The Slaying of the Shrew (11 page)

"I do see what you mean," Smythe said. "The last thing the father of the bride would need on the night before the wedding was a hue and cry raised about an overheard conversation in a garden. Still, it has a most intimate bearing on his family, and were it my own daughter who was being so intrigued against, I would most certainly wish to know!"

"Indeed," Shakespeare agreed. "However, let us first examine what you
do
know."

Smythe frowned once more. "But… what do you mean? Did I not just tell you?"

"You told me that you had overheard a conversation," Shakespeare replied, "but between whom?"

"Why, the two men in the maze!"

"What were their names? What did they look like?"

"Why, how in the world should I know? I do not think that either of them used the other's name. And as for what they looked like, I never even caught a glimpse of them!"

"Precisely," Shakespeare said, with a wry grimace. "You have overheard a conversation which may lead you, justifiably, to make an accusation, but against whom?" He shrugged. "There are many visitors here. This is the largest wedding the society of London has seen since… well, certainly since we have been in London. And what have you to go by to identify these men save for the sounds of their voices? For that matter, unless a voice should have some marked characteristic that renders it uncommon, one voice often sounds much like another. Can you be certain, beyond
any
shadow of a doubt, that you could pick these two voices out from all the rest? Or from one that may sound similar?"

" 'Sdeath! You have me there. I should think that I would know them if I heard them once again, but to say they are the ones beyond any shadow of a doubt… but wait… there is one thing! I know that they plan to pose as a nobleman and his son! That should enable us to identify them!"

"Indeed?" said Shakespeare. "And how many noblemen do you suppose will be in attendance at this wedding, hmm? Considering, of course, that this celebration is to be the single most significant social event of the season. And how many of them, do you suppose, shall bring their sons along, as well, especially considering that the extremely, one might even say obscenely wealthy Master Middleton still has an emminently marriageable and, by all accounts, extremely beautiful younger daughter?"

"Ah," said Smythe, weakly.

"Ah, indeed."

"So then… what are we to do?"

"Well, 'twould seem to me that you have a number of things to consider before we can answer that question," Shakespeare replied. "For one thing, you seem to have neglected, at least for the moment, the matter of what brought you out to the garden maze last night in the first place."

"Elizabeth!"

"Precisely. Now, can you be certain that she is not somehow involved in this?"

"Elizabeth?
I could never believe that of her!" Smythe replied. "Not after what she went through herself! Zounds, does
anyone
get betrothed in London without all manner of plots and counterplots?"

"One might say that marriage is a plot in and of itself, but that is neither here nor there," said Shakespeare, wryly. "If you are going to be reporting what you heard tonight to Master Middleton, or to anyone else, for that matter, then quite aside from being questioned closely about what you had heard, you will doubtless be questioned about why you were out there in the first place, especially at such an hour. Now, would you be comfortable saying that you were there because you had seen Elizabeth entering the maze alone and therefore followed her? For if you were to say that, then chances are it would cast suspicion upon her, and she would be summoned to explain why she went out there all alone, with darkness falling."

"I would like to hear that explanation, myself," said Smythe.

"Ah, but are you
entitled
to it?" Shakespeare countered. "And even if you were, which is certainly open to argument, then how do you suppose Elizabeth would feel about that?"

"She would probably be furious with me," Smythe said, glumly. "She does have quite the temper."

"Mmm, don't they all?" said Shakespeare.

"What are we to do then?"

"We?"
The poet raised his eyebrows. "I thought 'twas
your
problem that we were discussing. How does it happen, Tuck, that I always manage somehow to be pulled into your intrigues?"

"Because you are my friend," said Smythe.

"Aye, worse luck."

"And because you cannot resist it. You are as curious as a cat, Will."

"True, and worse luck, still," said Shakespeare, with a grimace. "So then, where does that leave us?"

