Much Ado About Murder by Simon Hawke Read Free Book Online Page B

out into the street. Most of the players saved money by sharing quarters, as he and Will did, but things were getting tight, and with the shortage of rooms in London these days, if it came down to a choice, then it was better to starve and have a place to sleep than placate a growling stomach and risk losing a roof over one's head. With the recent setbacks they had suffered, even before the playhouses had been closed, they all needed to have the Theatre reopen very soon or else it might well spell the end of the Queen's Men.
    Sitting on the bottom steps, Smythe pulled on his boots. He did not particularly feel like going back into the tavern. Drinking held little fascination for him. Until he came to London, he had never used to drink spirits at all. For a cool drink, he prefered spring water, and for a hot beverage, he had often enjoyed a healthful herbal infusion that a local cunning woman in his village had taught him to brew. He was still able to get the ingredients from Granny Meg's apothecary shop, but now he mostly drank it cold, after brewing it in an earthen jar on his window. More and more, however, he found himself drinking small beer or ale, primarily because it was what everybody else drank. Londoners had ale for breakfast, ale for dinner, ale for supper, and ale in between. Those who could afford it drank imported wine, but absolutely no one in the city drank water and the idea of brewing an infusion from "weeds" seemed very peculiar to most people.
    Smythe had learned to drink ale in order to be sociable, but he was careful not to drink too much, because he knew he had no head for it. Shakespeare, on the other hand, indulged heavily, sometimes to the point of near insensibility, though that point for him was reached long after most people had become utterly paralyzed with drink. There were few players in the Queen's Men who could keep up with him and Smythe knew better than to try. He had learned that it was best to nurse his ale and drink sparingly, otherwise his head would pay the price.
    It was a lesson a lot of people never seemed to learn. At this hour, Smythe knew those players still remaining in the tavern would be three sheets to the wind, and there was nothing quite as uninteresting as being sober in the midst of drunken revelry. Besides, he was not much in the mood for company. He felt like going for a walk. And in all fairness, Will needed his time alone, as well. Smythe knew that Shakespeare could work best when left completely on his own, without any distractions, which was perhaps the main reason why he seemed to work best during the night.
    Will was still trying to work on several ideas for original plays, but much to his frustration, playwriting was not what was bringing in the money for him right now. Shakespeare's sonnets were becoming rather popular among some of the fashionable young gentlemen at court and if he kept on his present course, there was a good chance that he would soon find a wealthy nobleman to be his patron. In fact, judging by what had happened earlier that day, he may already have found one, though he was being rather circumspect about it. Smythe could understand the reasons for that, but if Will had found himself a patron, then it could easily turn out to be a two-edged sword.
    The other players were all happy for his good fortune, and grateful that he chose to share the wealth, but at the same time, Smythe could see that they were somewhat apprehensive. Will had quickly become a valuable commodity to the Queen's Men. He was industrious and capable of working quickly. He had already rewritten several of the plays in their repertoire, improving them significantly in the process, and the proof was in the pudding. Audiences had responded far more favorably to the rewritten versions than they had to the earlier ones, and Will had a knack of revising as they went along, making alterations from performance to performance by taking into account the reactions of the audiences and