Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 02] The Slaying of the Shrew(v2)

by The Slaying of the Shrew (v2. 0) (mobi)

  "Wait," said Smythe.

  "Wait? I am done with waiting! ‘Tis a simple thing for you to say-"

  "Be still!" Smythe said, turning around. "Someone is coming!"

  Elizabeth stiffened, turned, and froze, like a startled deer, eyes wide and peering into the night. Over the faint pattering of raindrops, they heard the unmistakable sounds of voices in the distance. And a moment later, they could see the bobbing light of torches coming towards them.

  "God's body! Death and damnation to them all!" cried John, and he threw his shoulder against the door with all his might.

  Chapter 9

  SHAKESPEARE HAD GROWN UP IN the country and knew how to ride bareback, but then he had not done so since he was a boy. Nor, he quickly realized, was he even remotely nostalgic for the experience. He had always liked horses and counted himself a decent rider, but he had been spoiled by saddles. Riding bareback at the gallop, which he had done so often in his childhood, was now a punishing experience.

  The coachman had not wanted to abandon the expensive carriage and had argued that they should try to get the wheel back on once more. Shakespeare had insisted that they had no time to lose and the horses had to be unhitched and ridden bareback. They had argued and Shakespeare said that he would take one of the horses and ride back no matter what, come Hell or high water. They had nearly come to blows over it, and the argument was settled finally when they noticed that the wheel had cracked and the axle had been damaged. There was nothing for it but to abandon the carriage in the road and ride the horses home.

  They had quickly modified the harnesses, shortened the reins and gotten on their way, by which time their already muddy clothes were reduced to little more than torn and sodden rags, but nightfall had caught up to them and they lacked a clear sky and a full moon by which to see. The rain had let up somewhat, but the roads were still puddled and quite soft in places. With Shakespeare insisting on riding at the gallop, the going was treacherous, to say the least.

  By the time they reached Middleton Manor, Shakespeare was roundly cursing every mare that ever foaled. They came splashing up the road leading to the house, skidded on the wet cobblestones of the courtyard and nearly went down in a tangle, but somehow, miraculously, their mounts managed to retain their footing and they reined in without further incident. Their noisy arrival, however, had alerted some within the house, for many of the guests had not retired early and were still participating in the wake. A few of them might even have remembered whom the wake was for.

  Humphrey, the ever-efficient steward, was one of the first upon the scene as they came staggering up to the front door, looking for all the world like two weary and embattled soldiers freshly returned from the wars.

  "Good God!" he said, when he beheld their grim and grimey appearance. "What happened, for mercy's sake? Have the two of you been set upon by brigands?"

  "The carriage broke down on the road from London, but never mind that now," Shakespeare said, trying to catch his breath. "Damn me, but I need a drink! Is Sir William here?"

  "Sir William had departed hours ago," said Humphrey, as the hall behind him began to fill up with curious onlookers. "You look like Death! What is the matter?"

  "Get the master of the house at once!" said Shakespeare. "And get Tuck Smythe. And get me a drink, while you are at it."

  "I shall do no such thing!" Humphrey replied, in an affronted tone. "Master Middleton has retired. This day has been a terrible trial for him, as you must surely know. He is grief-stricken and exhausted. His daughter's funeral has been a horrible ordeal for him."

  "Well, then wake up the old bugger and we shall crack open the tomb and raise her up again! And God damn it, get me a tupping drink!"

  The crowd behind Humphrey gasped collectively. But a few were enough past the point of caring that they chuckled at Shakespeare's irreverent remarks. Humphrey tossed them an acid gaze over his shoulder, then turned the full force of his basilisk glare on Shakespeare and the hapless coachman, who simply stood there helpless, not knowing what to say or do.

  "You must be drunk!" said Humphrey, with outrage. "I shall have you thrashed and driven off the property!"

  "Then you shall answer to Sir William Worley," Shakespeare replied, shoving past the incredulous steward and making his way toward the tables. "And you shall likewise answer to your master, who shall not take kindly, I assure you, to being deprived of his eldest daughter for yet a second time!" He picked up a goblet and filled it, then quaffed it in one breath.

