He continued to make his way up toward the stage, shouldering through the crowd and getting some shoves and surly remarks back as he went. It was maddening. They simply would not get out of his way and a couple of times, he almost got into fights as he pushed and bulled his way through. Then, with a sudden burst of inspiration, he started coughing, bringing a handkerchief up to his mouth, as if he were spewing every time he coughed. Ever mindful of the Plague, people suddenly shrank back from him, turning their faces away with expressions of alarm, and he made much quicker progress. Soon, he had reached the front of the stage, which projected out into the courtyard like a wooden pier into a river of churning flesh.

The crowd was packed so thickly, people were even sitting on the edge of the stage, watching the performance, so close to the actors that they could reach out and touch them. Smythe tried to determine at what point in the play they were. The production ran about two hours long, with the acts divided into roughly equal parts. Two acts in the beginning, two acts at the end, with a break in the middle. They were at least halfway through the first act, perhaps a little more. He wasn’t sure. He had enough trouble remembering his one line, much less everybody else’s. All he knew was that his line had come a short way into the second act, right after Kemp announced, “I would give a king’s ransom for a horse!”

He grimaced. Now he remembered his cue! And, inexplicably, he remembered his line, too. “Milord, the post horses have arrived!” Of course, now that it made no difference, he remembered. Well, clearly, someone else would have already been picked to play his tiny part. It would only mean an extra line for one of the other hired men. Something as insignificant as that would pose no difficulty for the production, and would probably improve it, Smythe thought, since he could never seem to get it right and only managed to succeed in getting on Kemp’s nerves. But just the same, it rankled him that he remembered now, when it no longer mattered.

As he had made his way toward the front of the stage, he kept looking at the faces all around him, desperately seeking the man that he had seen back at the inn, but from where he was, he could not see much more than several feet around him in the yard. The killers could all be within fifteen or twenty feet of him and he would have no way of knowing. He would need to get some height so he could see better.

He had now reached a spot roughly parallel to the middle of the stage. A bit further and he could get backstage, into the tiring room where he had left his sword and where he could warn the other members of the company about what was going on. He continued to push his way through, coughing hard and hacking like a man on his last legs, trying to get the people to make way for him. It worked, and soon he was even with the rear of the stage and then climbing up and going through into the backstage area. The fist person he ran into was Robert Speed, costumed and waiting to go on.

“Tuck! What the devil! Where in God’s name have you been?”

“There is no time to explain, Bobby. We’ve got trouble.”

“You mean you’ve got trouble. Shakespeare was furious when you simply took off in the middle of rehearsal. And now Kemp wants you out of the company entirely.”

“Never mind all that,” said Smythe. “Will is in terrible danger. Four men are here to kill him.”

“What, Kempt?”

“No, Shakespeare!”

“Why would anyone want to kill him? What has he done?”

“Nothing. ‘Tis a mistake. They think that he is someone else.”

“Well, then, explain things to them, for God’s sake. I have no time for this sort of nonsense now, I have to go on in a moment!”

“Damn it, Speed…”

“Hold on, there’s my cue!” He drew himself up, raised his chin, and swept out onto the stage.

Smythe swore in frustration. Toward the end of the first act, most of the company were onstage in a scene that took place at a ball, with everyone who was not delivering lines engaged in milling around and dancing. Several of the hired men would be making rapid entrances and exits, changing pieces of their costume to make the cast seem larger than it was. Smythe rushed up to one of them as he came off the stage and ran to make his change.

“Miles!”

“Smythe! Bloody hell! You’re late!”

“Never mind, where’s Will?” “Kemp? He’s out on stage, of course.”

“No, no, Will Shakespeare!”

“On the other side, standing in the wings and prompting.”

“Miles, listen, you must tell him-”

“No time now, I’m off!”

“Miles!”

But he had already rushed out of the tiring room and back onstage.

“Damn!” Smythe swore and looked out through the curtain, toward the back of the playhouse, where he saw his fellow ostlers all standing at the rear, holding staves and clubs and pitchforks, looking around for him to tell them what to do. “Hell,” he muttered, through gritted teeth. He could see no sign of Sir William, or the killers, or the man in the black cloak who led them. But they were all out there, somewhere. He had to warn Will, and then get back to the ostlers and let them know what they had to do.

He found his sword, which was fortunately right where he had left it earlier that day, buckled the scabbard around his waist, then quickly made his way around across the backstage area and to the other side. Will was standing just offstage, in the wings, holding the book, following the action and making certain everyone picked up their cues and made their entrances on time, with the right props.

“Will! Thank God!”

“Tuck! Damn you, where the devil did you get to?” Shakespeare said, angrily.

“Never mind that. Listen to me, your life is in danger. Four men are here to kill you.”

“What?”

“Look, I do not have much time to explain-”

“Phillip! Now! Your cue! Go on!” said Shakespeare, to one of the young boys playing one of the female parts.

“Blast! Sorry,” said the lad, and lifting up his skirts, he rushed out onto the stage.

“Will-”

“Not now, Tuck, for heaven’s sake! I cannot be distracted! You are getting in the way! The act is almost over. There is still time for you to change and do your part if you hurry.”

“Will, have you even heard what I said? There are people here to kill you!”

“What? Why would anyone wish to kill me?”

“Because they are acting on Gresham ’s orders!”

Shakespeare rolled his eyes. “Oh, what rot! What sort of nonsense has that damned girl filled your head with now? I told you to stay away from her! Burbage told you to stay away from her! You are just going to cause everyone a lot of trouble!” He reached out and grabbed one of the hired men as he was rushing past. “Wait, Adrian, the tray! Do not forget the tray!”

“Shit. Thanks.”

“Will, please… listen to me, Elizabeth has nothing to do with this-”

“She has everything to do with it! That girl is out of her bloody mind. Sir Anthony is a perfectly decent man who deserves a lot better than her, if you ask me. Now forget this nonsense and get back there and change. The first act is ending any moment… no, ‘tis done, they are coming in.”

“Will-”

“I have no time now! We can discuss this later! Right, come on, now, everyone! Costumes and places for the second act! Check the pegboard for your props and cues!”

As the refreshment vendors plied their wares out in the courtyard among the crowd, the other players all came rushing back offstage, heading for the tiring room. The second act followed hard upon the heels of the first, with no break in between. Will Kemp, as one of the leading players, had to go back out on stage almost immediately, along with young Michael Jones, who was playing the lead female role. Kemp’s gaze fell on Smythe and his lip curled down in a sneer.