he added, somewhat sheepishly, "I cannot claim to have thought the matter through that way before I acted."
"Betimes a man may think too much," said Shakespeare. "Clarity is often better found in action than in thought. Hmm, that's a good line. Let me set it down 'ere I forget."
He got up from the bed and rummaged in his bag. As Shakespeare searched for his papers and his pens and ink, Smythe took his place and stretched out on the straw bed. "In truth, Kemp was only a small part of my distemper. I keep thinking that Elizabeth is here somewhere and but for our foolish argument, I might have found an opportunity to spend a bit of time with her before we went on tour."
"So what prevents you?" Shakespeare asked. "Go and search her out. Or else send word to her by one of the household servants."
"You forget," said Smythe, "we argued."
"About what?"
Smythe frowned. "For the life of me, I cannot now recall." He snorted. "Foolish."
"Most quarrels between men and women are over foolish things," said Shakespeare. "Especially if they are lovers."
"But we are not lovers," Smythe protested. "We have never… Well, we have never."
"Then that is even more foolish," Shakespeare said, impatiently. "I have told you afore this to get that girl out of your head, because she is too far above you, but if you intend to be stubborn about it, then you might as well tup her and have done with it. If you can manage to avoid having your ears and other parts of your anatomy sliced off by Henry Darcie, it might get her out of your system."
"Mmm, I see. Was that how it worked for you in Stratford?"
"Swine. Do I toss your poor past judgement in your face?"
"Aye, all the time."
"Lout. Aha! Here we are!" He brought forth his papers and a small box containing his inkwell and his pens. "Now… what was that line I wanted to set down?"
Smythe shrugged. "I dunno."
"God's wounds! You have forgotten?"
"You said you wanted to set it down; I recall that much. You did not say you wanted
me
to remember it for you."
"Argh!
I can see that you are not going to be of any use to me at all until you set your mind straight about that girl. Folly. Tis all folly, if you ask me. Go, find her. Find her and make it up to her. Abase yourself before her and tell her what a mighty goose you have been and how you should have known better, but were utterly blinded by your vanity and foolishness. A woman loves to hear a man admit to being a fool; it confirms her own opinion and lends credence to her judgement. Go and find her and plead for her forgiveness."
"But… I had done nothing truly wrong," said Smythe.
"Did you
speak?"
"Well, aye, but-"
"Then you undoubtedly did wrong. Either way, it matters not. You shall not mend fences by stubbornly standing on your pride. Go on, get out. Leave me in peace. I must try to somehow make a play out of this dross that I have penned and must now see performed, thanks to your kind offices."
"I never meant to cause you trouble, Will. I was only thinking that it might be an opportunity for you," said Smythe.
Shakespeare sighed. "I know, Tuck, I know. And that is why I cannot be angry with you for it. I know that you meant well. As I, too, mean well when I tell you to go and tell Elizabeth that you are sorry for your quarrel. I still think that no good can come of this infatuation, but then I am like as not the last who should advise anybody on such matters."
Smythe took a deep breath. "I do not know, Will… I am not even certain where to go and look for her."
"Well, considering that they are setting up a fair outside," said
Shakespeare, "might not a young woman wish to be among the first to do a bit of shopping?"
It was drawing on towards evening, but the fairgrounds were still abustle as late-arriving merchants hurried to set up their stalls. Others, whose goods had already been displayed, were making last minute adjustments to their tables or else dickering with guests who had already arrived and were taking advantage of