  By now, more people had gathered round and everyone was talking at once. Humphrey was sputtering with outrage and turning purple with apoplexy, but Shakespeare did not care. He refilled the goblet and drank it down again, spilling some of the wine down his already thoroughly drenched and muddy doublet. It was ruined and it had been one of only two he owned, and the second one was threadbare, whereas some of the guests around him thought nothing of wearing at least three different doublets in one afternoon. He was tired; he was sore; he was cold and he was wet. He was a poet, not some post rider, and he felt resentful of the entire company around him. He had come to stage a play, and instead had played a part in one, the part of errand boy. Worse still, the whole situation had been nothing but a sham.

  "Now see here—" Humphrey began, but Shakespeare merely shoved him away roughly without even a glance at him or a break in drinking.

  "What in Heaven's name is all this row?" Godfrey Middleton's voice cut through the conversation. He stood up in the gallery, wearing a velvet dressing gown and looking down on the assemblage with cold fury. His gaze settled on Shakespeare as the obvious center of it all. "For the love of God, sir, have you no respect? No decency? My eldest daughter has just been laid to rest!"

  "Well, mark my word, Master Middleton, she shan't be resting long," Shakespeare replied.

  "This is an outrage!" Middleton said.

  "I shall have the servants throw the vile villain out at once!" Humphrey said, finding his voice at last. "I shall set the dogs upon the pestilential rascal!"

  Middleton suddenly seemed to recognize Shakepeare for the first time. "You are the man Sir William sent to London, are you not?"

  "I am that very man," Shakespeare replied. "Or what is left of him after the foul journey I have made. Your carriage, by the way, lies broken on the road some miles hence, I cannot say how far or where, precisely. We had tried to fix it once, but the damned wheel came off again a few miles down the road and cracked, and there was an end to it. By now, 'tis likely kindling for some rufflers. We unhitched the horses and rode back like red Indians in the pouring rain, your coachman and I, and we are tired men and chilled straight through to the bone, but by God, we have brought fascinating tidings! To wit, sir…" He took another long drink from the goblet, "… your daughter is not dead, because there was no poison in that flask from which she drank. 'Twas instead a potion merely meant to lull her for a time into the arms of Morpheus and only make it seem as if she slept eternally with Hades. So go back to your bed and rest you well, sir, if you wish, but know that when you wake upon the morrow, you shall find that Catherine had awoke afore you and absconded with her lover."

  He ignored the stunned reactions of the guests around him, turned his back on Middleton, and reached across the table for a cold and greasy drumstick that looked more appetizing to him now than any dish that he had ever seen. As he bit into it, he turned back and looked up towards the gallery. Middleton was gone. Shakespeare glanced at Ian, the coachman, who was staring at him with absolute astonishment, and shrugged.

  "Well, I suppose that woke him up, eh, Ian?" he said. He held out the drumstick. "D'you fancy a bite?"

  He did not have very much time to eat. Middleton came down almost at once, having paused only long enough to pull on a pair of boots and throw a cloak over his dressing gown. He barked out sharp orders to Humphrey, calling for torches and men, then put on his hat and turned a baleful eye on Shakespeare.

  "Young man, you had best be telling me the truth, f
or if this is your gruesome idea of a prank, then you shall answer to me! I shall have you whipped until your eyes bleed. Now come with me!"

  "I should answer quite well to a whipping," Shakespeare mumbled, taking another quick swallow of wine before following his host.

  Phillipe Dubois worked his way through the crowd to Shakespeare's side. "Prithee, mon ami, do you mean to tell me that Mademoiselle Catherine is not truly dead?" he asked, as they went back outside, herded along by the press of people behind them.

  "No, milord, I had meant to tell Master Middleton that Cadierine is not truly dead," Shakespeare replied. 'Strewth, I had not meant to tell you anything."

  "You have great cheek for a vagabond," said Dubois, somewhat stiffly.

  "And you lisp and wear strange suits."

  "I say, small wonder you players have such a scandalous and lowly reputation," Ian said, as they left Dubois gaping with astonishment behind them. "You really are insufferably rude."

  "And you really are an amazing prig for a mere coachman, Ian."

  "I happen to be a liveried servant to a gentleman!"

