He did not know why, precisely. Shakepeare was rather close-mouthed on the subject, save when he was in his cups, and even then, he revealed very little. Smythe only knew that Will had left a family behind in Stratford when he came to London, a wife and children whom he never visited, but to whom he sent a good portion of everything he earned, for which reason, despite a very frugal disposition, he never had any money and was always struggling to earn more. Hence, his “strumpet sonneteering,” as he called it, writing verse in praise of various courtiers who collected such fawning scribblings, paid for them, and often had them bound into small volumes which they then passed amongst themselves and exhibited in their homes like treasured trophies taken in some hunt. Smythe found it all quite comical and even childish, yet foolish as it seemed, in such trying times, it could provide some much needed income and, to a fortunate few, even a decent livelihood if their reputations grew and printers sought their work to offer for sale in the book stalls at St. Paul’s.

The true prize for an ambitious poet lay in securing the patronage of an aristocrat, as some of the university men had done. Many noblemen had their own pet poets, as Smythe thought of them, and in return for their support, these well-educated men of letters wrote paens of praise for their well-heeled patrons, likening them in fulsome, cadenced terms to gods or heroes from Greek mythology or ancient history. Smythe had read several such slim volumes that Shakespeare had brought home. He had been amazed that men would pay good money for such drivel and had said so.

“Drivel it may be,” Shakespeare had replied, “but if ‘twill help to pay our rent and put food into our empty, growling bellies, then to drivel shall I fix my compass and grandly sail forth.”

And so he did, often working late into the night by candlelight, writing at his desk, a small, crudely made trestle table now covered with candle wax and ink stains. He was often writing when Smythe fell asleep, and sometimes was still to be found writing come the morning. To date, he had not yet managed to find a wealthy patron, but he had sold some sonnets to a few well-born young gentlemen, thanks to an admiring word or two dropped casually by Sir William at court, and his name was beginning to become known as a rising young poet. He was yet a far cry from being a rival to the likes of Robert Greene or Thomas Lodge, but then he was still new in London and did not have the advantage of a university degree to buttress his ambitions. However, he did not let that deter him, not when it came to writing sonnets, nor when it came to writing plays.

Thus far, he had yet to write a complete play of his own, though he had made extensive notes on various ideas. Shakespeare’s first opportunity to show the company what he could do came when Alleyn left them in the midst of a production that had not been working to begin with. It was unclear who was the original author of the play, for companies frequently performed plays that were rewritten from earlier versions, which were often rewritten from earlier versions still, which in turn often came from other sources. The original author was often impossible to pinpoint, though as Smythe recalled, this particular production had all the stamp of Robert Greene upon it.

Though he could not say that it was Greene for certain, the play had a pomposity and a pretentiousness, a smug condecension in its mocking attitude towards the rising middle class that had all the earmarks of the university men-Greene, in particular-who seemed to despise the very audience for whom they wrote. Or perhaps, as Shakespeare had put it, for whom the companies performed the plays, for Will believed that the university men actually wrote less for the playhouse audiences than for one another. Therein, he insisted, lay their true failing.

For the Queen’s Men, the problem was, perhaps, less clearly defined, but nevertheless immediate. The play was a disaster and their featured player had summarily quit them for a rival company. Something needed to be done, and quickly. Seeing his opportunity, Will had stepped forth, volunteering to try his hand at doctoring the play. Dick Burbage had decided they had nothing to lose by letting him try. If the young ostler fancied himself a poet, Burbage had told the others, then why not see what he could do? So what if he was not a university-trained man of letters? Who was to say that he might not come up with an amusing verse or two that could add some much needed spirit to improve the play? It certainly could not, Burbage had admitted wryly, be made a great deal worse.

Shakespeare had not only improved the production by deleting a few lines here and adding a few there, rewriting the most troublesome scenes, but he had continued to rewrite in stages, after each performance, until an almost entirely new and much improved play had emerged. The company was so well pleased with the result that they gave him the opportunity of looking over the other plays in their repertoire, to see if they might be improved, as well.

For Shakespeare, this had brought about a change in fortune that had elevated him from the lowly post of ostler at the Burbage Theatre to book-holder and sometime actor. Both positions carried more prestige within the company and brought with them slightly better pay, but as book-holder especially, Will now had a great deal more responsibility. While not quite as important as the role of stage-manager who assembled the company, assigned all the parts, and saw to it that all the actors received their parts in manuscript sheets of paper pasted together to form rolls upon which were written each actor’s cues and speeches, the book-holder worked closely with the stage-manager, assembling all the properties and keeping them in good order for every performance, as well as acting as a prompter and arranging for all the music, fanfares, alarums, stage thunder and other incidental noises, and keeping track of all the cues and entrances and exits during the performance.

Smythe, meanwhile, remained an ostler, though more and more, he found himself performing menial work around the theatre, sweeping and maintaining the stage, and making sure there were fresh rushes strewn across the yard for each performance. It was not quite the glamorous life he had envisioned for himself when he had embarked for London. Instead of basking in the warmth of audience applause, as he had so many times imagined in his daydreams, he often sweltered in the all too real stench of what they left behind after each performance.

From time to time, there was a small part for him to play, but the company had learned not to depend upon his ability to memorize his lines, nor upon his execrable sense of timing. Smythe was at a complete loss to explain these shortcomings. His memory never seemed to fail him save for when he stepped out upon the stage, at which point it inexplicably went blank and he could not recall even the simplest, briefest line. As a result, he was never sent out on stage alone. To make certain he did not miss his cue, Will was usually there to shove him out in the direction he needed to go, and whoever was already on stage always stood prepared to prompt him if the need arose, as it usually did. For Smythe, it was exasperating, but he seemed completely helpless to overcome the situation.

“Stage fright,” Dick Burbage called it. “ ‘Tis a thing to which most players fall victim at one time or another. To some, it means merely an unsettled stomach and a slight trembling of the hands or knees, a sort of giddy, momentary weakness overcome the moment they step out onto the stage and plunge into the role. For others, it is a nearly unbearable, oppressive pressure in the chest, the heart beating like a wild thing trying to claw its way free of the flesh, violent shaking and cold sweats, a paralyzing fear that becomes completely all consuming. And yet, for all that, it often goes away once they step out onto the stage and become caught up in the play. Most players get over it in time. Still, with a few… it never truly goes away.”