by Simon Hawke
"Hmpfh. What makes you so certain?"
"A woman knows these things," she replied reassuringly. "Indeed? Well, a man knows a thing or two, as well. And I have taken steps to ensure that this does not happen again!"
Winifred looked up at him and frowned. "What do you mean? What sort of steps?"
"I have already begun making arrangements to ensure that she shall marry someone much more suitable. Much more suitable, indeed," he replied.
Winifred looked startled. "Have you? So soon?"
"Aye, I have, indeed. And what is more, I intend to waste no time about the matter. I shall have Portia married off well and properly before she can get herself into any more trouble, you may rest assured of that!"
"To be quite fair, Henry, you cannot blame Portia for something she could not have known," Winifred replied. "Nor did you know it, for that matter. Do not forget that you gave your approval to the match, at first."
"W’ell, 'twas because I was misled," Mayhew replied testily.
"The young man seemed entirely suitable and presented himself as such. A journeyman tailor, well spoken and well settled and employed in a good shop, with excellent prospects all around… "
He grunted and scowled. "Zounds, what is this country coming to when such people are permitted to mingle with their betters? Why, to think of that. that. spawn of that detestable tribe of usurers with his hands upon my daughter… "
"Henry! You are growing all red in the face again! I fear that you shall become sanguine in your humour, and then we shall have to summon a physician to bleed you!"
"Never you mind my humours, Madame," Mayhew replied irritably. "There is no distemper in my disposition, I assure you. As I have told you, I have taken steps to set things right. In due time, this entire matter will be settled, and there shall be an end to it."
"What are these steps that you have taken, Henry?" Winifred asked with a slight frown. "I must confess that I am much surprised at how quickly you have acted. What, exactly, is the nature of these arrangements you have made?"
"Ah, well, there, madame, you may see the mettle of the man that you shall marry," Mayhew said with a self-satisfied air. "As it happens, fortuitous circumstance led to my making the acquaintance earlier today of a certain gentleman lately arrived in London from his country estate. A proper gentleman, mind you, to the manner born, one who dresses in the height of fashion, with his escutcheon embroidered on his handkerchiefs in gold and silver thread! He carries himself most excellently, most excellently, indeed. And, as we engaged in conversation, I discovered, by pure chance, that he was looking for a wife!"
"Happy chance," said Winifred.
"Oh, I should say so, Winifred! I should say so, indeed! He was most interested when I mentioned that I had a marriageable young daughter—a very comely marriageable young daughter—for whose hand, of course, there had been more than a few suitors, although none quite suitable had as yet been found."
"And I presume you did not tell him that she had but lately been betrothed to Thomas Locke," said Winifred.
"For Heaven's sake, Winifred!" Mayhew replied. "This is a gentleman of quality! Do you suppose that he would even for one moment consider a match with a girl who has already been betrothed, much less to one who…" He shook his head, as if he could not bear even to complete the thought.
"Nay, I suppose not," Winifred said quietly. "Not if he were a proper gentleman. You did not tell him, then."
"Perish the thought! If word of that were to get around, then I should be saddled with a spinster for a daughter! Or else be forced to have her married to some lowly ostler who stank of horse manure or, worse yet, a player! Nay, Winifred, we have our own lives and our reputations to consider."
"And if Portia were married to a gentleman, a proper gentleman, of course, that would considerably enhance our lives and reputations," she replied.
"Just so, Winifred, just so! Why, it may be possible for me to become a gentleman myself! I should think that after a lifetime of hard work, now that I have the means at last, obtaining an escutcheon would be a fitting reward, indeed. Can you not see yourself married to a gentleman, Winifred, a proper gentleman with his own coat of arms emblazoned on his mantelpiece and painted on his coach?"
"And embroidered on his handkerchiefs, no doubt, with gold and silver thread," she murmured softly.
"Eh? "What was that you said?" he asked.
"Eh? 'twas nothing, Henry," she replied. "I was merely counting my stitches to myself."
"Ah. I see," he said. "Well, count away, then. Do not let me distract you. 'Tis only our future I am speaking of."