  "You are a glorified bootblack, Ian, so go stuff your hubris. Or you can actually be useful and go find my friend, Tuck Smythe, and let him know what has transpired, for your master seems intent upon marching us all into the dripping wood when we should all be drinking sensibly inside. I am beginning to envy Catherine. At least she has had an opportunity to lie down for a while."

  "A word with you, sir, if I may?" Hughe Camden called as he hurried to catch up with them. Ian the coachman stopped and fell behind as Camden took his place at Shakespeare's side.

  "And lo, another suitor. The kites begin to flock," mumbled Shakespeare to himself.

  "I beg your pardon?" Camden said.

  "And you shall have it, sir. I am feeling positively popish tonight. Tell me your sin and I shall grant you absolution."

  "I see you are impertinent."

  "Impertinent and insufferable, as well. Add intemperate and you can compass me with alliteration."

  "I believe you are drunk, sir."

  "Not yet, but on such a night as this, 'tis a course well worth pursuing. How may I serve you, sir? Something to do with the lately lamented Lady Catherine, no doubt?"

  "I was listening when you spoke just now," said Camden, as they continued down the path in the wake of Middleton and his torch-bearers. "You said something about Catherine planning this astonishing deception so that she might run off with a lover?"

  "Aye, quite so."

  "Sir, I must say that I find this tale very hard to credit. Tis a harsh thing to defame the dead. I cannot believe that she would have done anything like what you propose. I have heard that Catherine could be somewhat shrewish on occasion, but at heart, she was a good woman."

  "Well, we might have a good woman born before every blazing star or at an earthquake," Shakespeare said, "but I would not look for such a singular event with any greater frequency."

  "You have, it seems, a rather bilious and spiteful view of women,

  sir."

  "I am a married man, sir. My view is unobstructed."

  "Who is this lover you allege Catherine of having?"

  "Ah, there I cannot answer you, for I have no knowledge of his name."

  "How, then, do you know that he exists? Or do you merely surmise?"

  "Surmise, allege, tales hard to credit… I gather you must be the lawyer."

  "I have the honor to attend the Inns of Court. My name is Hughe Camden. You may know my father."

  "May I? Well then, so I shall, if you decide to introduce him. In the meantime, learned sir, know that whilst I cannot bear witness to the alleged lover's name, I can vouchsafe his existence by the testimony of the lady herself, who spoke of running off with him."

  "You have heard her say this?"

  "Not with mine own ears, but earlier today, I spoke with one who did hear the lady say so."

  "Hearsay, sir. 'Twas a lie, I'll warrant."

  Shakespeare shrugged. "Well, we shall find out soon enough."

  "I am not at all sure what you have to gain by raising all this fuss," said Camden, looking at him as if trying to gauge his motives.

  "I have nothing at all to gain, sir," Shakespeare said, "and only time to lose. You, on the other hand, would stand to gain a great deal more, I should think, if Catherine were truly dead. That would increase her sister's worth considerably, would it not?"

  "I do not care for your tone, sir."

  "I do not much care for yours, either. I have played penny whis-des that have made less grating noise."

  "What is your name, sir?" asked Camden, stiffly.

  "Marlowe," Shakespeare said. "Christopher Marlowe, at your service."

  "Marlowe." Camden nodded. "I shall make a point to remember that name."

  "Suit yourself. I have already forgotten yours."

  Camden fell behind as Shakespeare increased his stride and hurried on ahead. He had almost caught up to Middleton, at the head of the procession, when yet another of Blanche's suitors came up beside him and introduced himself.

  "Sir, my name is Andrew Braithwaite. Might I have a word with you?"

  "Have three, as you are the third to ask."

  "Indeed, I did see Dubois and Camden speaking with you just now. Did they say anything of interest?"

  "No, not really. I rather hope you shall do better."

  Braithwaite smiled. "I fear, then, that you are doomed to disappointment. I doubt I can be much more interesting, for I am neither a great wit nor a learned scholar."

  "Then you at least appear to be an honest man, which in itself makes you more interesting. A plain bird would stand out 'mongst all this plummage."

  Braithwaite chuckled. "You do not care much for this company, I see. And yet, here where each man competes with every other, you have seized everyone's attention. You stand centerstage, and yet seem to regard it as an imposition."

