Much Ado About Murder

“Do you presume, then, to instruct me?” Jack called after Corwin as he left. “You are not a master guildsman yet, sir! It ill behooves a man to put on airs above his station!”

“Oh, enough of that, now. Come sit down and have a drink, lads,” Dickens said, good naturedly. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to the others, “allow me to present Jack Darnley and Bruce McEnery, old friends of mine from my apprentice days.”

“Well met, lads,” Burbage said jovially, moving over to make room for them, though Smythe did not think that he was truly eager for their company. Nevertheless, Burbage politely introduced himself and all the other players in their group. Stackpole brought the drinks himself, giving the two apprentices a wary eye in the process. Smythe had the distinct impression that they were no more eager for the company of players than the players were to sit with them. However, Ben Dickens seemed to provide a sort of buffer between them, acting as a conversational go between in a way that seemed to lessen the tension.

As they talked, Smythe could not decide if it was all a skillful display of diplomacy or merely a natural way that Dickens had of controlling the flow of conversation around him. The discussion centered, for the most part, on his experiences as a soldier and the things that he had seen while he was away in foreign lands. When he did not actually dominate the conversation, Dickens seemed to steer it in directions that were basically innocuous and safe, allowing the others to take part without ever losing his command of the discussion. Smythe could easily see why Ben Dickens had been so well liked by the members of the company. He possessed an easygoing charm and had a way of creating a sense of cameraderie around him. It was clear that he would have been a natural as a player. He had the way about him.

Not so Bruce and Jack, Smythe noted. They nursed their drinks, mindful that they would only be allowed the one pint each, and as they listened to Ben talk, the envy was clearly written on their faces. In the case of Bruce, it was more than merely envy; it was spiteful resentment, and ill-concealed at that.

Smythe thought it rather strange. Here they were, senior apprentices still enjoying their rowdy youth while on the threshold of becoming journeymen-which would bring them a good living and in time, with diligence and perseverence, would likely bring them wealth-while on the other hand, there was Ben Dickens, a mercenary soldier whose prospects, unless Fortune were to smile upon him, were very poor, indeed. He could only sell his sword arm to whoever needed fighting men at any given time, and while the world had not yet banished war, the employment of a soldier was often interspersed with protracted periods of peace. At present, there was no shortage of soldiers in the city searching for employment, not all of it gainful, nor even honest work. And few soldiers of fortune, a misnomer if Smythe had ever heard one, were fortunate enough to live to a ripe and whole old age. Of those who did not die in battle, many became maimed or crippled and were reduced to begging in the streets. He saw them every day, dressed in their worn-out soldier’s motley, many of them missing arms or legs. It was not a life for anyone to envy. And yet, as he watched Bruce and Jack listening to Dickens, he could see they envied him. True, he was still young and whole and healthy, but his future was as uncertain as their futures seemed assured. But perhaps they could not see that.

What they could see, though, was Molly. Perhaps because of the words she had with Dickens, or perhaps because Stackpole had chosen to serve them himself, so as to keep an eye on the troublesome twosome, Molly had not come near their tables since the pair came in. But they both noticed her, all right, and their gazes followed her everywhere she went. Smythe saw Shakespeare notice it, as well, but it did not seem as though anybody else did.

“So then,” Dickens said to them, as he finished off an anecdote, “if memory serves me, you lads should both be nearing the completion of your apprenticeships with Master St. John, is that not right?”

“Indeed, I have but a few months to go,” said Jack, “whilst Bruce, here, has a bit less than a year remaining. Then we shall both be journeymen, as you could have been by now, Ben, had you not run off to war.”

“Run off?” said Fleming, rising to the defense of his former protege. “By Heaven, I daresay I would scarce call putting life and limb at hazard ‘running off!’ Life in London poses fewer risks, by far, than what life as a soldier would entail. Now who could gainsay that?”