“You are a gentleman,” she said.

“No, milady. Merely an ostler, and one whose word, I fear, shall carry very little weight. But you shall have it just the same.”

“Well, I trust the lady has been honorably served,” said Shakespeare, coming up to him and handing him a pot of ale as he came into the tavern. “Here am I, rushing home to share the tale of my first theatrical success, and you chase me out of my own room while you entertain a lady. Odd’s blood, but you are a cold-hearted fellow.”

“Forgive me, Will, I…” Smythe cleared his throat, uneasily. “ ‘Twas all perfectly innocent. I came home and simply found her there, sleeping on the bed. She said that you had let her in to wait for me. I was quite taken by surprise, you know.”

“I would call that being very pleasantly surprised, indeed. It looked to me as if she took you like Drake took the Armada. Heave to, young Tuck, and prepare for boarding.”

Smythe grimaced. “The poet, it seems, can turn a phrase not only at Robert Greene’s expense, but mine, as well.”

“Oh, well said!” Shakespeare replied, with a grin. “An excellent riposte. There may be hope for you yet. Some of me must be rubbing off on you.”

“Then I must remember to scrub harder.”

Some of the other players were still engaged in drinking and sharing bread and cheese. The actors waved them over and they engaged in some good-natured bantering for a while, discussing the performance of that night, which had apparently been quite a success. For the first time, Smythe felt as if they were being treated as members of the company, rather than outsiders, and this seemed largely due to Shakespeare’s efforts. The first stage of his rewrite of Greene’s play had improved greatly on some of the jokes and puns and physically amusing scenes, and now they would immediately begin preparing to add the second round of changes to the first. Everyone had been quite pleased with the job that he had done, even the normally petulant Kemp, who had benefited greatly from new lines and bits of foolery that gave him bigger laughs.

Burbage had been quite impressed and had spoken with his father, with the result that Shakespeare would be given the opportunity to look over some of the other plays within their repertoire to see if he could effect similar improvements. Moreover, they had paid him two pounds for the job he’d done, and would pay more if he could do the same for other plays. It was not yet an offer of regular employment, but it was a good beginning and Shakespeare was justifiably excited. After they had spent some time drinking with the other players, Shakespeare took his leave of them and led Smythe to a nearby table.

The poet chuckled and clapped him on the back as they sat down together in a corner, dimly lit by the candle on the tabletop. He was clearly in high spirits. “All in all, a good night for us both, it seems. See, I told you there would be opportunities for you aplenty once we got to London. I must admit, though, I did not expect them to come knocking directly at our door. You must have really charmed her that night when you met her coach.”

“In all honesty, Will, ‘twas not why she came to see me,” Smythe said. “She came to ask a favor.”

“I see. She had lost her virtue and you were helping her to look for it upon the floor?”

“We were not doing anything upon the floor! She merely came to speak with me!”

“It must have been an exhausting conversation,” said Shakespeare. “When I came in, I saw you resting from it. But do go on. I am curious to hear what happened.”

Over more ale, Smythe recounted the story she had told him and Shakespeare listened with interest. When Smythe was done, the poet simply sat there for a moment, stroking his wispy beard and thinking.

“So, seriously now, what do you make of it all?” asked Smythe, after a few moments.

“Well… to be honest, I am not quite sure,” Shakespeare replied, slowly. His mood seemed to have shifted as he had listened to Smythe’s tale. The euphoria of his success, having already been indulged in the company of the Queen’s Men, now gave way to a contemplative puzzlement. “There seems to be much here we do not know,” he continued. “Or at the very least, we have only the lady’s word that certain events transpired as she claims they had. Mind you, I do not say she has lied to you, merely that ‘tis only people’s nature to describe things in a manner favorable to their own predispositions. Someone else, observing these same events, might see them rather differently. And then, of course, not to cast aspersions, but merely to recognize a possibility, there is always the chance that she has lied.”

“Do you believe she has?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “I do not know. I have had too little contact with the lady to form a reliable impression of her character. However, all jesting aside, in the short time that we did speak, she struck me as sincere. And as someone who was greatly agitated. I certainly believe she is sincere when she tells you that she does not want this marriage to take place. I cannot imagine any reason why she would lie about that. I cannot see anything that she would have to gain. Indeed, ‘twould seem she would stand to gain much more if she went along with it. So I conclude we can accept her at her word there and safely assume there are no hidden reasons why she would play at intrigue in this matter.”

“So that leaves us with Gresham,” Smythe said.

“It does, indeed. On the face of it, Miss Darcie’s actions seem quite clear and understandable. At least, to me. She does not wish to marry a man she does not love, his social standing notwithstanding, so to speak, and thus far, her comportment in this matter seems consistent. Mr. Gresham, on the other hand, if we are to accept Miss Darcie’s version of events, is something of a puzzle.”

“And we have reasons of our own to dislike Mr. Gresham,” added Smythe, with a sour grimace.

“True. All the more reason to make sure those reasons do not interfere with reason,” Shakespeare said, holding up an admonishing forefinger.

“That does it. Enough ale for you. We had better cut you off before you start tripping over your own tongue.”

Shakespeare chuckled. “For all your considerable bulk, my friend, the day I cannot drink three of you under the table is the day I go back to lapping mother’s milk. Meanwhile, I shall have another pot as we contemplate this matter further.” He waved over the serving wench for a refill. “Now then… as to our friend, Mr. Gresham…” He frowned. “Have you seen the fellow?”

“He was the one at the inn that night, remember? He took the last available rooms. And the next day nearly ran us down.”

“Ah, quite so, but I caught merely a glimpse of him as he came in. I remember a tall man, dark hair, wide-brimmed hat, and traveling cloak and not much else.”

“I am surprised you remember that much, considering how much you drank that night,” said Smythe, with a grin.

Shakespeare grunted. “You had a better look at him, in any case. He was well spoken, as I recall, but then one would expect that from a gentleman.”

“He does not strike me as much of a gentleman if he makes a woman out to be a liar,” Smythe said.

“A woman who has just allowed you to kiss her, and therefore raised herself considerably in your esteem,” Shakespeare replied.

“You think a pretty face would make all of my sound judgement take sudden flight?” Smythe countered, irritably.

“Perhaps not. But add to the face an ample bosom, a saucy waist, and a pretty pair of legs wrapped around your middle and I suspect you could become quite addle-pated.”

Smythe shook his head. “You do the lady a disservice, Will. You make her out to be a strumpet, and she is most assuredly not that.”

“Of course not,” Shakespeare replied. “Look, Tuck, I am not trying to disparage the lady or upset you. But you are my friend, and I feel it is my duty to play the Devil’s advocate and point out some things you may have failed to consider. To wit, what do you suppose would happen if Gresham were to learn what just transpired upstairs?”