  "It amuses you?" asked Shakespeare, glancing at Braithwaite to see if he was being mocked. But it seemed that he was not.

  "If I can say so without giving offense, aye, it does amuse me. But the amusement, I hasten to add, is not at your expense."

  "I am not offended then."

  "Good."

  Shakespeare glanced at him with interest. "Most people, especially in this vaunted company, would not concern themselves overmuch about giving offense to a mere player."

  "Well, I try not to be careless about whom I may offend," Braithwaite replied. "That way, I can husband my offenses for those who most deserve them."

  "Well said."

  "Thank you."

  "You are welcome, sir. What would you have of me?"

  "Why, nothing in particular," Braithwaite replied.

  "What, not even after my singular announcement at the wake?"

  " 'Twas, indeed, singular," Braithwaite said. "Quite astonishing, in fact."

  "And in light of it, you have nothing more you wish to ask?"

  "Not at present. I suppose if what you said proves to be the truth… well, frankly, I have absolutely no idea what will occasion then. It should prove quite fascinating. But if what you said turns out to be false, I have a rather better idea of what will occur. Godfrey Middleton will have you whipped for your impertinence and then see you thrown off his estate. That is, assuming you survive the whipping."

  "Which would you prefer to see, I wonder, Catherine alive or me whipped?"

  "Oh, I would much prefer to see Catherine alive. The ensuing scandal would be absolutely marvelous. And you seem much too fine a fellow to be whipped."

  "Odd's blood, Master Braithwaite, 'tis entirely too likeable for a knight's son, you are. I may be in danger of aspiring to have a friend above my station."

  "Never fear, I have no shortage of friends below mine. And those friends call me Andrew." He offered his hand and Shakespeare took it.

  "Will Shakespeare is my name."

  "I heard you tell Camden that your name was Marlowe."

/>   "I lied."

  "I knew that. Among those lowly friends of mine is a certain poet by the name of Marlowe. Camden's father has considerable influence. You may have caused Chris some annoyance."

  "Well… he deserves it."

  "Aye, he does, at that. He is a scoundrel. But then, I seem to like scoundrels. I generally find them much more entertaining than this lot. We are nearly there, I think. 'Tis hard to tell. At night, things often neither look nor sound the same."

  "Indeed. I do not see young Master Holland."

  "I have not seen him myself since the funeral. But as we are all rivals for Blanche Middleton's affections, we do not enjoy a particular camaraderie. Perhaps he had retired early and thus missed your dramatic entrance and your speech. If so, then he shall doubtless miss whatever happens next, for we have arrived."

  They were just behind Middleton and the torchbearers at the head of the procession, and ahead of them they could dimly make out the white stone structure in the clearing that was the Middleton family vault. As they approached it, however, a piercing scream sounded and, for a moment, froze everybody in their tracks. It had been, unmistakably, a woman's voice.

  "Good God!" Braithwaite exclaimed. "Did that issue from within the crypt?"

  Shakespeare did not respond, however. He was already running towards the door, for he saw that it stood open. Braithwaite was right on his heels, having had enough presence of mind to pause only long enough to grab a torch from one of the servants. They ran past Middleton, who stood rooted to the spot with the others in the vanguard, and Shakespeare was almost to the door when he felt his arm seized from behind.

  "Wait, Will!" Braithwaite said. "Have a care!" He handed him the torch and drew his rapier. "You are unarmed. Stay close behind me."

  Shakespeare hesitated, then followed him through the door.

  The scene that greeted them within the vault was startling, to say the least. There stood Smythe, holding Elizabeth in his arms. She was sobbing against his chest as he held her close and tried to comfort her. Next to the carved stone pedestal where Catherine's shrouded body had been placed, awaiting the completion of the coffin, stood a young man Shakespeare had never seen before. He appeared to be about the same age as Smythe, but of a slighter build, cleanshaven, with blonde hair and strong, handsome features that were contorted with misery as he bent over Catherine's now un-shrouded body, holding it in his arms as he wept unashamedly. But as dramatic a sight as that presented, even more striking was the stark red blood all over Catherine's snow white gown and the dagger protruding from her chest.