As Smythe turned his mount over to one of the servants who came out to meet him, he gazed up at the imposing residence and took a deep breath, marshaling his courage. Just the idea of a visit to such an opulent place would ordinarily have been enough to make him feel intimidated, much less visiting it under such peculiar and possibly even dangerous circumstances. The man who lived here was not only one of the richest and most influential men in the country, he was also a brigand who robbed travelers on the roads leading to London, a flamboyant highwayman who called himself Black Billy. It seemed absolutely insane. And yet, Smythe knew it to be true. And Sir William knew he knew.

What Smythe couldn’t understand was why. The man seemingly had everything. Entering the house, he could see walls paneled in imported woods and hung with rich tapestries, ceilings patterned with delicate plaster ribs forming arabesques, geometrical forms and figures of birds and beasts, each room different from the other. There were ornate staircases, some straight, some spiraled, with solid oak block steps and massive handrailings and newel posts, all heavily and intricately carved by master artisans.

He was conducted to a great hall with a long gallery, just like in a castle throne room, from which people could look down on what was happening below or, alternatively, Smythe thought, from where archers could shoot down at anyone who was being a boorish guest.

He grimaced. The suits of armor standing at either side of the entrance to the chamber had given his mind an unpleasantly martial turn, as did the maces and the battleaxes and the morning stars hanging on the walls, alongside pikes and halberds and great swords and shields and bucklers. It looked like the armory at Tower of London, another place he was anxious to avoid.

I’ve made a mistake in coming here, he thought. There was nothing to be served in doing this. He did not belong here. Was assuaging his curiosity truly worth taking such a risk? He decided, despite his apprehensions, that it was. It could have been pure chance that he had happened on Black Billy on the road to London. Shakespeare had not run into him. The poet had not, in fact, run into any robbers at all on his way from Stratford, but perhaps that was because he had not been traveling alone. He had said that he had fallen in with a company of travelers for the sake of safety in numbers. It must have worked. Smythe had traveled alone and been accosted several times. So, perhaps it was mere chance. But then to run into him again in London, in that tavern-and in the company of Marlowe, when it just so happened that he, too, was in the company of a poet, albeit one who was not yet successful-it simply seemed as if there were some fateful influence at work here. And Sir William had invited him, after all. If he had wanted to dispose of him, he would certainly not have needed to invite him to his home. Assassins could be hired cheaply from among the men who loitered around Paul’s, cheap even for men with far fewer resources than Sir William could command.

“Young Master Smythe, was it?”

Smythe turned to see Sir William entering the hall. He was dressed very plainly in black doublet and hose, and a pair of silver buckled shoes. “Aye, sir,” Smythe replied. “Though I cannot truthfully call myself a master of any art or craft. Did I come at an inconvenient time, milord? I could easily come back another day, if you prefer.”

“Nonsense. Today is perfectly convenient. And you are welcome at Green Oaks. May I offer you some wine?”

“You are most kind, Sir William, but I would not wish to put you to any trouble on my account.”

“Trouble? I have more wine in my cellars than I could possibly drink in a lifetime. Someone’s going to have to help me drink it, you know. It can’t all go down Her Royal Majesty’s alabaster throat. And I would much rather it be an honest man who drank my wine than all those dissipated hangers-on at court.”

Smythe smiled, despite his discomfort. “In that event, milord, it would be both an honor and a pleasure.”

“Excellent. You should find a decanter of port and several glasses over on the sideboard there. Be a good fellow and pour us both a drink. I have given strict instructions that we are not to be disturbed.”

Smythe glanced back at him as he made his way over to the heavy, carved mahogany sideboard. “That sounds rather ominous, milord.”

Worley raised his eyebrows. “Does it? Are you afraid that I shall do away with you in here and secret your body underneath the floorboards? ‘Twould eventually make the room smell rather piquant, don’t you think?”

Smythe brought him a glass of port. No pewter or clay goblets here, he thought, but the very finest glassware. “To be sure, milord. In any event, ‘twould be a far more elegant resting place than a man of my lowly station would deserve.”

Worley raised his glass. “I see. Well, what shall we drink to, then? To… proper resting places? From each according to his ability to each according to his need? Hmm. In that event, paupers would be buried in Westminster and half the men at court would be thrown into Fleet Ditch.”

Smythe chuckled. He was finding it impossible not to like the man. “Why not drink to chance encounters?” he said.

Worley grinned. “Splendid! To chance encounters, then.”

They raised their glasses and drank.

“And ‘twas, perhaps, our chance encounter that you wanted to discuss?” said Smythe.

“Which encounter?” asked Worley. “You mean the first or the second?”

“The first, milord. That day in the country, near the crossroads and the inn known as The Hawk and Mouse.”

Worley smiled. “Ah. That encounter. Well, then. What of it?”

Smythe shook his head. “I… do not understand, milord,” he said. “Why?”

Worley simply shrugged. “Why not?”

“But… you have everything, milord. Everything that it seems to me a man could conceivably want. Wealth, position, power, and influence… ‘twould seem you lack for nothing. Why play at being some lowly highwayman?”

“I do it for the fun,” Worley replied, bluntly.

“Fun?” said Smythe, with disbelief.

“Aye, fun,” said Worley. “Is that so difficult to comprehend? That a man in my position might feel the need for some occasional stimulation? Some skylarking? A bit of fun? Besides, I am not just any highwayman, you know. I am the infamous Black Billy. Why, there are ballads and broadsheets written about me. You can pick them up in the stands down by St. Paul ’s. I have most of them here. I collect them. True, they exaggerate my exploits considerably, but I find them quite amusing.”

“But… what of the risk, milord?”

“The risk?” Worley shrugged. “Oh, I suppose there is some slight risk, but that only makes it part of the fun, you see.”

“Surely, you must realize that if they catch you, you shall hang.”

“You think? Well… I may hang, I suppose. And then again, I may not. The queen is rather fond of me, you know. But she is a bit of a stickler for form. She might be moved toward clemency, or else she might just have me beheaded. Bit quicker that way. Or so they say. In any event, I should think the odds are greater that I might be killed during a robbery, rather than be apprehended.”

“How can you discuss this with so little concern?” asked Smythe, amazed not only at the substance of their conversation, but at Worley’s casual tone about it.

“Because it does not concern me,” Worley replied.

“But… how can it not, milord?” Smythe asked, with exasperation.

“Look, sit down, Smythe, and stop standing there looking like some great self-righteous oak. If you will give me your attention for a few moments, I will endeavor to explain.”

Smythe obediently sat.

“Good,” said Worley, remaining on his feet, rather to Smythe’s discomfort. He did not feel that he should be sitting in the presence of a knight, but then again, sitting in the presence of a brigand certainly seemed permissible. The protocol of the situation seemed rather confusing, not to say unsettling.