“You may thank him for me and tell him I am most grateful for his consideration,” said Elizabeth, with a smile.

Mr. Anthony Gresham, it seemed, was nobody’s fool. The betrothal may have already been arranged and, in the minds of both their parents, the marriage could well be a fait accompli, but he clearly wanted to see his intended for himself before he set off for the church. What other reason could there be for such an invitation? It was very nearly an imperious summons. It had been well and politely phrased, to be sure, but on such short notice, it was presumptuous and there was an air of arrogant expectation that it would be obeyed, right down to ordering the servant to deliver it directly into her hand and then await her response, which presumed that she would not even take any time to think it over. Her mother could not see the arrogance of it, because the subtleties escaped her. Her father certainly would, but then he would probably expect it from somebody like Gresham and excuse it, for wanting to attain a position where he could be as arrogant himself. Elizabeth sighed.

Well, she thought, with any luck, in their eagerness to see the matter settled, neither of them would think too much about what motives Mr. Gresham had behind this invitation. There was even a good chance that his coach would arrive to pick her up before her father came home for the evening. He often worked late. In that event, he wouldn’t even have a chance to think about it and come up with some reason to postpone the meeting at the last moment, until such time as he would be in a position to exercise some more control over how and when it was conducted. For if he did have a chance to think about it, then he might realize that Fate had just handed his daughter the perfect opportunity to thwart his plans for her.

So, she thought, the high and mighty Mr. Anthony Gresham wanted to see the goods displayed before he bought them, did he? Elizabeth smiled, smugly. Well then, see them he would. And she would display herself in such a fashion as to make him blanch. It would be an evening that he would not soon forget. And then, she thought, chuckling to herself, we shall see if there shall be a wedding.

She hurried to get ready.

“When we came to seek employment with the Queen’s Men, this was not the sort of position that I had in mind,” said Shakespeare, wryly, as he held the horse while the gentleman dismounted.

Smythe came up beside him, leading a saddled bay by its reins. “Well, one has to start somewhere, I suppose. But I must admit that this was not quite my idea of working in the Theatre, either.”

“Ostlers,” said Shakespeare, with a grimace, as they led the patrons’ horses to the stable. “We came to London to be players, and instead, we are mere ostlers. Stable boys! Odd’s blood, I could have stayed in Stratford and done far better than this!”

“But you would not be in the Theatre,” Smythe said, as they led the horses toward the stalls.

“And I would not have shit upon my boots, either.”

“I thought you had previously arranged a position with the company when they had come through your Stratford whilst on tour,” said Smythe.

Shakespeare grunted. “Well, I thought so, too. It seems, however, I was misled as to precisely what sort of position it was. ‘Tis my own damned fault for listening to that pompous blowhard, Kemp.”

“He was the one you made arrangements with? I thought you said he was an ass?”

“And I stand heartily by my first assessment, as you can see it proven out. But at the time, I thought he was in earnest. ‘Oh, aye,’ he says, ‘you would be welcome to come with us when we leave Stratford to go out upon the road again. Or else, come and join us when you get to London! Always a place for likely lads in the Queen’s Men! Always room for talent!’ Talent, my damned buttocks!”

“Well, he did not specify what sort of talent, did he?”

“How much talent does it take to be a hotwalker?”

“It takes some. If you do not feel at ease and in control of the animal, ‘twill shy, and then it may spook others, and then instead of walking mounts to cool them off, you’ve got them galloping wildly all over the place. You may not have secured the sort of position that you wanted, Will, but you did manage to get a job and you do have a way with horses.”

They put up the animals and went back out again as several other ostlers met them coming in, each of them leading saddled mounts back to the stable. A few others hotwalked patrons’ horses around in a circle at the edge of Finsbury field, where the theatre patrons who came to Shoreditch on horseback dismounted and turned their steeds over to the ostlers, either to put them up with some fresh hay in the stables or tie them up in the paddock during the performance, or else walk them around to cool them off if they were lathered from a run or a long trot.

Many of the patrons came by way of the Thames, ferried by the watermen in their small boats, but some of the wealthier ones came by coach or carriage. With those patrons, it was usually their coachmen who took charge of the equipage, either seeing to everything themselves or else directing an ostler or two in the unhitching and walking of the horses, if they needed it, or else watering and sometimes brushing and combing them, depending on what their masters had ordered. There were small fees for these services, of course, and an enterprising ostler who managed to attend a number of wealthy patrons could do reasonably well for himself if the company was putting on a popular play, but it was still a long way from being on the stage. And the Queen’s Men seemed to have experienced better days. Dick Tarleton, their biggest draw, was ailing and the attendance was down from what they’d been accustomed to.

Nevertheless, thought Smythe, they had little to complain about, despite Shakespeare’s disappointment. Within a day of coming to London, they had found employment, which was more than a lot of people could say, and a place to live, which in itself was something of an accomplishment.

Many people were arriving in London every day from the surrounding countryside, all in search of livelihoods they could not find in the towns and villages from whence they came. In many cases, those with little money had to share rooms with as many as six, eight, ten, or a dozen others, often leaving scarcely enough space for anything except a cramped place to sleep upon the floor. It made for a crowded and often pungent environment. He and Shakespeare had been much more fortunate.

They had found a room at The Toad and Badger, on the second floor over the tavern. It was small and sparsely furnished, a far cry even from the modest room Smythe had when he had apprenticed with his uncle, but it was a room they could afford, and did not have to share with others, thanks in part to Shakespeare’s having set aside a little money to make the trip to London. It was also fortunate for them that their chance meeting with Sir William Worley and Kit Marlowe had resulted in a good word put in for them by Mr. Burbage, who had spoken with the landlord and arranged for some consideration with the payments of the rent.

Smythe was under no illusion that Richard Burbage had done so purely out of the goodness of his heart. He was a pleasant enough young fellow, but he was also looking out for his own interests. The theatre that his father had built was dependent upon people attending its productions, and it certainly paid to remain in the good graces of one of the wealthiest men in London, who was known as a patron of the arts. And although Marlowe wrote for a rival company, the Admiral’s Men, Burbage had every reason to maintain cordial relations with him, as well.

According to Shakespeare, Marlowe was the most promising young poet of the day and, with Tamburlane, he had served notice upon the players’ world that a change was in the air. The production had shocked and thrilled audiences with its lyrical bombast and lurid violence, reminiscent of the Greek classics, and in contrast, the broad jests and prancing jigs and ribald songs performed by other companies seemed suddenly dated and low class. At least, this was the opinion Shakespeare held. Smythe had actually enjoyed the ribald jests, the funny jigs, and the bawdy songs, and wasn’t at all sure that something serious and weighty would be preferable. After all, despite Marlowe’s education, university men did not constitute the bulk of the audience and the Theatre was not the Inns of Court, where productions were often staged in Latin by amateur barristers who would one day argue the law before the bench. Nevertheless, Shakespeare seemed convinced that Marlowe’s work, as notorious as the man himself, heralded a new sort of drama, one that would cater more to the talents of serious actors such as Edward Alleyn and less to lowbrow jesters like Will Kemp. The days of the prancing clown, Shakespeare had insisted, were over. Of course, it was also possible that Shakespeare was exaggerating, just as he had exaggerated the nature of their relationship with Marlowe and Sir William, which was why Dick