A week later, tired and hungry, Shaxper trudged into London with only a crumpled letter of introduction in his pocket. He was more determined than ever to succeed, having had plenty of time to convince himself that surviving the robbery was a confirmation of Divine Intervention.
Taking a deep breath, he joined the hurly-burly in the crowded streets, the familiar stench of the city once again filling his nostrils. He avoided looking at the severed heads on London Bridge, their jaws agape with death, a stern warning to all treasonous Catholics. He made a mental note to keep his mouth shut and emulate those who survived.
He bumped against the merchants who hauled their wares into the streets as he picked his way through the crowd. He overheard tidings of the New World wafting from the open windows of the taverns. Adventurers boasted about the exotic animals and spices they had seen on their travels. Musicians sang the latest songs, and the strange new smell of tobacco drifted onto the lane. Surrounded by the bustle of enterprise, Shaxper took heart. London still represented the brave new world of his dreams. By the grace of God, he would find ready employment with the Earl of Oxford and refill his purse as quickly as possible.
Feet aching, he sat down to rest in front of The Boar’s Head and watched as its intoxicated patrons stumbled out onto the street. Whores and pickpockets busily plied their trades, grateful for the easy commerce. A commotion broke out on the next block, and he craned his neck to see what was going on.
Curiosity overruled his pain. He rose to investigate. Moving towards the noise, he recognized John Lyly pushing aside the sea of flatterers that encircled the Earl of Oxford. The mob was loud and raucous, everyone making brazen attempts to get as close to the glittering celebrity as possible. Shaxper edged in, too, unwilling to miss his chance. He trailed the swarm of revelers into the pub and watched as every creature in the place – drunk or sober – hovered around the charismatic Earl.
At first Lord Oxford greeted everyone graciously, but as the riffraff pressed closer, he gripped his walking stick and deftly used it to distance himself. Smiling and nodding, he worked his way towards the stairs.
“Will it be the usual, my lord?” the barkeep called.
“Yes, yes. Send up a tray, and quickly, too.”
Then dashing up the stairs, he disappeared with Lyly right behind him.
“I used to enjoy these crowds at my tournaments,” he heard the Earl say, “but since the stabbing at Blackfriars, I feel like Julius Caesar on the steps of the Senate . . .”
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