Shakespeare sighed. "Well… it leaves us with not one, but
two
puzzles, it would seem. The first, and the most immediate, since it nearly resulted in your getting skewered tonight, is the matter of these two mysterious and rather unpleasant gentlemen and their plot involving Blanche Middleton. The second is the question of what Elizabeth was doing out in the maze tonight, and whether or not her business there had aught to do with these two gentlemen. I know that you do not believe it, but we cannot dismiss the possibility. We must keep our heads about us and not allow our feelings to influence our better judgement. You say that you neither saw nor heard her after you had entered the maze yourself?"

Smythe shook his head. "No. It seemed to me that she must have known her way around in there, for I lost track of her and became confused myself."

"You became what you had already become, else you would not have gone out there in the first place," Shakespeare said, dryly.

"Are you going to help me or criticize me?"

"I criticize you only to help you, my lad," the poet replied. He took a deep breath. "That girl is going to be the ruin of you yet. But… you are my very best friend, Tuck, for better or for worse, and so, as I am a loyal friend, your ruin shall be our ruin, and we shall both go down magnificently."

Tuck rolled his eyes. "You are being melodramatic."

"Of course, I am being melodramatic, you ninny. I am a poet."

"And a player."

"Aye, and thus stand doubly damned. Well then, what shall we do about this curious predicament?" He stroked his beard and thought for a moment. Then he nodded to himself. " Twould seem to me that saying anything to Master Middleton at this point would serve no useful purpose. We do not know enough to tell him anything of substance. That someone might plot to take advantage of him and his daughter, to marry her for money, well, that is something that any man in his position would readily surmise and take steps to prepare for. And who are we, after all, to be pointing accusatory fingers at any of his guests? We are but two lowly players, whose own motives might easily be suspect. We need much more than just the few remarks you overheard tonight before we can go to Master Middleton."

"But we are only here for one more day," said Smythe. "Or two, at most, if we depart the day after our performance."

"Which argues well for doing nothing," Shakespeare replied. "This is truly none of our affair."

"When someone tries to run me through with a rapier, I consider that very much my affair!"

"Oh, very well, then. If you insist. We shall have to see if we can discover anything about who Blanche Middleton's suitors might be, and who, among them, is an aristocrat—or pretends to be one— and who, among those, may be here together with his father—or a man who pretends to be his father. Then you must listen to them speak and see if you can recognize their voices. And 'twill be interesting to see if they can recognize yours, as well, for if so, then that may suit our purpose admirably."

"And just how would it do that?" asked Smythe, frowning.

Shakespeare shrugged. "Well, they have already tried to kill you once. They would doubtless try it once again to ensure that you did not give them away. And doing so, they might well give themselves away. And that would suit our purpose, you see?"

" ‘Twould not suit
my
purpose very well if I were killed!"

"Quite. Therefore, we shall endeavor to keep you alive as long as possible. Long enough, at least, to get to the bottom of this nefarious intrigue and find out if Master Middleton is grateful enough to offer some reward."

"I see. So I should therefore place
my
life at risk so that
you
might collect a reward from Master Middleton?"

"Well, I would share it with you, of course. Assuming you survived, that is."

"How good of you."

"Think nothing of it. What are friends for?"

"For getting other friends killed, it would seem."

"Look, did I
ask
you to go out to the maze tonight on the trail of some pouty girl? Or did you, in fact, come to
me
to help you out with this?"

Smythe made a sour face. "I came to you," he admitted.

"Indeed. Tis not too late to change your mind, however. We could still choose to act as if none of this had ever happened and blithely go about minding our own business as if we were naught but mere players hired to perform a foolish little play for the amusement of the wedding guests, then take our bows, and pack our things, and continue on our merry way to new adventures and amusements. And I, for one, would have no trouble whatsoever if we were to do precisely that. So then… what shall it be?"

Smythe sighed. "You know, Will, you can be a very irritating person."

"I know. My wife used to say exactly the same thing, which is why she lives in Stratford and I live in London, where I can no longer irritate her."

