A Mystery Of Errors

“Then you have lost your senses. Why in God’s name would one of the wealthiest and most prominent citizens of London, a man knighted by the queen herself, put on a mask and ride off to rob travelers out on a country road? ‘Tis preposterous!”

“It does seem mad, I must admit,” said Smythe. “And I cannot account for it. But I know what I know, Will.”

“Wait! He wore a mask! You said the road agent wore a mask! So, of course, you never saw his face! How, then, could you possibly assert so firmly ‘twas Sir William?”

“I saw his eyes” said Smythe. “And at first, I must admit, I did not recognize him, but when he inclined his head and touched his hat that way…” Smythe copied the way he did it, “ ‘twas the very same gesture I saw the brigand make. Exactly the same. And then I realized that his eyes were the very same eyes I had seen above the scarf he wore over the lower portion of his face. And then everything else about him suddenly seemed familiar. I noticed that his build was just the same, and his bearing, and his coloring, even to the color of his clothes.”

“A chance resemblance,” Shakespeare said. “Wasn’t that what you had said yourself? I had no idea what you meant when you said it, but… this? ‘Tis absolutely ludicrous. Surely you can see that!”

“Aye. Believe me, Will, I can appreciate just how mad it sounds. But ‘tis nevertheless the truth. I am quite certain of it. As I said, I cannot account for it, nor understand why, but I know he was the man. And what is more, Sir William knows I know.”

Shakespeare leaned back against the wall, where they sat at a small plank table in the corner. The ales came and for a moment they did not speak as the tankards were set down before them. Then, when the serving maid had left to bring their dinners, Shakespeare leaned forward once again, putting his elbows on the table.

“Assuming for the moment that this ludicrous idea is true,” he said, in a low voice, “even setting aside the whys and wherefores-which are certainly not lightly set aside, considering the circumstances…” he shook his head with disbelief. “Then if Sir William is indeed the man you think he is… an outlaw… and if he knows you know his secret, as you say… then you are in grave danger.”

“No, I do not think so. I saw nothing threatening or intimidating in his manner,” Smythe replied.

Shakespeare snorted. “Why should there be? He owns a fleet of ships, my friend, several of them privateers sailing under letters of marque from Her Majesty herself. He may not himself be a Sea Hawk, but he is unquestionably their falconer. His investments are many and varied, and all quite successful, I am told. He is one of the most admired and respected men in England. And one of the most powerful. All he needs to do is flick his little finger and you would be swept away like a cork upon the waves.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” said Smythe. “Only why bother?” He shrugged. “What threat am I to him? Who would take my word over his, the word of a penniless commoner over that of a wealthy and influential peer?”

Shakespeare grunted. “Aye. There is that. No one would believe it.”

“If I stop to think about it, I am not sure that I believe it, myself. There is no rhyme or reason to it, no sense at all. And yet…”

Shakespeare stared at him. “And yet… you are convinced of it. Beyond all doubt.”

Smythe merely nodded.

“Aye, I can see that. Astonishing. And you think he knows?” “Why else would he have loaned his sword to a complete stranger?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “With his money, it would seem an act of little consequence. The very rich are not like us, my friend. They are liable to do things on a whim that to us would seem incomprehensible.”

“Such as becoming involved in a tavern brawl, say, or highway robbery?”

“Perhaps. Who is to say? There are more things in heaven and earth, Tuck, than are dreamt of in our philosophy. Things beyond the ken of the greatest thinkers of our time. What man truly knows himself and can plumb the depths of his own soul, much less those of other men?” ›

“He intends for me to return this sword to him,” said Smythe.

“Or else embarrass yourself in attempting to make one better.”

“Oh, that will not be very difficult. It will take some time, a bit of sweat, and honest effort, but my uncle taught me well. I do not pretend to be a master swordsmith, but then, neither is Cleve Somersby. The quality of his blades varies greatly, and while this one is entirely adequate, it is still not among the best examples of his craft. I could have bettered this in my third year of apprenticeship.”

“Oh, so Sir William really was cheated, then,” said Shakespeare.

“If he paid the going price for a Toledo blade, then he was not merely cheated; he was fleeced.”

“If that is so, then I do not envy the man who fleeced him. He will wind up in prison before the week is out. Or worse still.”