The Slaying of the Shrew (3 page)

"Look, Tuck," Shakespeare said, interrupting his thoughts, "I have written enough for one night. I need a respite. Let us go downstairs and have some ale. You need to stop this lying about and moping. Most of the others will be down there still, discussing their preparations for the journey. At least, the ones who have not yet drunk themselves insensible. You need to get your mind on other things. There will be other girls in other towns, doubtless a few pretty enough to make you forget all about Elizabeth Darcie. And they will doubtless be much more accessible."

"Perhaps, but they shall not be Elizabeth," Smythe said. " ‘Twould never be the same."

"Blow out the candles, then," Shakespeare replied, wryly. "All cats are gray in the dark, my friend. Come on, let us go and have ourselves a drink or two or three."

They made their way downstairs to the alehouse of the Toad and Badger, where they found most of the members of the Queen's Men still enjoying one another's company after their last performance and their ordinary supper of meat pies, ale and cheese. Beer, the poor man's drink, was filling the small hours as they smoked their pipes and eagerly discussed their forthcoming departure.

"Ah, Will, Tuck, come join us!" called John Fleming, waving them over to the table where they sat. "Dick has just been telling us about our new engagement at the commencement of our tour!"

"What new engagement?" Shakespeare asked, as he signalled the tavern maid for a drink.

"We are to be performing at a wedding," said George Bryan, a recently hired member of the company who had come to them from another troop of players that had been disbanded. There were fewer acting companies now that licensure was being more strictly enforced, especially in London, and only those companies with aristocratic patrons were licensed to perform.

Smythe sat down next to Bryan and at once found a tankard of beer placed before him. He reached for it, thinking that he never used to drink anything but milk, water or his special infusion of herbs until he came to London, where no one seemed to drink anything but wine or beer or ale. Here, water was only used for cooking or else washing up. No one ever thought to drink it. Wine and ale, however, flowed as freely as the Thames and drunkenness was so common in the city as to be completely unremarkable. It was not unusual to see men lying passed out on the streets, utterly insensible with drink and vulnerable to any pickpocket who came along to lift their purses. Most citizens generally gave these supine souls a wide berth, however, especially at this time of the year, for it was by no means certain from outward appearances, unless one made a risky close inspection, whether it was a drunkard fallen into stupor or else a victim of the dreaded plague.

Each year, when summer came, the plague took a heavy toll among the citizenry. There were so many new graves in St. Paul's Churchyard now that the minister complained about the stench of all the decomposing bodies. Smythe grimaced at the thought and took a drink, enjoying the feeling of the rich and heavy brew sliding down his throat. He had developed a taste for it, but reminded himself to be sure to visit Granny Meg so that he could obtain a fresh supply of dried herbs for his infusion, a recipe taught him by another cunning woman from back home. He had been strong and healthy when he came to London and he intended to do everything he could to stay that way, even if it made everyone think he was peculiar for imbibing a hot beverage brewed from weeds. However, the ursine Courtney Stackpole would not countenance such a curious concoction in his tavern, and so Smythe drank beer as he listened to Fleming and the others, anxious for more news about their tour.

"There is to be a wedding celebration held at the estate of one Godfrey Middleton, a wealthy merchant and projector," said Richard Burbage, "who is a good friend of Henry Darcie, well known to us all as my father's partner and thereby part owner of our illustrious theater. ‘Tis through the good offices of Henry Darcie that this special engagement has been arranged for us."

"So then we are to be performing at some fat merchant's wedding?" Shakespeare said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. " ‘Tis to be a private performance for the guests, held in some dim, stuffy, and ill-suited hall?"

"Nay, 'twill be the wedding of his eldest daughter, Catherine," said Dick Burbage. "And the performance will be held out of doors!"

