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Smythe wrinkled his nose at the smell. "Good Lord, not more beer!" he said, groaning at the sound of his own voice. "Odd's blood, Will, I should think that I have had enough," he added miserably.
Shakespeare chuckled. "More than enough, I would say. Yet drink this just the same. 'Tis the hair of the dog that bit you. 'Twill make you feel somewhat better."
Smythe sipped and groaned again. "'Strewth!" he said. "If this is what comes of getting drunk, then I swear that I shall never drink again!"
"I have heard that a time or two, methinks," said Shakespeare. "In your case, however, I may well be inclined to believe it. You never did much care for spirits, and I have never seen you drink but sparingly afore last night. I had cautioned you to have a care, but you seemed disinclined to listen."
"I do not remember," Smythe replied.
"Well, that does not surprise me," Shakespeare said with a smile. "Here, have a little more."
Smythe took another sip and moaned. "I feel sick to my stomach," he said. "God! Does this happen every time one has too much to drink?"
"To varying degrees," Shakespeare replied, nodding. "Men who are not used to drink should not drink more than they are used to."
Smythe had seen Shakespeare in similar straits a number of times before, but until now he had never fully appreciated how it felt. "How in Heaven's name can people stand it? Lord, the way Speed drinks, I should think 'twould be an utter agony!"
"Well, if Speed ever sobers up, no doubt his head shall burst," Shakespeare replied. "But he seems to maintain an even strain upon his constitution, having apparently learned the fine art of balancing his inebriation through long experience. If he were an alchemist with such precision, then he would have long since turned lead into gold, though doubtless he would have drunk up all the profits from it. Are you feeling any better yet?"
"Not really," Smythe replied.
"Here, have a little more. If you feel the need to spew or pluck a rose, then I shall bring the chamberpot."
"Nay, there is no need," said Smythe, shaking his head, and then instantly realizing his mistake as the room began to move. He shut his eyes and brought his hands up to his head. "Oh, Lord. 'Tis a right worthy penance I receive now for a night of folly."
"'Twill get a little worse, I fear," said Shakespeare, handing him a note. "This came for you by messenger a little while ago. 'Tis from Elizabeth."
"Have you read it?"
"I did take that liberty, considering your indisposition, since I thought that it might have some bearing upon recent events."
"And?" said Smythe, still holding the message with its broken seal of red wax. He almost didn't want to read it.
"And it did, indeed," said Shakespeare. "'Twould seem the sheriff's men came by her house early this morning."
Smythe groaned and put his hand over his eyes. "Oh, I am fortune's fool. What said her father?"
"She did not say," Shakespeare replied. "You may read it for yourself, but she writes little more than that. She wishes to meet you at Paul's Walk this morning."
"This morning?" Smythe quickly opened the note and read it.
"'What is't o'clock?" he asked.
"Nearly ten 0' the clock,'" said Shakespeare.
"Zounds! I shall be late!"
"Not if you run," said Shakespeare.
"You villain. I believe you are enjoying this," Smythe accused him.
"Rather a great deal," Shakespeare said with a smile. "For a change, the shoe is on the other foot. Next time, perhaps you may have more sympathy for a man in this condition."
"A man who allows himself to fall into this condition deserves no sympathy," said Smythe, hopping about as he got dressed. "And nor do I deserve it. But just the same, I shall endeavour to be more tolerant in the future."
"Good luck," said Shakespeare. "And do not forget rehearsal!"
It had felt hellish to run at first, but the brisk pace he forced himself to maintain and the cool air rushing over his face had improved the way he felt. Although the headache had not completely gone away by the time he reached St. Paul's, the intensity of it was greatly diminished, much to his relief.
