“Methinks a Papist could not have split a hair more finely,” Kemp said wryly, and then grunted as Speed gave him an elbow in the ribs.
“The man’s a Roman, you bloody great buffoon,” he said, under his breath.
“Please, come this way,” said Smythe, beckoning to them. “We shall set up some benches on the stage for you so that you may see how our company prepares for the performance of a play.”
The guests climbed up upon the stage and took their seats at the side while the company resumed rehearsing. James Burbage explained the process to them as the Queen’s Men went through the play, stopping at intervals to correct or change a line, or else to adjust their movements on the stage and fine tune their entrances and exits.
While Master Peters played the part of genial host, asking questions or else calling out encouragement to the players, Master Leonardo watched with interest, and with a critical, discerning eye it seemed, as James Burbage explained what they were doing and Henry Darcie offered the occasional supplementary remark. Watching from the wings, Smythe could see that Hera was thoroughly enjoying it all, watching with bright eyes and laughing at their antics, for despite the fact that it was only a rehearsal, the players, being players, could not resist joking around and clowning for their audience. Elizabeth, who might have greeted Smythe more warmly were it not for the presence of her father, sat next to Hera and they spoke often to each other and laughed together like good friends. The two of them made a very comely sight. Smythe noticed that just as Hera scarcely took her eyes off what was happening before her on the stage, so Corwin scarcely took his eyes off her. But then he also noticed that just as Corwin scarcely took his eyes off Hera, so Elizabeth scarcely took her eyes off Ben.
A number of times during the rehearsal, Smythe sought to catch her gaze, but all to no avail. It was as if he wasn’t even there. When she was not speaking to her new friend, Hera, Elizabeth kept staring straight at Ben, and with what seemed to him more than a little interest.
“ ‘Twould seem you have yourself some competition,” Kemp said slyly, as he sidled up to Smythe backstage.
“Stuff it, Kemp,” Smythe replied in a surly tone, irritated both at Kemp’s remark and at the fact that Elizabeth ’s interest was obvious enough for him to have noticed.
“Oh, my, my,” said Kemp, with a soft, delighted chuckle. “We are prickly today! But then, ‘twould seem a simple enough thing to understand. After all, he is quite handsome, our young Ben, a veritable Greek god, the very personification of Mars! Aye, he would be Mars himself, since he has been to war and thus has the glamor of a warrior.”
“Mars was a Roman god, you ignorant poltroon,” replied Smythe, irritably. “The Greek god of war was Ares, which you might have known if you troubled to read a book once in a while. But then ‘twould be unreasonable to expect a man to read a book when he can scarcely even read his lines.”
Kemp’s nostrils flared and his eyes shot Smythe a look of pure venom, but his voice remained mellifluously smooth as he replied, “A touch, by God! And from a hired man, no less. One would not have thought you capable of so telling a riposte. Bravo, Smythe. Well done. Well done, indeed.”
Smythe sighed, regretting his words. “Forgive me, Kemp,” he said. “ ‘Twas rude and intemperate of me to make such a remark.”
“Oh, now, do not dilute the vinegar with oil,” Kemp said, with a grimace. “ ‘Tis most unseemly. If you are going to be a proper bitch, my dear, then ‘tis best not to lick after you bite.”
“Kemp…” But the older man had already turned smartly on his heel and walked away.
For Smythe, it was a thoroughly miserable afternoon. Everyone else seemed to have an absolutely splendid time and when their guests departed at the end of the rehearsal, just as the shadows were beginning to lengthen in the early evening, everyone seemed quite full of good cheer, almost as if they had actually given a successful performance to a packed house. Smythe alone felt glum, in part because he had allowed Kemp to get his goat, but mostly because Elizabeth had completely ignored him throughout the entire rehearsal.
As for Ben Dickens, Smythe could not see how he could have failed to notice the way Elizabeth had watched him. In fact, he thought that Ben had made a point of flirting with her a little during the rehearsal, not that he could blame him. It was not Ben’s fault. Elizabeth Darcie was a breathtakingly beautiful young woman and Ben had absolutely no way of knowing how Smythe felt about her, a feeling he had thought, up til that point, had been reciprocated, if not in the same degree, then at least to some degree. Now, it seemed as if Elizabeth no longer felt anything for him at all. How could she? She had not even looked at him once.
Smythe watched morosely as they left, heading back toward their carriages, then he turned and set about helping to put everything away after the rehearsal. It was not until a short while later that he noticed there was still someone standing in the yard, toward the back, near the entrance. It was a man, and the man appeared to be watching him.
Shakespeare came up beside him. “Anyone you know?” he asked, casually.
Smythe frowned. And then he caught his breath. “Good God!” he said.
“What is wrong? Who is it?” Shakespeare asked.
“The last man I ever expected to see here,” said Smythe.
“Who?”
“My father,” Smythe replied.
6
YOUR FATHER?” SHAKESPEARE SAID, STARING at Smythe with surprise. “You mean that man there? But I thought you said that he threatened to disown you if you became a player.”
“He did,” said Smythe, “and so he would have, I believe, if he had anything left of which he could disown me when I set out for London with nothing save the clothes upon my back. And even had I stayed, I doubt ‘twould have made much difference to him, one way or the other. From the time he sent me off to live with my uncle, we scarcely even saw each other. For all that he is my father, there never has been any love between us. When I left home, I felt certain that I would never set eyes on him again.”
“And yet there he stands,” said Shakespeare. “Aye. There he stands.”
Shakespeare glanced at him. “You are quite certain ‘tis your father?”
“Aye, ‘tis he.”
“There can be no mistake?”
“I should think that I would know my own father, Will.”
“Aye… well… perhaps, but…”
“What?”
Shakespeare bit his lower lip. “Well… meaning no offense, you understand, but, ah… you told me that your father was a gentleman and that man there does not look much like a gentleman.”
“He never was,” said Smythe, with a shrug, “save in his name and his attire. The name he kept. The attire he appears to have lost, along with his fortune.”
As they stood there, looking out across the yard at him, Symington Smythe II stood there, looking back, dressed in a coarse green woolen cloak and cap, a plain brown doublet, homespun breeches, and worn boots. He carried a walking staff and little else. He did not even seem to have a sword. It was a far cry from the rich apparrel that he once habitually wore, although no matter what he wore, how costly or well-tailored, clothes had never seemed to sit well on him. Thomas Smythe had once remarked that for all the money his older brother spent on his varied and expensive wardrobe, it was like trying to caparison a dray horse. Those words came back to Tuck as he stood there, staring at his father, thinking that he now looked more like a bedraggled tenant farmer than a man with his own family coat of arms. Indeed, he thought, as Will had observed, he did not look much like a gentleman. But then, he had never really acted like one, either.