"A grand pavillion and a stage shall be built especially for the occasion on the grounds of the estate," said Robert Speed, another member of the company, who had the singular ability of speaking lucidly and clearly no matter how drunk he became. His bleary-eyed gaze was the only indication of his inebriated state as he raised his tankard in a toast to the efforts that would be made to ensure a fine performance and a memorable wedding. "Separate pavillions shall also be erected as banqueting houses and galleries to house the audience," he added in stentorian tones, "all of whom will come barging down the river in a grand progress like Drake's own bloomin' fleet after the defeat of the Armada! 'Ere's to 'em all, God bless 'em!" He emptied his tankard and belched profoundly.

"There are to be three hundred guests or more, most of whom shall be participating in the progress," explained Burbage. 'There shall be work aplenty for the rivermen, what with boats and barges all assembled in a flotilla to bear the wedding guests. And the theme for this grand celebration shall be that of Queen Cleopatra greeting Julius Caesar."

"Oh, what rot!" said Shakespeare, rolling his eyes.

"Indeed," said Kemp. "One would think that it was some elaborate court masque held in honor of the queen, herself!"

"Very nearly so," said Burbage. "Godfrey Middleton seems intent on putting on a lavish spectacle in honor of his daughter, who is marrying into the nobility, thereby doubtless improving his own prospects for an eventual knighthood."

"Ah, just what we need, more knights," Will Kemp said, puffing on his long clay pipe. "At the rate that knighthoods are being handed out these days, they shall soon be stacking them up like cordwood in the church."

"Oh, and speaking of knights, there is to be a joust, as well," said Burbage.

"A wedding joust?" said Shakespeare. "Well, why not? Tis an apt metaphor for the combative state of holy matrimony. Has a decision yet been made about which play shall be performed? Perhaps the groom, as Caesar, could be stabbed to death on stage while the bride, as Cleopatra, made a complete asp of herself in front of all the wedding guests."

"I vote for that one," Speed said gravely, raising his tankard once again and quaffing it in a single swallow.

"We
have
been asked to submit a number of suggestions for plays that would be
appropriate
to the occasion." Burbage said.

Fleming added, "Master Godfrey, in his anxiety that everything should be just so, has apparantly appointed himself our personal Master of the Revels for this particular occasion."

"We could perform
The Unconstant Woman,"
Shakespeare said, with a straight face.

Will Kemp snorted. "That should prove a popular choice with Master Middleton." The others chuckled.

"You think perhaps
The Holy State
would be appropriate?" asked Bryan, seriously.

"With Nashe's long, windy soliloquies and moralistic pedantry?" said Shakespeare. "Do you wish to entertain the wedding guests or stupify them all into a slumber?"

"Well, then, what would you suggest, Will, as our aspiring resident poet?" Fleming asked, wryly. "Which play from among our vast repertoire do you suppose would be the best for such an occasion?"

Fleming might have meant the remark somewhat in jest, thought Smythe, but at the same time, he marked the fact that no one laughed. It was the first time that anyone had suggested, seriously or not, that Will might one day hold such a position in their company and that no one laughed at the idea was evidence of just how much Shakespeare had risen in their general esteem. He felt pleased for his friend, but at the same time, he felt a little envious.

"Well, to be serious for a moment—but only for a moment—I am not certain it is needful that our choice of play reflect on the occasion," Shakespeare replied. "That sort of choice would not be without its risks, you know. After all, what gentleman would wish to see a group of motley players make comment, through their sport, upon his daughter's marriage? Were we to play something comedic concerning the general state of matrimony, then Middleton might feel that we were poking fun at his own family. On the other hand, if we chose something like Nashe's play to perform, for all its fine, moralistic sentiments and tone, then he might perceive his daughter and her husband were being preached to by their inferiors. Namely, ourselves."

"Aye, he makes an excellent point," said Burbage, nodding. "While this shall not be a court performance, there shall nevertheless be a great many powerful and wealthy people in attendance. We want to make this occasion a memorable one, to all of them as well as Master Middleton, and not for all the wrong reasons."

"Well, why
not
a comedy?" asked Kemp. "We could play something spirited and amusing that has naught to do with marriage, and yet would still entertain the better sort of people with its subject matter.
The Honorable Prentice
would be an excellent choice, methinks."

