“So you decided to forego the glover’s trade and make your way to London to seek your fortune as a player?”

“As a poet, actually. At any rate, that would be my preference. Mind you, I shall take work as a player, if I can get it, for one must eat, after all, and working as player will allow me also to write plays. And writing plays and selling them will bring more profit, if the audiences come and I make a reputation for myself and become a shareholder of the company. And then, if I am fortunate enough to find a noble patron, that too can bring increase.” “How so?”

“How? Why, through poetry, of course. Poetry that extols the virtues of your noble patron, or a nobleman that you hope to have as patron. You make a dedication-it is considered proper to ask permission, of course, usually through some friendly intermediary- and then you find some scrivener to make fair copies for them for distribution to their friends, or else have it bound and printed, if ‘tis a longer work, although it seems that short Italian sonnets are all the rage among the fashionable nobility these days.”

“And for this they give you money?”

“Aye, if the work should please them. Which is to say, if it proves popular and reflects upon them favorably. Many of your honorable Masters of the Arts, such as Marlowe, whom I mentioned, receive small stipends for their laudatory scribblings about Lord This or Earl That or Duke The Other. It is a common enough practice.”

“But… why?” asked Smythe, puzzled. “Why would anyone pay money merely for being complimented in verse form?”

“They contend with poets nowadays as they once used to contend with arms in tournaments. Mine turns a sweeter rhyme than yours and what not. ‘Tis not, perhaps, such manly sport, but ‘tis considerably safer. Besides, what do you mean, ‘merely’ complimented in verse form, you great lout? Can you write a poem?”

“No. Well, that is to say, I have never tried writing any verses.” He shrugged. “But then, it does not seem so very difficult.”

“Oh, you think so, do you? Right, then. Give me a rhyme for ‘orange.’ “

“Orange? Very well.” Smythe thought a moment. “Let me see… Orange… orange…”

“Well? Come on.”

“Hold on, I’m thinking.” Smythe frowned, concentrating. “Orange…”

“Mmmmm?” The poet raised his eyebrows. “Well? I am still waiting.”

“I… uh… that is… uh…” “Ummm?”

“Hmpf! I cannot seem to think of one.”

“Indeed? I thought you said it was not so very difficult?”

“Bah! It is a trick. I’ll warrant there is no rhyme for orange.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Well, you come up with one, then!”

“Door hinge.”

“Door hinge?”

“Orange, door hinge… it rhymes.”

“And you call yourself a poet? What sort of rhyme is that?” “A perfectly serviceable one.”

“Indeed? I would like to see what sort of poem you’d write with that!”

“Well, you merely asked me for a rhyme, not an entire poem.”

“ ‘Twas you who asked me for the rhyme! Knowing all the while a better one could not be found. Is that what poets do, then, sit up all night drinking and thinking of such things?”

Shakespeare nodded. “More or less, aye.”

“And they pay you for this?”

“Not nearly well enough, if you ask me.”

The sound of rapid hoofbeats from behind them caused them both to turn in time to see a coach come barreling around the bend, bearing straight for them. The driver made absolutely no effort to rein in and there was no place for him to turn, not that he showed the slightest inclination for so doing. It was only by diving off to the side of the road, into the thorny brush, that they avoided being run down.

“Aaaaaahhhh! You pox-ridden, misbegotten son of a sheep tup-perl” Shakespeare cried out.

Smythe winced as he extricated himself from the thorn bushes and then helped the poet out.

“God’s bollocks! I’ll be picking thorns out of my arse for the next two weeks!”

“Oh, stop it, you will not,” said Smythe. “A few scratches, a thorny splinter here and there… you will survive.”

“No thanks to that miserable cur! What in God’s name was he thinking, careering down the road at such a pace? The fool will shake that fancy coach of his to pieces!”

“That was our friend from the inn last night, unless I miss my guess,” said Smythe. “The one who took the last few rooms.”

“What, the grand, well-spoken gentleman with his retinue of servants?” Shakespeare asked.

“The same, I think. He rose much later than we did, but makes much better time. He seems in quite a hurry.”

“Well, I hope he puts that shiny new coach of his into a ditch and breaks his gentlemanly neck, the blackguard!”

“If he keeps up like that, he might well do that,” said Smythe. “Although the road here is much wider and more level, he still goes at an unsafe pace.”

“Blast! Look at this! I am pricked with stickers like a pincushion!”

“Here, let me see.”

“Have a care now… ouch!”

“Oh, come on, now. I’ll not pull these out if you go squirming like a wench upon a haystack. Screw your courage to the sticking place and stop your twitching.”

“ ‘Tis the infernal stickers that are screwed in, not my courage.”

“Will you hold still?”

“Aaah-owww!”

“Such bravery! Such mettle!” Smythe laughed. “Look at you. A thorn or two and you are all undone.”

“Oh, sod off! Yowwwww! Have a care, Tuck, curse you!”

“Oh, don’t be such a mewling infant. It is not so bad. Only a few more.”

“Ouch! Ow! Damn it! I shall take my turn next and then we shall see who is more the mewling infant!”

“I’ll not cry over a few thorns. But I shall remember that gentleman from last night. That’s twice now he’s inconvenienced me.”

“Oh, indeed? And just what do you intend to do about it, your lordship? The man is not someone you can address on equal standing, you know. Or did you fail to note the arms blazoned on the side of his coach?”

“No. Why? Did you recognize them?”

“Nay, I caught but a glimpse of sable and some fleury crosses. I would not know those arms from any other scutcheon save that they mark him for a gentleman of rank. Not exactly someone you can give one of your country thumpings to, young blacksmith.”

“Perhaps not, but I will remember that gentleman just the same.”

The poet snorted. “You would do better to remember your place, my friend, if you do not wish to get clapped into the Mar-shalsea.”

Smythe was tempted to point out to the poet that he could claim an escutcheon of his own, thanks to his father’s efforts, but he decided at the last moment not to bring it up. It meant nothing to him, really, and he liked Will Shakespeare and did not wish him to think that he might in any way hold himself above him. Aside from which, his father might now be a gentleman, but he was in debt up to his ears, for all the good it did him.

“Well, I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But it still rankles, just the same.”

“So then send an oath or two his way, as I do, and have done with it. There is little to be served in dwelling upon matters that one cannot resolve. Now bend over and I’ll pull your stickers for you.”

“Why, Will, I bet you say that to all the sweet young boys.”

“Look, you want me to pull those thorns from out your bum or put my muddy boot into it?”

Smythe laughed. “Very well. You may dethorn me, but be gentle.”

“I’ll give every one at least three twists for your impertinence!”

“Well, best be quick about it then, or we shall not reach London until nightfall.”

“Just as well,” said Shakespeare, with a scowl, “for I shall very likely be much too sore to sit down until then.”