“Well,” said Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows, “I do believe ‘tis the very first time that I have ever been likened to a hound, but then, my dear Burbage, every dog must have his day… and lo, here is mine. Behold!” He dropped a weighty purse onto the wooden planking of the table and it fell with a rather satisfying thud and a metallic clinking.

“Good Lord!” said Burbage, picking the purse up and hefting it experimentally. “All this from a few sonnets?”

“Odd as it may seem, my verses are apparently becoming popular among some of the young aristocrats,” said Shakespeare in a bemused tone. “You see, like a good harlot, my poetic sighs inflame their passions with themselves and thus create increased desire for more. Hence, each commissioned sonnet begets another dozen. All I need do is wax poetically about the graceful charms and charming graces of some overdressed young milksop with more money than good sense and afore you know it, all his friends start lining up and wanting similar effusive verses written about themselves, as well. Being of sound mind and empty purse, I was only too happy to oblige. And so now, like a good harlot,” he added, wryly, “I require some ale to wash the taste out of my mouth.”

“Ale!” Burbage cried out, happily. “We must have more ale! ‘Allo, Molly, my sweet! Our tankards want refilling!”

Shakespeare’s gaze fell on the empty bowl, from which Smythe had mopped up every last bit of juice, so that it was now dry as the proverbial bone. “I should say that wants refilling, too,” he added, pointing at the bowl. “Yon Tuck has a lean and hungry look, methinks.”

“Aye, he frequently looks hungry,” Will Kemp agreed, archly, “but I have yet to see him looking anything near lean.”

“Well, we are all looking a bit lean these days,” said Shakespeare as he paid Molly, the serving wench, adding a gratuity that won him a beaming smile and a kiss upon the cheek. “With any luck, however, that may be changing soon. There is word that they may soon be reopening the playhouses.”

“What! When?” asked Burbage, eagerly.

“Where did you hear of this?” echoed Robert Speed, whose financial situation, like most of the Queen’s Men, had long since passed the point of being precarious. They all gathered round to listen.

“ ‘Twould seem that the well-to-do are growing bored,” Shakespeare told his captive audience. “Her Royal Majesty, as you all know, is still out on her progression through the countryside with her entire court, thus there is little of social consequence happening in London. No one is holding any balls or masques; they are all saving up their money for when the court returns and they must once more start spending lavishly upon their entertainments, trying to outdo one another in attempting to impress their betters. Aside from which, need one even remark upon the folly of holding a social event of any consequence while the queen is out of town?”

“Oh, so true,” said John Fleming, nodding in agreement. “Even if Her Majesty did not deign to attend, ‘twould be social suicide to hold any event to which she could not be invited, and most especially if dancing were involved.”

“Indeed,” said Burbage, nodding at the reference to the queen’s well known passion for dancing. “A fall from grace such as Lucifer himself could not imagine would almost surely follow.”

“So then, what does that leave for the jaded pleasures of the wealthy?” Shakespeare continued. “They cannot take in some sport down at the Bear Garden, for that arena has been shut down along with all the playhouses, and one can only take the air at St. Paul ’s so many times before the amusement starts to pall, so to speak.”

“Ouch,” said Smythe, wincing at the pun. Several of the others groaned.

Shakespeare went on, blithely. “The brothels are not without their risks, of course, and tend to become tedious, especially to noblemen who prefer some breeding in their women. Though not all do, one may suppose. The ladies in waiting to the queen are all traveling with Her Majesty and are therefore unavailable, aside from which, pursuing them might well land one in the Tower, as Her Majesty prefers to have her young glories unsullied by masculine attention. So, what to do? Playing primero every afternoon grows tiresome. What other diversions does that leave? There are, at present, no fairs being held anywhere within a reasonable distance of the city, so what, I ask you, is a proper and fashionable young gentleman to do in order to amuse himself?”

“Take in a play!” Thomas Pope exclaimed with a grin.

“Ah, but the playhouses are all still closed by order of the city council,” Shakespeare said, with an elaborate shrug. “Whatever is a rich young gentleman to do?”

“He could always try to bribe a councilman or two,” said young George Bryan, with a grin.

“Why, George, I am deeply shocked at your suggestion!” Shakespeare said, gazing at him with mock outrage. “I will have you know that the members of our august and honored London city council are all fine, upstanding citizens of absolutely impeccable character and reputation!”

“How many have been bribed thus far?” asked Burbage, dryly.

“About half of them, I’m told,” said Shakespeare.

Smythe joined in the laughter, gladdened to see that everybody’s spirits were so much improved. “And from whence comes this most welcome news, Will?” he asked.

“From a certain young nobleman who would prefer not to be known to share such confidences with a mere poet,” Shakespeare replied. “And as my present livelihood-to say nothing of our suppers, my dear friends-depends to a large degree upon his generosity, I am bound and beholden to be respectful of his wishes.”

“So then it would appear that you have found yourself a patron,” said Burbage.

“Well, in truth, I would not say so,” Shakespeare replied. “At the least, not yet. This gentleman is merely one of several who has commissioned sonnets from me. He has introduced to me to some friends of his, and has taken an interest in my work, though he prefers to remain anonymous, at present. A true patron would not hesitate to have his name attached to those who would benefit from his support. He enjoys having it be known that he is a benefactor of the arts. Such is the nature of that sort of relationship.”

“Perhaps Will has found another sort of relationship entirely,” said Molly, with a sly smile and a wink, as she set fresh tankards full of ale before them.

“Why, you cheeky wench!” Shakespeare exclaimed, as the others burst out laughing. “I have a mind to turn you over my knee for that!”

Molly gave him a saucy grin and tossed her fiery red hair back out of her face. “I may have a mind to let you,” she replied.

“Well, if I tried, then you would probably just run away,” said Shakespeare.

Molly looked him up and down. “Nay, good sir, methinks I’d stand and fight.”

The other players laughed again. “Looks like she’s got your measure, Will,” said Speed.

“Aye, and a very small measure it is, too,” Molly added, holding her thumb and forefinger about two inches apart.

“Mayhap a measure large enough to fill your cup may one day come along,” said Shakespeare, with a bow, “but until then, ‘twould seem that none may measure up to you, milady.”

The players laughed at the riposte, but before Molly could reply, Shakespeare continued, adding in a casual tone, “None, that is, save perhaps for a certain former armorer’s apprentice recently returned to England from the wars.”

Smythe noticed that Molly looked completely taken aback for a moment, then as quickly as the reaction had come over her, she recovered her habitual pose of saucy insolence and went on wiping off the table.

“And what would I have to do with foolish young apprentices who knew no better than to leave their trades and go running off to war?” she asked.

“Well, far be it from me to know, Mistress Molly Beatrice O’Flannery,” said Shakespeare, “save that ‘twould seem I had heard in passing somewhere that you once had a deal to do with this particular apprentice… or former apprentice, I should say, as he has by all reports proven himself a brave and stalwart soldier, having much distinguished himself in feats of arms on foreign soil.”