"I have finished, Henry. And I am all attention. So tell me, who is this gentleman of whom you speak?"
"His name is Symington Smythe II, Esquire," Mayhew replied, as if savouring the sound. "And what is more, Winifred, 'tis my understanding, although he most humbly and modestly requested that I refrain from speaking of it, that he is presently a candidate for knighthood! Think of it, Winifred, my daughter, Portia, married to a knight! Can you imagine what that could mean for us? 'Tis most fortuitous, most fortuitous, indeed! One disaster narrowly averted, and now this great good fortune falls into our laps! Just wait until Portia hears of this! I imagine that then you shall see gratitude, indeed!"
"I can imagine just how grateful she will be," Winifred replied with a slight furrow in her brow.
"Aye, Winifred, things are looking up!" said Mayhew. "Things are looking up, indeed!"
Chapter 6
The discovery of Thomas Locke's body briefly displaced Smythe's concern about Elizabeth's involvement with Portia Mayhew, but it had been simmering away at the back of his mind ever since they had left Master Leffingwell's tailor shop. Then he began to think about it once again as soon as his father left the tavern.
Just the thought of his father getting married while still being married to his errant second wife was disconcerting enough all by itself, but it only served to remind him once more of Thomas Locke's plan to elope with Portia Mayhew, a plan that Thomas might never even have considered had he not suggested it to him in the first place. And now it seemed to have resulted in his death. Ben Dickens had been right, Smythe thought; he should have kept his mouth shut and his mind on his own business.
He wondered how Elizabeth was involved with Portia Mayhew, whom he knew only by name. Presumably, they had known each other all along. Perhaps that should not have been surprising. after all, Elizabeth's father and Portia's father were both successful and wealthy merchants who most likely travelled in the same social circles and probably did business with one another. And it was not as if Elizabeth were in the habit of introducing him to all her friends. He understood that. He was under no illusions that he was a suitable companion for someone of her class. He could hardly expect her co acknowledge their relationship to everyone she knew.
He had never met or even known about Antonia, for example, until she had happened upon them together by chance in Paul's Walk one day. As he recalled, Elizabeth had clearly felt a little awkward introducing them. It had been the most cursory sort of introduction. Elizabeth had introduced her merely as "my friend Antonia." He did not even know her last name. Later, when they had once again chanced upon each other at the bookstalls in Paul's Walk, this time without Elizabeth being present, Antonia had greeted him in a warm and friendly manner, doubtless only being polite, of course, and it had seemed, under the circumstances, a bit presumptuous CO ask her full name. Not that he had given it much thought at the time. Their conversation had quickly turned to their tastes in reading matter, for they were both there to browse the bookstalls. But at the same time, he had felt that Antonia had been very curious about him and the nature of his relationship with Elizabeth. She was, however, much too well bred to question him about it, and they had soon gone their separate ways.
Then he found out that both she and Elizabeth had been at Leffingwell's tailor shop with Portia, looking for Thomas only a short while before he had arrived there with Will on
the same errand. He had known better than CO tell the sheriff's men about that, and fortunately Will had refrained from mentioning it, as well. However, the sheriff's men would almost surely question Master Leffingwell and probably find out about it then. And that, in turn, meant that they would doubtless pay a call on Henry Darcie soon thereafter. His relationship with Elizabeth's father was already somewhat strained. This would certainly not serve to improve matters between them.
The entire matter had somehow turned into a hopeless, tangled, tragic muddle, with him in the centre of it all. The headache that began with his father's arrival at the tavern had continued to build in intensity until he had started drinking with his friends, and then for a time it went away. Now, with the advent of the morning, it had returned full force, much worse than it had been the previous night.
"Here," said Shakespeare, bending over to help him sit up, "have some of this." He held a tankard up to his lips.
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.
The churchyard was a bustle of activity, as usual. Still an impressive edifice, even after its tall spire had been destroyed by lightning, the cathedral of St. Paul had nevertheless seen better days. Since the Dissolution, no incense was permitted, organ music was prohibited, and candles could not be used at all except at Christmas. What statuary had not been removed was broken. Overall, the majestic cathedral was in a sad state of disrepair.
