The fat one in the buff and blue was slow to react to the outbreak of hostilities, his wits doubtless dulled by drink, but by the time Smythe’s leather-clad opponent crumpled to the floor, he had realized there was a brawl in progress and rushed forward with a roar, ignoring the blade at his side, instinctively counting on his size to work for him as he launched himself at Smythe and wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug, driving him backward. They crashed into the table where the young man’s elegant friend was sitting, but he simply got up in the nick of time and stepped casually back out of the way with his goblet as Smythe and the fat man fell to the floor, splintering the table beneath them.

Knowing that if the fat man fell on top of him, it would drive the wind right out of him, Smythe wrapped his own arms around his antagonist and twisted hard as they fell, with the result that the fat man took the brunt of their crash into the table and fell with the not inconsiderable bulk of Smythe on top of him. His thick layers of fat, however, absorbed much of the impact and kept him from getting the wind knocked out of him. He managed to dislodge Smythe, breaking his hold and tossing him aside, into another table. With an angry roar, he started to get back up, but never made it. Hoisting a bench high above his head with both hands, Shakespeare brought it down hard on top of the man’s head, splintering the wood, and quite possibly bone, as well. Leaning back against the bar, the elegant man in black raised his goblet in a toast, which Shakespeare acknowledged with a bow.

Smythe got up to see the young man hotly engaged with two opponents, the man in red and gold and the man in brown and black. And he was being driven back under their combined assault. However, before he could do anything, Smythe saw the situation resolved neatly by the young man’s black-garbed friend.

It happened very quickly. As the young man backed away, parrying furiously, his opponents passed the spot where the man in black was standing, leaning back against the bar. Moving in a casual, easy manner, the man in black unsheathed his dagger, flipped it so that he could grasp the blade with his gloved hand, then brought it down hard upon the skull of the man in red and gold. He crumpled to the floor as the man in black brought up his booted foot and kicked the other man right in the groin. The man in brown and black made a sound like a pig being stuck with a skewer, then collapsed as the elegant man in black brought the heavy pommel of his dagger down upon his head, knocking him unconscious.

The young man stepped back with an irritated look and shrugged, spreading his arms and sweeping his rapier out to the side in an elaborately expressive gesture. “I could have handled them, you know.”

The man in black glanced at him and grimaced. “The trouble with you, Kit, is that you are not nearly as good as you think you are.”

“I was doing bloody well all right till you stepped in!” the handsome young man protested.

“You had help,” the man in black said, indicating Smythe.

“ ‘Twas he who helped us,” said Smythe, “for which, sir,” he added, turning to the young man, “I am profoundly grateful. We have only just arrived in London, seeking employment, and our first day in town was very nearly our last.”

“Well, we cannot have louts and bumpkins abusing poets out in public, now can we? No, no, that would never do.” The handsome young man grinned, adding, “We artists have to stick together, you know.”

“Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “Though for my part, I would prefer to do so in a manner somewhat less bellicose.”

“Ah, but you must admit, it was a grand little set-to, was it not?” the young man said. “Just the sort of thing to get a man’s blood up!”

The man in black shook his head with resignation. “If you persist in this sort of foolishness, Marlowe, then I strongly suggest you take more fencing lessons, else I shall find some other young, deserving poet to favor with my patronage. These tavern brawls are going to be the death of you, and I would hate to see my money wasted. You still have many years of decent work in you, Kit. Assuming you survive, of course.”

The young man bowed with an exaggerated, courtly gesture. “I am properly chastised, milord. I shall make an appointment with your fencing master at the earliest opportunity.”

“And I shall have to pay for that, too, I suppose,” the man in black said, with a wry grimace.

“Kit Marlowe?” Shakespeare said. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Christopher Marlowe, the author of Tamburlane?“

The young man smiled, obviously pleased at the recognition.

“At your service, sir. And now I fear you have the advantage of me.”

“William Shakespeare is my name. And this is my friend, Tuck… that is, Mr. Symington Smythe. I know your work, Mr. Marlowe. I admire it very much. ‘Tis a great pleasure to meet you, indeed.”

“Well, you are most kind. And now it seems you have the advantage of me once again, for I fear that I am not yet familiar with your work, sir. Perhaps I will have the opportunity to become acquainted with it in due time.” He turned to the man in black. “Milord, allow me to present Mr. William Shakespeare and Mr. Symington Smythe. Gentlemen, my esteemed patron, the honorable Sir William Worley.”

The man in black inclined his head slightly and touched the brim of his hat. Smythe met his gaze and, in that instant, struck as if by lightning, he realized he knew this man, although he could scarcely believe it. “I am indebted to you, milord,” he said. “Once again.”

“Again?” said Worley, raising an eyebrow. “Have we met before?”

“Perhaps I am mistaken,” Smythe replied. “It is possible that I took you for someone else, milord. Mayhap some chance resemblance to another gentleman in black.”

“Indeed? Well, I shall have to speak to my tailor, then. He swore to me that no one else had clothes like these. If I find he has been selling copies, I shall have the fellow flogged.”

“In any event, we are both indebted to you, milord,” said Smythe. “Had Mr. Marlowe and yourself not intervened, I fear things would have turned out rather badly for us.”

“Perhaps. Though you seem quite capable with that staff, I suggest you get yourself a more serious weapon, Mr. Smythe. This is London, after all, not some small village in the Midlands. A man needs to look out for himself around here. You know how to use one of these?”

He drew his sword and tossed it to Smythe. Smythe caught it by the hilt. Worley smiled slightly, seeing his quick reaction. Smythe examined it and felt its balance.

“ ‘Tis a good blade, milord.”

“You seem to know the way to hold it. Keep it as a loan. You shall return it to me when you obtain one of your own.” He unbuckled his swordbelt and handed it to Smythe. “And if you do not return it in good time, and in good condition, mind you, then I shall have you found post haste and beaten mercilessly.”

“If I can get access to a forge, milord, then I shall endeavor to make you one still better,” Smythe replied. “And you may have that in trade, if you prefer.”

“Indeed?” Worley raised his eyebrows. “Those are rather bold words, young man. That is a Toledo blade.”

“ ‘Tis a fine blade, milord,” said Smythe, a bit hesitantly. “A good weapon, and very serviceable. But I would place its origin much closer, right here in England rather than in Spain.”

“The devil you say! It so happens I was assured that blade was made by Sebastiani of Toledo. Do you dispute this? Explain yourself, sir.”

Smythe cleared his throat. “Well, milord… ‘tis true there is an S stamped on the ricasso of the blade, but I can assert with confidence that it stands for Somersby, a Sheffield cutler of some small repute. I know his makers’ mark quite well; I have seen it many times at my uncle’s shop, when we had occasion to sharpen or repair his blades for several of our customers. He is an able craftsman, but certainly not up to the standards of the masters of Toledo, something I am quite sure he would readily admit, as I am told he is an honest man. I… uh… would hope that whoever sold the weapon to you asked a price in keeping with its proper origin.”