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.
Yes, it was them! Smythe could see the long black cloak on the lead rider. But they would never catch up to them before they reached the Theatre. Even now, Smythe could see that the four riders had reached the gate and were dismounting, handing their horses over to the ostlers by the gate. Once they got inside, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find them in the crowd. He had not been able to get a good look at any of them, save the one ostler to whom he gave his horse back at the inn. That one man, whom he had seen only briefly, was all that he would have to go by, aside from the black cloak of the leader, whose face he had never even caught a glimpse of. Smythe felt his heart sink. His best chance would be to reach Will first and warn him of the danger.
As they came galloping up to the Theatre, a couple of the ostlers came running up to meet them, doubtless thinking they were late arrivals hurrying to catch the opening of the performance. They recognized Smythe at once and reacted with surprise.
“Smythe! Odd’s blood! Where have you been? You’re late!”
“Aye, Will’s been asking everybody if they’d seen you. The play’s already started!”
“Never mind that,” Smythe said. “There were four riders who arrived ahead of us, big, tough-looking rufflers, led by a man in a long black cloak. Who took their horses?”
“Dunno. Never saw them.”
“Wait, I think I did! Tommy got one of them, I think.”
“Where’s Tommy?”
“In the stables, I should imagine. Why?”
“Those men came here to kill Will.”
“What, Kemp?”
“No, no! Shakespeare! They are going to kill Will Shakespeare!”
“What? Are you joking?”
“I am in deadly earnest! Run and get Tommy, right away! Find out who got their other horses. We have to find those men in there before they get to Will!”
“God blind me!”
“Go!” said Smythe. “Get all the other ostlers, too! And tell them to get weapons! These men are killers! Hurry!”
“Wait!” Sir William said, sharply, as both ostlers started off. “Not both of you, for God’s sake! You, stay here and hold the horses. Now, listen to me. There will be men arriving shortly. Tell them that Sir William gave strict instructions to close off the playhouse and make certain no one leaves until I give the word. And then to stand by for further orders. Understand?”
“Aye, milord!”
“Good man,” Sir William said. He turned to Smythe. “Now, did you get a good look at any of them?”
“I caught a glimpse of one of them,” said Smythe. “I think I would recognize him if I saw him again.”
“For your friend’s sake, you had damn well better hope so. Where is he now? Is he in the production?”
“He is the book-holder for this play,” said Smythe. “He will be inside, backstage, in the wings.”
“Would these men know that?”
Smythe thought quickly, then nodded. “Aye, ‘tis very likely. Dick Burbage brought Will over to meet Sir Anthony this morning at rehearsal. Dick said that he was interested in plays and was a possible investor, and so he puffed things up a bit and told Sir Anthony that Will was about to make his mark as one of England’s greatest playwrights.”