“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 the
n 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?”