Will was lying with his face in a puddle not far from where he and Meg had parted. Someone was shaking him. He heard himself groan and felt himself shiver with cold. He managed to open his eyes. Two dark figures hovered over him. Pain surged in his jaw and neck, and he remembered the blow that had knocked him down. How long had he lain there?
“Are you hurt, sirrah? Will you let me examine you?”
Now this is a new stratagem for a robber, Will thought dully. To feel for broken bones—and hidden purses.
“Go ’way. I’ve naught left to take,” he muttered and tried to roll over. The foul water caused him to retch, which made his head and ribs ache.
A second voice said, “Thomas, let us be on our way. This vagabond is not worth our time.”
“Thomas Treadwell? You sapsucker, leave me alone,” Will said. He blinked, trying to focus.
“No, by my troth. I am Thomas Valentine, a student of physick, and this is Sir Percival Puttock.” He pulled Will out of the mire and helped him to sit up. He had a box with large handles, Will noted, something a physician might indeed carry. “We are newly arrived in the city.”
“Within the hour, I see, for had you been here longer you would already lack your cloaks, your purses, and everything in that kit.” Valentine was taking out a jar of ointment and a bandage. “I speak from experience—as the victim, not the thief, for I am an honest man. My worst vice is that I am a liar. I write plays.”
Sir Percival drew his cloak aside to reveal a pistol tucked into his waist. “I will not be deceived,” he said stiffly.
“I do not lie now,” said Will hastily. “Except in the street where you found me. Alack, my poor head! I think my wit is damaged.”
“I saw you take that blow,” said Valentine, peering into his eyes. “Can you remember your name?”
“Will Shakespeare, by this hand.” He held it up and examined it himself. All five fingers were attached and straight. He could still write.
“And what befell you?”
“A most undeserved blow felled me! A knave dressed like a courtier, but with a bare neck where his crimpled ruff should be, demanded my sword, and said it belonged to him.”
“That is the very fellow who ran by us,” said Thomas Valentine. “Go on.”
“I said to him, ‘Prove it by telling me what is on the hilt.’ Like a dog he growled at me. ‘R! R!’ Those were the very letters engraved on the sword.”
“You are a base thief, then,” said Sir Percival.
“That is what he said but with the addition of vile swearing, for he was not a kind gentleman like you.”
Will addressed himself to Thomas Valentine. “I came by that cursed sword innocently enough, but I would not die by it. I flung it aside, whereupon the madman began to beat me with his walking staff.”
Valentine had finished examining Will’s limbs and bandaging his head. “Can you stand?”
Grimacing, Will stood up. “If you came to London to fix the head of every unfortunate in the street, you shall work until doomsday and never be rich.”
The doctor gazed past Will and sighed. “I came looking for my true love, the lady Olivia. She has run away and I like a hound must run after, for she holds the leash around my heart.”
Seeing Valentine was quite serious, Will held in his laughter. The fellow was a doctor after all, not a poet.
“Once we find the ungrateful thing, she is yours to wive, Thomas, and I am well rid of her!” said Sir Percival, whom Will took to be Olivia’s unhappy father.
“O speak not unkindly of my sweet mammet, my only plaything,” said the doctor.
Will didn’t know whether to pity Valentine or Lady Olivia the more. “I’ll be on my way now,” he said. “It is growing late.”
“Let us walk with you as far as your lodging,” said Valentine. “I want to be certain you are well.”
Will assented, for he still felt dazed, and the threesome made their way across the bridge and through the thinning crowds. Will’s limp slowed their steps. Sir Percival kept his hand upon his weapon, and Valentine talked unceasingly of his beloved’s many virtues. By the time they arrived at the inn Will was convinced of the doctor’s devotion, but he had no clearer image of Olivia than he did of the Queen of Sheba.
Finally Will interrupted him. “I am poor and cannot pay a doctor’s fee, but I can offer you food and drink here where I am well known.”
“I would be glad to eat and drink with you, Will Shakespeare,” said Valentine.
“Stop! I know that stratagem.” Sir Percival narrowed his eyes at Will. “Do you take me for a witless rustic?”
A desire for mischief tickled Will. “Your suspicions are quite valid, Sir Percival,” he said. “This inn is the deepest den of iniquity in all London. The serving maids are wantons. Ha-ha! And I am a varlet, a most crafty varlet—a poet and a player. Therefore trust nothing that I say—” Will was laughing so hard his ribs and his head pounded with pain.
Sir Percival drew back in alarm. “Thomas, you should not have aided this madman. Come away now.” He grabbed the doctor’s cloak.
“God go with you, Valentine, my good fellow,” said Will, holding up his hand. “Come back and see my play in a few weeks. I have such a fetching and womanish actor playing Cleopatra, I swear you will forget your love for the lady Olivia.”
“Let me die first!” said Valentine. He turned to follow Sir Percival, who was fleeing as if a devil were chasing him.