Morning prayer service was usually held between seven and eight o'clock, with evening prayer held from two to three. Following the separation from the Church of Rome during King Henry's time, the Act of Uniformity had decreed that the Book of Common Prayer was to be used for services, and all recusants were severely punished. The harbouring of priests had been declared high treason, punishable by death. It was unlawful for shops to be open during the time of common prayer, on Sundays, or on holy days, though the enforcement of these laws was entirely another matter. Wednesdays had been set aside for abstaining from meat, although it was said that this was less for spiritual reasons than to help the fishing industry. And in a similar manner, there was a great admixture of the sacred with the profane in the cathedral of St. Paul.
There was much demand among the citizens of London for "good books," such as the Geneva Bible and the Bishop’s Bible, of course, as well as collections of prayers, sermons, aphorisms, and religious stories, such as Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, or translations from the French of Calvin's commentaries, or the popular devotional works of Thomas Bacon. All of these and more were for sale in the bookstalls, along with more prosaic and sensational matter, not only outside in the churchyard, but inside the cathedral itself, as well.
St. Paul's School had been established on the grounds to give a grammar school education to young boys, but if they happened to venture out of the school and down the main aisle of the cathedral, known commonly to one and all in London as Paul's Walk., then they could quickly receive a different sort of education altogether. Since the Dissolution, Paul's Walk. was less a quiet and sombre aisle in a church than it was a busy thoroughfare, where the citizens of London came to hear the latest news, as well as meet with lawyers, many of whom kept more or less permanent stations at certain pillars in the cathedral where they could conduct business with their clients. Men in search of work often loitered in the Walk., hoping to find someone who would hire them for endeavours either legal or illegal. Merchants set up their stalls at the tombs and at the font, where they sold such commodities as ale and beer, bread and fruit, and even fish.
For a time, there were even horses ridden through the cathedral, as well as carts drawn along the Walk by either mules or oxen, though a law was finally passed prohibiting such traffic. Nevertheless, from time to time, some young bravo on a prancer would still take a trot along the Walk, enjoying the sound his horse's hoof-beats made as they echoed above the general din. Paul's Walk was also known as a place of assignations, and Londo
n's lovers, either married or unmarried, often met there. And related activities, although of a considerably less romantic nature, were also conducted at the pillars and in shadowed corners. Many religious houses had been taken over following the Dissolution and converted to other uses, but perhaps none served quite as many or as varied uses as St. Paul's.
For Smythe, once he overcame his initial shock at the spectacle of what St. Paul's had become, Paul's Walk served two primary purposes. It was a place he often came to purchase books and pamphlets, and it was also where he came to meet Elizabeth Darcie now and then.
His friendship with Elizabeth — for it was truly little more than that—was a source of both joy and misery to him. He was hopelessly in love with her, and had been ever since the day he met her at the Burbage Theatre, where he and Will had gained employment as ostlers upon first coming to London. From the very beginning, there had seemed to be a spark between them, but she had arrived in a fine black coach to meet a gentleman to whom she was betrothed. And, he had thought at the time, even if she were not already spoken for, she was still too far above him for him to entertain any serious thoughts of courtship.
She was the beautiful daughter of a wealthy merchant who was also a partner in the Burbage Theatre, while he was a lowly working-class ostler whose greatest hope in life was to become a player. With such a daughter, a wealthy man like Henry Darcie could easily arrange a marriage that would advance his family both socially and financially. Shakespeare, who had quickly realised his friend was smitten, had vainly pointed out to him that someone like himself had about as much chance of courting Elisabeth Darcie as a player had of being knighted. And it might have ended there had fate not brought Elizabeth to seek his help in freeing herself from a betrothal to a man who turned out in the end to have been an impostor, a murderer, and a spy.
The situation had served to bring them closer, and a grateful Henry Darcie, as a way of acknowledging his debt, had allowed their friendship to continue. He could still not countenance any sort of formal relationship or courtship, but because he owed a debt to Smythe and trusted both him and his daughter to behave honourably, he could at least, somewhat grudgingly, look the other way. And in that Smythe found both relief and frustration.