Much Ado About Murder

“Are they gone?”

“Aye, they ran off, the bloody bastards. But not before I drew some blood. I ran one through and slashed another pretty badly. After that, the rest all ran.”

“Well done. I am much obliged to you.”

“Do not try to speak, Tuck. Save your strength. I will-”

But that was the last thing Smythe heard as he lost consciousness and collapsed to the street.

He awoke to the worst headache he had ever experienced. He groaned, involuntarily, and brought his hands up to his head, only to find that it was bandaged.

“Lie still,” Will said, bending over him, his face full of concern. “Do not try to sit up.”

“Where am I?”

“You are back at home, in our room at the Toad and Badger,” Shakespeare replied. “Ben brought you here. Do you recall what happened?”

Smythe touched his bandaged head gingerly. “I was attacked…”

“You remember?”

“Aye.”

“Good. Ben was afraid that you might not. He says that is often a sign of severe injury.”

“God, my head…”

“You took quite a drubbing, my friend. When we saw all the blood, we were afraid that they had split your skull, but ‘twould seem your head is a good deal harder than we had thought. ‘Twas only a flesh wound that bled a great deal, thank God. But aside from that, you are a symphony of bruises, though there do not appear to be any broken bones, thanks to your large frame. A lesser man would have been positively splintered. Doubtless, you shall be sore for quite a while.”

“Well, if this is anything akin to those hangovers you have from time to time, then I want no part of them, believe me. Lord! It feels as if my head is being squeezed between two millstones.”

“Is he awake?” asked Stackpole, from the doorway.

“Aye, after a fashion,” Shakespeare replied. “He is a bit confused and says his head hurts.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” Stackpole said. “Poor lad was very nearly clubbed to death. I brought some chicken broth for him.”

“Good of you, Courtney, thank you,” Shakespeare said.

“Aye, thank you,” Smythe added. “ ‘Tis good of you, indeed.”

“Thank Molly,” Stackpole said. “She made it. She said ‘twas her mother’s recipe for when someone in the family fell ill. She asked if she could come up and look in on you when you felt up to it.”

“Of course,” said Smythe. “Anytime she likes.” He tried to sit up, winced with pain, and fell back into bed again.

“I told you not to sit up,” said Shakespeare. “You never listen to me. When you are fetched such a mighty clout upon the head, you truly need to rest awhile. If you move too quickly, then you will grow faint and dizzy and you may fall and do yourself an injury.”

“I have already had my share of injuries,” said Smythe, dryly. “I doubt that falling on the floor would make matters much worse.”

“Suit yourself,” said Shakespeare, with a shrug. “But if you should fall and break your nose or else knock out a few teeth, do not come crying to me. You are a fine looking young man, Tuck, but you would not look quite so handsome were you toothless. And considering your lack of talent as an actor, you might want to hold onto being handsome for as long as possible.”

“Right. I shall stay in bed, then.”

“And while we are on the subject of your various shortcomings,” Shakespeare continued, “this may not be the best time to bring it up, but you might recall that both Sir William and I, as well as others I could mention, have advised you on more than one occasion to start carrying a sword. Sir William even gave you one of his.” He glanced pointedly over to the corner of the room, where the sword Sir William gave to Smythe leaned against the wall in its scabbard and belt. “Of course, it does not do you a great deal of good over there, although I must admit that ever since you put it there, no one has yet attacked that corner of the room.”

Smythe sighed and winced again. He touched his bandaged head gingerly. “Point well taken,” he said. “Methinks from now on, I shall not only wear it everywhere I go, except to bed, but I shall resume my long-neglected fencing practice, also.”

“Considering how often people try to kill you, that does seem an excellent idea,” Shakespeare said. “You do seem to attract more than your share of peril. One might almost think that you were cursed.”

“What o’clock is it?” asked Smythe, noticing the shutters closed. There did not seem to be any daylight seeping through the cracks.

“Past ten of the clock, according to the bellman who went by outside a little while ago,” Shakespeare replied. “You have been senseless for nearly two hours since Ben brought you back. We feared that you might not reawaken.”

“Where is Ben?”

“He has gone to escort Granny Meg back home,” Shakespeare replied.

“Granny Meg was here?”