Smythe shook his head. "The devil take it all. I started this, I may as well see it through. Although I have a feeling we may both regret this."

"Anything worth doing is often worth regretting," Shakespeare said. "And we can start tomorrow."

Chapter 5

THE MORNING BROUGHT A BUSTLE of activity throughout the household as the staff arose well before dawn to begin making the final preparations for the wedding. The kitchen was in full roar well before sunrise, with the cooks bellowing at their helpers like sergeants on the battlefield barking out orders to their troops. The cleaning maids scurried throughout the house with feather dusters, polishing cloths, straw brooms and fresh rushes. The grooms and stable boys fed, curry combed and brushed the horses they were stabling for the guests and shoveled out the stalls for additional arrivals, although it was expected that most of the remaining guests would be arriving by boat, rowed out from the city by the rivermen.

Outside on the fairgrounds, the activity among the merchants seemed more leisurely compared to the frenetic atmosphere inside the house, but they, too, started very early. Most of them arose well before dawn, just like the household staff, and got their cook fires going, then started opening their tents and stalls and laying out their goods for market. By sunrise, the displays were all prepared and the goldsmiths could be heard tapping their hammers in their stalls; the weavers were click-clacking their looms; the tailors had their dummies set out and dressed with the finest doublets in their stock and the potters had their wheels spinning. Even the well-heeled guests who were accustomed to rising late had risen early—if not quite so early as the help—to breakfast in the hall, so that they could go out to the fairgrounds and get first crack at the merchandise, or else simply wander around and enjoy the spectacle.

Godfrey Middleton had certainly done himself proud, Smythe thought. An elaborate, gala wedding celebration for his eldest daughter, complete with a nautical procession worthy of a display for the queen's own court, and along with that, a private fair open only to his guests, a joust, and the premier of a new play staged especially for the occasion all made for an event that would have everyone in London talking about it for months. All those who had not been in attendance would feel that they had missed something very special and momentous, especially those noble hangers-on who had gone along with the queen's court on Her Majesty's progress through the countryside.

The queen herself would be certain to hear of it, and with her well known fondness for masques and jousts, theatricals and balls and entertainments of all sorts, it was almost a foregone conclusion that next time she would include Middleton Manor on her itinerary, instead of Sir William Worley's Green Oaks. And then once he had played host to the queen for a few weeks, which would be an even more expensive proposition, Godfrey Middleton would be well on his way to the knighthood that he coveted. It was all going to cost him a great deal of money, Smythe thought, but doubtless he considered it money very well spent. Especially since he had it to spend.

The Queen's Men had their duties already set out for them in their instructions from the steward. They had a light repast with the serving staff in the kitchen, which with all the frenetic and boisterous activity going on around them was rather like eating breakfast in the middle of a battlefield, then changed into their costumes and made their way down to the river gate, where they would await the remainder of the guests and, finally, the wedding party. First, however, they all lined up in their white senatorial robes for inspection by the steward, Humphrey, who walked up and down the line like a general and looked them over with a sort of disdainful resignation, adjusted the fold or drape of a robe here and there, then sniffed and pronounced that they "would do."

"There goes a man who has missed his true vocation," John Fleming commented wryly after Humphrey had dismissed them and they began to make their way down to the river. "With that bilious disposition, the man is a born critic if ever I saw one."

Smythe chuckled, but Will Kemp's perpetual grumbling and grousing forestalled his response.

"These costumes are ridiculous," Kemp said. "Roman senators, indeed! We look more like a bunch of cadavers wrapped up in shrouds."

"In your case, that would be particularly true," Robert Speed replied.

"At least my talent is alive and well, which is certainly more than I can say for yours," Kemp riposted, contemptuously.

Speed raised his hand and snapped his fingers, as if ordering up a tankard of ale. "Gentlemen, a shroud for Master Kemp's talent, if you please?"