“Like our late King Henry, you mean?” said Burbage. “Now there was a sweet, pacific soul for you. Anne Boleyn found him rather corporal in his corpulence, as I recall.”

“Aye, imagine what his humor might have been if he were thin,” said Smythe, grinning.

“ ‘Twould have been much worse, I have no doubt of it,” Shakespeare replied. “Had he been a leaner and more spirited man, like Richard Lionheart, then instead of merely breaking with the Church of Rome, he might have launched his own crusade against it.”

“Now you know, there might be a good idea for a play in that,” said Smythe.

“God’s wounds!” said Burbage. “We do not have enough trouble with the Master of the Revels? Do us all a kindness, Will. Should you by any chance decide to pen a play about an English king, then try to choose one whose immediate descendants do not at present sit upon the throne, else we might all end up with our heads on London Bridge.”

“Sound counsel, Dick,” Shakespeare said. “I shall endeavor to keep it in mind.”

“And you, Smythe,” Burbage added, “leave the playwriting to Shakespeare and stick to what you do best.”

“Aye, whatever that may be,” said Kemp, getting down from his seat up in the wagon as they reached the stables and dismounted. “Lifting heavy objects, was it not?”

“Indeed, I do believe that you have struck upon it, Kemp,” said Smythe, turning towards him. “And since there is nothing heavier than your own weighty opinion of yourself, I think I shall indulge in a bit of practice at my skill.” With that, he seized Kemp and hoisted him high into the air, holding him at arm’s length overhead.

Startled, Kemp yelped, then started blustering. “Put me down, you great misbegotten oaf!”

“As you wish,” replied Smythe, and tossed him straight into the manure bin.

Kemp landed in the odiferous mixture of soggy straw and horse droppings to the accompaniment of uproarious laughter from his fellow players. He arose like a specter from the swamp, bits of soiled straw and dung clinging to his hair and clothing. Outrage and embarrassment mingled with anger and disgust, overwhelming him to the point of speechlessness.

“I have had my fill, Kemp, of your snide barbs and venomous aspersions,” Smythe said. “That you are more talented than I is something I shall not dispute. The least talented member of this company is a better player by far than I, much as it saddens me to say so. I am quite aware of my shortcomings. Be that as it may, I carry my weight and I work as hard as you do, if not harder, and I challenge any member of this company to say that I do not. I am not, by nature, hot-tempered, but neither will I suffer myself to be abused. The next time you provoke me, I shall put you through a window, and the landing may not be as soft. Find another target for your caustic wit, for I have had enough of it.”

There was complete silence as everyone waited for Kemp to respond. It was a side of Smythe they had not seen before, and it took them all aback a bit.

“Well…” began Kemp, awkwardly, “ ‘twas never my intention to do you any injury. I never meant to give any offense, you know. ‘Tis just my way… to chide people a bit, good-natured like. I never knew that it discomfitted you. You should have said something.” He tried to meet Smythe’s gaze, but his eyes kept sliding away. He looked, Smythe thought, rather like a guilty dog that had been caught stealing a meat pie.

“I have said something, just now,” Smythe replied. “And I trust that there shall be no need for me to say it once again.”

Later, when they were brought to their quarters in the servants’ wing on the ground floor of the mansion, Shakespeare and Smythe found themselves sharing once again a small room, little larger than a closet. There were always some spare rooms in the servants’ quarters of the larger homes for visitors who travelled with liveried footmen or tirewomen or the like. The accomodations were hardly luxurious, but they were still a sight more comfortable than what most working-class people in the city could afford, many of whom had to crowd together into tiny rented rooms and share sleeping space upon the floors.

“I was wondering when you would finally have your fill of Kemp and clout him one,” said Shakespeare.

“Now I never clouted him,” protested Smythe.

“No, what you did was much worse. Or much better, depending on one’s point of view. You humiliated him. Plucked him up as if he were a daisy and threw him straight into a pile of shit. ‘Twas quite lovely, really. Wish I had thought of it myself, save that I would have lacked the strength to hoist him up like that.”

Smythe grimaced. “I probably should not have done it. But I was sick of him constantly picking away at me.”

“Well, rest assured, he shall not do it anymore, but you have made an enemy for life.”

“You think?”

“Oh, aye. You can best a man and he will like as not forgive you for it, but humiliate him and ‘tis a sure thing that he will hate you til he dies. And I suppose that one can say the same for women, when it comes to that. Man or woman, either way, hate shall not discriminate.”

Smythe nodded. “I cannot disagree. But I do believe that Kemp had hated me right from the very start, or at the very least, disliked me a great deal. I could not have made things that much worse. I had held my temper with him in the past, but that only seemed to encourage him. At least now, I might save myself having to listen to his noise. Nevertheless… perhaps I should not have done it.”

“No, ‘twas the right thing you did,” said Shakespeare, thoughtfully, as he stretched out on the straw mattress and put his arms up behind his head. “You are a strapping lad, Tuck, powerfully strong, but that strength shall only be respected when there is a threat that it might be employed. If a man like Kemp perceives that he can bait you with impunity, why then you might be twice his size and it shall not discourage him. He was always pricking you with his nasty wit, we could all see that. If you had not thrown him in the shitpile, or else clouted him a good one, ‘twould have only gotten worse.”

“I think so, too,” said Smythe. “Though, in truth,” he added, somewhat sheepishly, “I cannot claim to have thought the matter through that way before I acted.”

“Betimes a man may think too much,” said Shakespeare. “Clarity is often better found in action than in thought. Hmm, that’s a good line. Let me set it down ‘ere I forget.”

He got up from the bed and rummaged in his bag. As Shakespeare searched for his papers and his pens and ink, Smythe took his place and stretched out on the straw bed. “In truth, Kemp was only a small part of my distemper. I keep thinking that Elizabeth is here somewhere and but for our foolish argument, I might have found an opportunity to spend a bit of time with her before we went on tour.”

“So what prevents you?” Shakespeare asked. “Go and search her out. Or else send word to her by one of the household servants.” “You forget,” said Smythe, “we argued.” “About what?”

Smythe frowned. “For the life of me, I cannot now recall.” He snorted. “Foolish.”

“Most quarrels between men and women are over foolish things,” said Shakespeare. “Especially if they are lovers.”

“But we are not lovers,” Smythe protested. “We have never… Well, we have never.”

“Then that is even more foolish,” Shakespeare said, impatiently. “I have told you afore this to get that girl out of your head, because she is too far above you, but if you intend to be stubborn about it, then you might as well tup her and have done with it. If you can manage to avoid having your ears and other parts of your anatomy sliced off by Henry Darcie, it might get her out of your system.”

“Mmm, I see. Was that how it worked for you in Stratford?”

“Swine. Do I toss your poor past judgement in your face?”

“Aye, all the time.”