A Mystery Of Errors полностью

The first book in the Shakespeare and Smythe series, 2000

THERE WAS NOTHING QUITE SO invigorating to the senses, Smythe decided, as ending a long and dusty day by being robbed.

The mounted highwayman came plunging out of the thick underbrush at the side of the road like a specter rising from the mist as he reined in with one hand and drew his wheel-lock with the other. His black courser reared and neighed loudly as the masked man shouted out, “Stand and deliver!”

Even under such startling and intimidating circumstances, Smythe could not help an instinctual assessment of the brigand’s mount. A powerful and heavily muscled Hungarian with a proud carriage and admirable conformation, the courser pawed at the ground and pranced in place, responding to the knee pressure of its rider. The hooked head and bushy tail were characteristic of the breed, as was the long, thick mane that reached below the knees and would require a good deal of loving curry-combing to look so splendid and silky. A magnificent animal, thought Smythe, well-schooled and obviously well cared for. And the horse’s master had a sense of the dramatic, too, something else Smythe could not help appreciating, despite the pistol aimed squarely at his chest.

The brigand was clad from head to toe in black, with a silk mask that covered the entire lower portion of his face. He wore a black quilted leather doublet, tight breeches, high boots, and a long black riding cloak that billowed out behind him. No ordinary road agent this, thought Smythe, but a man with a true sense of style. And apparently some substance, judging by his steed and his apparel. A flamboyant highwayman who was evidently successful at his trade and clearly understood the impact made by a good entrance.

“Did you hear me, man, or are you deaf? I said, stand and deliver!”

“Deliver what, my friend?” asked Smythe, with a shrug. “I haven’t a brass farthing to my name.”

“What, nothing?” said the highwayman through the black silk scarf covering most of his face. “Come, come, let’s see your purse!”

Smythe took hold of the small brown leather pouch at his belt and gave it a shake, to demonstrate that it was empty. “You may dismount and search me if you like,” he said, “but you shall find that I haven’t a tuppence or ha’penny anywhere about my person.”

“Dismount and search a strapping young drayhorse like yourself? Methinks not. You look like you could pose some difficulty if I gave you half a chance.”

“Spoken with a pistol in your hand and a rapier and main gauche at your belt,” said Smythe, wryly. “And me with nothing but a staff and poor man’s bodkin.”

“Aye, well, one cannot take too many chances,” said the highwayman. “The roads are not very safe these days.” He chuckled and looked Smythe over, then tucked his pistol in his belt. “So, no money, eh?”

“None, sir.”

“And how will you be paying for your next meal?” “If I shan’t be catching it tonight with a snare or hook and line, then I fear that I shall not be eating,” Smythe said.

“Oh, well, we cannot have that,” the highwayman replied.

“Here’s a silver crown for you. Buy yourself an ordinary and a night’s rest at the next crossroads.”

Surprised, Smythe almost missed catching the coin the robber tossed to him. “You are a strange sort of highwayman, indeed,” he said, perplexed. “You demand money and end up giving it away, instead!”

“Ah, you look as if you need it more than I do. No matter. I shall make it up and then some with the next fat merchantman who comes along.”

“However that may be, I am nevertheless grateful,” Smythe replied. “I shall be sure to say a prayer tonight that they do not catch and hang you very soon.”

“Most kind of you. What a splendid young fellow you are. I take it you are bound for London?”

“I am,” said Smythe, nodding.

“In search of work.” It was less a question than a statement. More than half the travelers on the road were starving beggars, making their way toward London in hopes of finding a better life. Or any kind of life at all.

“Aye,” said Smythe. “And God willing, I shall I find it.”

“You have a trade? You have the look of a blacksmith, with those shoulders.”

“My uncle is a farrier and a smith,” said Smythe. “I apprenticed at his forge. But I hope to be an actor on the stage.”

“An actor?” The man snorted. “You had best stick to shoeing horses, lad. ‘Tis a much more respectable profession.”

“So says the brigand.”

“Indeed, it takes one mountebank to know another,” the highwayman replied. “But then, each to the devil after his own fashion. I wish you good fortune, young man. And if you care to, you can remember Black Billy in your prayers tonight. A word from an innocent like you might do some good, you never know. The Almighty bloody well stopped listening to me long since.”