of the play, laughed uproariously and applauded.
“Milord,” said Miles, picking up the cue belatedly, “the post horses have arrived!”
“Just in the nick of time!” said Kemp, returning to the script, “Then I am off, to spur on toward my fate!”
They all left the stage together to thunderous applause.
“What in heaven’s name was that?” demanded Burbage, as they all came off.
“Dick, you’re on!” said Shakespeare, pushing Burbage out on stage before he could receive a reply. “John Fleming, stand by!”
“I am bloody well going to kill you!” Kemp turned on Smythe furiously, shaking his finger in his face.
“What did I do?” Smythe said.
“You and that idiot friend of yours up there in the gallery just absolutely ruined my scene!”
“Ruined it?” said Shakespeare. “Damn it, Kemp, you were brilliant!”
“That ‘idiot friend’ of mine just happens to be Sir William Worley,” Smythe said.
“Sir William Worley?” Fleming said, with astonished disbelief. “You mean the master of the Sea Hawks?”
“John, your cue,” said Shakespeare.
“But… he is an intimate of the queen!” said Fleming.
“Fleming! Your cue!”
“Oh! Good Christ!” Fleming rushed out on the stage.
“You really think I was brilliant?” Kemp asked.
“Your improvisation was not only brilliant, it was absolutely inspired,” Shakespeare said. He turned to Smythe. “That was Sir William neighing? You cannot be serious!”
“Will!” someone called out from behind them. “Will Shakespeare!”
“What now?” Shakespeare turned around.
“Look out, Will!” Smythe shoved Shakespeare hard. The poet fell, sprawling, to the floorboards. The dagger sailed through the air where he had stood an instant earlier and buried itself in a wooden beam right by Kemp’s ear.
“HELP! MURDER!” Kemp cried out and, without thinking, ran straight out onto the stage, where he had no business being until the last scene of the act.
Smythe reached for his sword, but before he could draw it, the man who’d thrown the knife, the burly ostler he’d recognized from the inn, bellowed like a maddened bull and charged him. He struck Smythe hard, wrapping his arms around him in a bear hug, and his momentum carried them both backward, out into the middle of the stage, where they both fell heavily with a resounding crash. The second man came right behind him, charging with a large Florentine stiletto, but before he could reach Shakespeare, Miles kicked his legs out from under him and the man fell, impaling himself on his own blade.
Burbage and Fleming, onstage in the middle of their scene, suddenly found themselves rudely interrupted as Kemp came shrieking out onto the stage from the wings. Seconds later, Smythe and the hired killer came tumbling on, as well, to the immense amusement of the audience, who cheered and applauded the spectacle.
“Defend yourself!” Burbage cried to Fleming, improvising. “We are attacked!”
He drew his sword, just as Shakespeare came running out onto the stage, with the third killer in hot pursuit with a drawn blade of his own. Seeing Burbage with his sword, the man hesitated and then struck. Burbage parried, and in the next instant, what appeared to be a young girl came flying out from the wings and tackled the hired killer as young Mick Jones bravely leapt into the fray to defend his fellow players.
Smythe broke the grip of his antagonist and dislodged him, scrambling to his feet. They both got up at the same time. The man swung, but Smythe blocked the blow with his left forearm and with his right fist knocked the man clear off the stage and into the audience.
“Groundlings, don’t let him get away!” Fleming shouted to the audience. “The man’s a pickpocket!”
That one word galvanized the groundlings into action. Now realizing this was not part of the production, they surged around what they believed to be the scourge of playhouse audiences everywhere and proceeded to stomp and kick the man repeatedly. Meanwhile, Smythe drew his blade and went to aid Burbage, but by now, a number of the ostlers had reached the stage and they came storming on, brandishing clubs and pitchforks, and the man threw down his weapon and surrendered as the audience cheered loudly and kept up a sustained applause.
The man Smythe had knocked off the stage was hauled up to his feet, badly battered and bleeding profusely, barely even conscious. And the third man had not survived the fall onto his own knife. Smythe hurried to check on Shakespeare.
“Are you all right, Will?”
“Aye, I think so,” Shakespeare replied. “Odd’s blood, they really were trying to kill me! But why?”
“I am not entirely sure of that myself,” Smythe replied, “but I think I may have an idea. Stay here with the others. And watch yourself. Their leader is still unaccounted for. I must go and find Sir William.”
He jumped down off the stage and struggled to make his way through the throng of groundlings to the entrance. There he found Sir William, waiting for him along with several of the ostlers.
“Did you get him?” Smythe asked, anxiously.
“No, curse the luck,” Sir William said. “But we got his cloak.” He held up the garment. “A couple of the ostlers found it on the stairs.”
Smythe exhaled heavily. “Damn it! So he got away, then?”
“Not yet,” Sir William said grimly, shaking his head. “Come with me.”
They moved toward the theatre entrance. Outside, Smythe saw the guardsmen in their helms and breastplates, posted at the gate. Sir William smiled. “I do not think he had a chance to slip past them,” he said. “They arrived not long after we did.”
The Captain of the Guard came up to Sir William and saluted. “We stand by for your orders, milord.”
“No one has been allowed out past you?”
“No, milord, no one. Only the lady.”
Worley’s eyes narrowed. “What lady?” he said, sharply.
“Why, the one you told to leave, milord.”
“The one I told to leave? What the devil are you talking about? I told no one to leave! I gave strict orders that no one was to be allowed out! No one!”