A Mystery Of Errors полностью

Smythe had ridden one of the stable post horses out to the estate and as he trotted up the road leading to the house, he wondered what would come of this visit. He had not yet made up his mind about Sir William, but more to the point, he wondered if Sir William had made up his mind about him. He knew that he could very easily disappear during this visit, never to be seen again, and no one would ever think that Sir William could possibly have had anything to do with it. Only Shakespeare would know, or at least suspect what might have happened, and who would listen to a penniless young poet? Especially when it was his word against that of one of the richest men in the land.

As Smythe turned his mount over to one of the servants who came out to meet him, he gazed up at the imposing residence and took a deep breath, marshaling his courage. Just the idea of a visit to such an opulent place would ordinarily have been enough to make him feel intimidated, much less visiting it under such peculiar and possibly even dangerous circumstances. The man who lived here was not only one of the richest and most influential men in the country, he was also a brigand who robbed travelers on the roads leading to London, a flamboyant highwayman who called himself Black Billy. It seemed absolutely insane. And yet, Smythe knew it to be true. And Sir William knew he knew.

What Smythe couldn’t understand was why. The man seemingly had everything. Entering the house, he could see walls paneled in imported woods and hung with rich tapestries, ceilings patterned with delicate plaster ribs forming arabesques, geometrical forms and figures of birds and beasts, each room different from the other. There were ornate staircases, some straight, some spiraled, with solid oak block steps and massive handrailings and newel posts, all heavily and intricately carved by master artisans.

He was conducted to a great hall with a long gallery, just like in a castle throne room, from which people could look down on what was happening below or, alternatively, Smythe thought, from where archers could shoot down at anyone who was being a boorish guest.

He grimaced. The suits of armor standing at either side of the entrance to the chamber had given his mind an unpleasantly martial turn, as did the maces and the battleaxes and the morning stars hanging on the walls, alongside pikes and halberds and great swords and shields and bucklers. It looked like the armory at Tower of London, another place he was anxious to avoid.

I’ve made a mistake in coming here, he thought. There was nothing to be served in doing this. He did not belong here. Was assuaging his curiosity truly worth taking such a risk? He decided, despite his apprehensions, that it was. It could have been pure chance that he had happened on Black Billy on the road to London. Shakespeare had not run into him. The poet had not, in fact, run into any robbers at all on his way from Stratford, but perhaps that was because he had not been traveling alone. He had said that he had fallen in with a company of travelers for the sake of safety in numbers. It must have worked. Smythe had traveled alone and been accosted several times. So, perhaps it was mere chance. But then to run into him again in London, in that tavern-and in the company of Marlowe, when it just so happened that he, too, was in the company of a poet, albeit one who was not yet successful-it simply seemed as if there were some fateful influence at work here. And Sir William had invited him, after all. If he had wanted to dispose of him, he would certainly not have needed to invite him to his home. Assassins could be hired cheaply from among the men who loitered around Paul’s, cheap even for men with far fewer resources than Sir William could command.

“Young Master Smythe, was it?”

Smythe turned to see Sir William entering the hall. He was dressed very plainly in black doublet and hose, and a pair of silver buckled shoes. “Aye, sir,” Smythe replied. “Though I cannot truthfully call myself a master of any art or craft. Did I come at an inconvenient time, milord? I could easily come back another day, if you prefer.”

“Nonsense. Today is perfectly convenient. And you are welcome at Green Oaks. May I offer you some wine?”

“You are most kind, Sir William, but I would not wish to put you to any trouble on my account.”

“Trouble? I have more wine in my cellars than I could possibly drink in a lifetime. Someone’s going to have to help me drink it, you know. It can’t all go down Her Royal Majesty’s alabaster throat. And I would much rather it be an honest man who drank my wine than all those dissipated hangers-on at court.”

Smythe smiled, despite his discomfort. “In that event, milord, it would be both an honor and a pleasure.”

“Excellent. You should find a decanter of port and several glasses over on the sideboard there. Be a good fellow and pour us both a drink. I have given strict instructions that we are not to be disturbed.”