“From what I hear, Greene has descended into dissipation,” Shakespeare said, as he opened the window and flung the contents of the chamber pot out into the street.
“Oy!” someone yelled out from below.
Shakespeare glanced out briefly. “Sorry, Constable,” he called down.
“Seems to me as if you have made that particular descent a time or two yourself,” Smythe replied.
“S’trewth, I have enjoyed, upon more than one occasion, the happy state of drunkenness,” Shakespeare replied, as he got into bed, “but I have never sought to wallow in the desolate depravity of dissipation. Greene, poor soul, has fallen to that saddest of all states wherein his talent, such as ‘twas, has sailed away upon a sea of spirits. ‘Tis not a pretty story, I fear. He is but six years my senior, and yet Dick Burbage tells me that he looks almost twice my age. He has fallen upon hard times, it seems, and taken up with still harder company. When I asked Dick the same question that you just asked me, Burbage cautioned me to give him a wide berth and from what he said, ‘twould seem like very sound advice. I might recommend the same to you.”
“Pity,” Smythe said. “I have much enjoyed his writings. They have the mark of a well-educated man.”
“Aye, they do at that,” Shakespeare agreed. “The writings of well-educated men are oft’ filled with their contempt for the common man, who does not share their education. Which, of course, is why they always fail to understand him. But then enough of Greene and all his ilk. Tell me more about Moll Cutpurse. I find her much more to my interest!”
“I can understand that well enough,” said Smythe. “I could easily see her as a character portrayed upon the stage. She is positively filled with the stuff of drama, from her head down to her toes.”
“Go on! Describe her to me!” Shakespeare said, his eyes alight with curiosity.
“Well, to begin, she is quite tall for a woman,” Smythe replied. “We are nearly the same height. I took her for a man, at first, because of the way that she was dressed. She wore high leather boots, dark breeches, and a long dark cloak together with a rakish, wide-brimmed hat, rather in the French style, with an ostrich plume stuck into the band. She also wore a sword. I did not have much opportunity to take the weapon’s measure and make some determination of its quality, for at the time, I was rather more attentive to making certain that its point did not transfix my throat.”
“What of her features?” Shakespeare asked. “How did she look?”
“ ‘Twas difficult to see well in the darkness, though we stood close enough that I do believe that I would know her if I saw her once again,” said Smythe. “Her hair was dark, or it seemed dark, at any rate. I suppose ‘twas possible that it could have been red or auburn, though I had the impression that ‘twas raven-hued. Her skin seemed fair, and I could not discern a blemish nor any marks of pox or the like.”
“Was she pretty? Or was she rather plain? Or ugly?”
“I would not call her plain,” said Smythe. “Neither would I call her pretty. Nor ugly, for that matter.”
“Well, what then?”
“Striking, I should say. S’trewth, she did not seem hard at all upon the eyes, but her face had rather too much… too much…” He searched for the right words as his hand floated up in front of him, as if grasping at something. “Too much forth-rightness, I should say, to call it pretty.”
“Ah,” said Shakespeare. “A face with strength of character.”
“Just so, precisely.”
“Tell me about her gaze.”
“Her gaze?”
“The eyes, when she looked upon you… Did they sparlde with a pleasant humor? Or did they seem cold and distant? Cruel? Mocking? Lustful, perhaps?”
“Lustful!” Smythe snorted. “Surely, you jest! The woman had a swordpoint at my throat!”
“Well, with some women, that sort of thing might induce an… excitation.”
“Odd’s blood! I shudder to think what sort of women you must have known!”
“I shudder to think what sort I married,” Shakespeare replied, dryly. “But that is quite another matter. What I meant was, did you have any feeling that having you so at a disadvantage gave her a sense of satisfaction or, perhaps, of pleasure?”
“She did seem to enjoy my discomfort, come to think on it,” Smythe said.
“What about after you turned the tables on her?” Shakespeare asked. “When you had your knife to her throat… what then? Was she afraid?”
“Not in the least,” Smythe said. “She was aware of the danger, I should say, and from what she asked me later, I do not think she was truly sure if I would have used my knife or not, but she seemed to take it all in stride. I found that quite extraordinary.”
“Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “The portrait you have painted has a most unusual aspect. And not at all unpleasing, at that. It brings to mind our mutual friend, Black Billy, does it not?”
“Sir William’s other self?” said Smythe. “Aye, there does seem to be a sort of family resemblance.”
Shakespeare’s eyebrows raised. “You don’t suppose…?”
“Certainly not!” Smythe said. “What an astonishing idea!”
“Any more astonishing than a knight of the realm galloping about the countryside as a common highwayman?” countered Shakespeare.
“Aye, perhaps not, when you put it that way,” Smythe replied. “Still, they are much more different than the same. Moll’s speech has a Highland ring to it, which tells me for a certainty that she did not grow up in England, as did Sir William. And their faces are both shaped rather differently. Sir William’s has a sharp and hawkish cast, whilst Moll’s is rounder, with somewhat gentler features.”
“But you said that you could not see her all that clearly.”
“I saw her clear enough to know her face again. I could not tell you for certain what the precise hue of her hair was, whether ‘twas black or chestnut rather than auburn, or if she was more pale than ruddy, but I believe that I would know her features.”
“Then you must be sure to point her out to me if we should chance to pass her in the street,” said Shakespeare. “I wonder what she was doing with our Molly.”
“I was wondering the same,” said Smythe. “Moll and Molly. Two women with the same name, or near enough, and yet they could not be more different. Of course, ‘twas not her real name, Moll Cutpurse, but her canting name, as she admitted to me. I wonder who she really is. Truly, ‘tis a different world these people live in, what with their own made-up names and manners of speech, even their own society, with its own rules.”
“One might say the same of the queen’s own court,” said Shakespeare. “Save that with the thieves guild, we have less pomp and more circumstance. Did you think to ask our Molly what she was doing abroad with such a wolf’s head?”
“How could I? Then she would know that I had followed her.”