Read Online A Mystery of Errors by Simon Hawke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Simon Hawke
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scarcely credit what I heard! It simply seems impossible!"
"What concern is this of yours?" said the man in brown, who had disparaged poets. His hand was still on his swordhilt, but he remained undecided as to whether to draw steel or not. A blade had already been drawn, and the young man wielding it looked very relaxed and confident, indeed. Not in the least bit intimidated by the odds. Smythe could see Leather Doublet calculating. Was this merely some drink-addled young fool looking for trouble, or did he know his business? Smythe was wondering the same thing himself. He glanced over at Shakespeare, who simply looked at him and rolled his eyes.
"As it happens, I too am a poet," the young man said, as he approached the group, with a casual swagger. "As is my friend, there, who dabbles with a sonnet or two upon occasion. And so, you see, you have cursed not only this excellent young man here, and his friend, the actor, but you have wished a pox upon the two of us, as well, as you have also cursed all those who labor nobly in the dark and lonely hours with quill and parchment to produce some small bit of transitory beauty for an ugly, often unappreciative world. Yet, much more importantly, do you know who
else
writes poetry, and has thus been cursed by you? Well?
Do
you?"
Frowning, and looking decidedly uncertain about this new development or the flow of verbiage, the man in the brown and black quartered doublet shook his head. "No, who?"
"Why, the queen!" the young man said. "The queen writes poetry! Now I happen to know this for a certain fact, you see." He brought up his rapier and delicately played its point around the man's throat. "And I cannot very well stand by and do nothing while you wish a pox upon Her Royal Majesty, our good Queen Bess, now can I?"
"Here, you'd better put that rapier down, lad, before you go and do something rash," the one in the dark green said.
"Or what?" the young man asked without even glancing his way. His gaze was locked with the man in brown and black, with the swordpoint playing lightly at his throat. And that man was breathing shallowly, eyes narrow, his own gaze unblinking and alert. And very cold.
"Or you'll have to be taught a lesson in minding your own damn bloody business, you impudent fop." The man in green began to draw his blade.
Smythe reacted quickly, but the young man was even quicker. Before the man in green could clear his scabbard, the young man's blade flicked over like an adder's tongue and slashed across his face, opening up his cheek from temple to jaw. At the same time, the young man smashed the back of his fist into the face of the man in brown and black, who had begun to draw his blade, as well.
By this time, Smythe was moving, but so was the young man. He danced lightly back out of the way to engage the others as the man in green screamed, dropped his sword, and sank to his knees, bringing his hands up to his ruined face. He was clearly out of the fight now, and the odds had been reduced by one.
With a quick glance toward Shakespeare, to make sure he was not immediately in harm's way, Smythe targeted the man in the brown leather doublet, who was drawing steel as the man in brown and black recovered from the punch and also drew his blade. There was blood running from his nose and he had cold fury in his eyes. As he and the young man engaged, Smythe brought the end of his staff down hard upon his opponent's wrist. With a cry of pain, the man in the leather doublet dropped his fancy-hilted blade and had little time for anything save a wide-eyed stare of alarm as Smythe brought the other end of his staff up and cracked it hard against his temple. He crumpled to the floor, senseless.
The fat one in the buff and blue was slow to react to the outbreak of hostilities, his wits doubtless dulled by drink, but by the time Smythe's leather-clad opponent crumpled to the floor, he had realized there was a brawl in progress and rushed forward with a roar, ignoring the
"What concern is this of yours?" said the man in brown, who had disparaged poets. His hand was still on his swordhilt, but he remained undecided as to whether to draw steel or not. A blade had already been drawn, and the young man wielding it looked very relaxed and confident, indeed. Not in the least bit intimidated by the odds. Smythe could see Leather Doublet calculating. Was this merely some drink-addled young fool looking for trouble, or did he know his business? Smythe was wondering the same thing himself. He glanced over at Shakespeare, who simply looked at him and rolled his eyes.
"As it happens, I too am a poet," the young man said, as he approached the group, with a casual swagger. "As is my friend, there, who dabbles with a sonnet or two upon occasion. And so, you see, you have cursed not only this excellent young man here, and his friend, the actor, but you have wished a pox upon the two of us, as well, as you have also cursed all those who labor nobly in the dark and lonely hours with quill and parchment to produce some small bit of transitory beauty for an ugly, often unappreciative world. Yet, much more importantly, do you know who
else
writes poetry, and has thus been cursed by you? Well?
Do
you?"
Frowning, and looking decidedly uncertain about this new development or the flow of verbiage, the man in the brown and black quartered doublet shook his head. "No, who?"
"Why, the queen!" the young man said. "The queen writes poetry! Now I happen to know this for a certain fact, you see." He brought up his rapier and delicately played its point around the man's throat. "And I cannot very well stand by and do nothing while you wish a pox upon Her Royal Majesty, our good Queen Bess, now can I?"
"Here, you'd better put that rapier down, lad, before you go and do something rash," the one in the dark green said.
"Or what?" the young man asked without even glancing his way. His gaze was locked with the man in brown and black, with the swordpoint playing lightly at his throat. And that man was breathing shallowly, eyes narrow, his own gaze unblinking and alert. And very cold.
"Or you'll have to be taught a lesson in minding your own damn bloody business, you impudent fop." The man in green began to draw his blade.
Smythe reacted quickly, but the young man was even quicker. Before the man in green could clear his scabbard, the young man's blade flicked over like an adder's tongue and slashed across his face, opening up his cheek from temple to jaw. At the same time, the young man smashed the back of his fist into the face of the man in brown and black, who had begun to draw his blade, as well.
By this time, Smythe was moving, but so was the young man. He danced lightly back out of the way to engage the others as the man in green screamed, dropped his sword, and sank to his knees, bringing his hands up to his ruined face. He was clearly out of the fight now, and the odds had been reduced by one.
With a quick glance toward Shakespeare, to make sure he was not immediately in harm's way, Smythe targeted the man in the brown leather doublet, who was drawing steel as the man in brown and black recovered from the punch and also drew his blade. There was blood running from his nose and he had cold fury in his eyes. As he and the young man engaged, Smythe brought the end of his staff down hard upon his opponent's wrist. With a cry of pain, the man in the leather doublet dropped his fancy-hilted blade and had little time for anything save a wide-eyed stare of alarm as Smythe brought the other end of his staff up and cracked it hard against his temple. He crumpled to the floor, senseless.
The fat one in the buff and blue was slow to react to the outbreak of hostilities, his wits doubtless dulled by drink, but by the time Smythe's leather-clad opponent crumpled to the floor, he had realized there was a brawl in progress and rushed forward with a roar, ignoring the
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