In other words, something that would play more to his talents as the company's clown and jig-dancer, Smythe thought. It was a predictable response from Kemp, who liked anything that would showcase his abilities, but at the same time, it was not without merit. An idea suddenly struck him.

"What about that new play you have been working on, Will?" he said, turning to Shakespeare. "You know the one, you have read me portions of it."

"What new play?" asked Burbage, immediately interested. "You have been working on another adaptation?"

Shakespeare glanced at Smythe with irritation. "Well, no… not quite. ‘Tis something new, entirely of my own composition…" His voice trailed off and he looked a bit uncomfortable.

"Indeed?" said Fleming, raising his eyebrows. "What is the matter of it?"

Shakespeare cleared his throat and took a sip of wine. He did not seem anxious to discuss it. Nevertheless, he answered Fleming's question. "It concerns a matter of identity," he said, "something I have been playing about with in a sort of desultory fashion."

"Go on," said Burbage. "Tell us more. How does it begin?"

Shakespeare paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Well… it begins with an itinerant young tinker, an impoverished wastrel by the name of Christopher Sly, who is thrown out of an alehouse by his hostess for drunkenness and loutish behavior and for refusing to pay his bill…"

"A sly wastrel named Christopher?" said Fleming, smiling. "A bit of a dig at young Marlowe, perhaps?"

Speed belched ponderously. "Sod Marlowe."

"Bestill yourself, Robby," Burbage said. "Thus far, it seems a good beginning. Go on, Will. What happens next?"

Shakespeare took another drink and cleared his throat once more. "Well, Sly staggers about and rails at her in a roaring, drunken speech in which he foolishly claims noble descent from the Norman conquerors and so forth, taking umbrage at her treatment of him…"

"One could have some fun with that," interjected Kemp, clearly imagining himself in the role.

"… and then he falls into a drunken slumber in the road." Shakespeare continued, "whereon a lord and his hunting party arrive upon the scene. Finding him thus disposed—or indisposed, as the case may be—this lord, for want of some amusement, decides to play a trick upon the drunken tinker and instructs his retinue accordingly. They shall remove the tinker to this lord's estate, where they shall strip him of his clothing and place him in the lord's own bedchamber. All within the household are carefully instructed, when the tinker wakes, to treat him as if
he
were the lord himself who, having fallen into some madness for a time, had forgot himself and was now miraculously and mercifully restored to his wits… and to his loyal servants. And so, when the tinker comes to his senses, he is at first confused by all that happens, but soon comes to believe he truly is a lord, because all around him assure him it is so, even the lord himself, who plays the part of a servant."

"Oh, I like it!" Burbage said. "It has great possibilities for witty banter and tomfoolery. I think we should submit this play to Master Middleton as our first choice! What say you, lads?"

"Aye, 'tis a lighthearted and amusing sort of thing," said Bryan. "I can see how it would be received. I like it, too."

Shakespeare looked dismayed. "But… but, my friends… the play is not yet finished!"

"Well, we need not submit the entire book to Middleton for his approval," Burbage said. "I do not think that he would have the time or even the inclination to read it, in any event, what with all the preparations he must see to for the wedding celebration. A brief summary of the story should suffice."

"Aye, a man of Master Middleton's position would not be bothered with trifling details," Fleming agreed. "There is quite enough there from what Will has already described to satisfy him, I should think, and if there should be anything in the final book he may find disagreeable, why, we could always change it in rehearsal, as we often do."

"Indeed, it sounds like a fine idea to me," said Kemp, nodding with approval. "Put in a few songs, then add a jig or two, and it should prove just the thing to entertain the distinguished wedding party."

Seeing the stricken expression on his roommate's face, Smythe suddenly realized that for all his good intentions, he had made a serious mistake, though he did not quite understand just what it was. Yet it seemed quite clear that what he had thought would be a welcome opportunity for his friend to have one of his own plays acted by the Queen's Men, and in front of an influential audience, at that, was instead regarded by him as a horrible disaster. And when he turned towards Smythe amidst the general discussion of how they might present his play, Smythe saw in his face a look that struck him to the quick. It was an expression of great alarm… and of betrayal.