Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 02] The Slaying of the Shrew(v2)
Page 25
"You shall hang for this, Middleton, even if you kill me," said Smythe, trying to avoid being backed against a wall. If he could only get a bit more room, a bit more space between them… "You have already locked up John Mason, so you cannot put the blame on him. And none of Blanche's suitors would ever seriously regard me as a rival, nor would they have any reason to kill Blanche. You shall never get away with this."
"Oh, I think I shall," Middleton replied, his eyes gleaming. "For 'twas you who had committed the foul deed! You followed Blanche up to her room and forced yourself upon her, and then you killed her so that she could not reveal what you had done, just like you killed her sister and the others, but I heard the noise, you see, and I pursued you down the stairs and…"
The bolt from the crossbow caught him in the hollow of his throat. He staggered back and dropped his blade, gurgling and gagging horribly and clutching at the wound, then he fell backward onto the floor, where he thrashed for a moment, then lay still.
"What the devil were you waiting for, you idiot?" said Dubois, lowering the crossbow. "He was about to kill you."
Smythe stared at him, speechless. It was Dubois, and yet… it was not Dubois. His posture and demeanor were completely different. Gone entirely was the French accent and the foppish manner. Even his voice sounded different. More resonant, more manly, more… Irish, of all things!
He expertly rewound the spring on the crossbow as he spoke and quickly fitted another bolt. "Strange how things turned out, eh? The bugger was quite mad, you know. And here I had gone to all that trouble to kill Holland and arrange for Camden's speedy dispatch, and now 'twas all for nothing. No doubt, I shall get the blame for Blanche's death, as well, unless you feel compelled to speak up on my behalf, seeing as how I saved your life just now. I do not kill women, you know. Not that it makes a great deal of difference, I suppose. They shall want me for murder just the same, seeing as how they saw me kill that fool I had for a partner. He would have spilled everything he knew about me. Couldn't have that. Anyway, do as you wish. Meanwhile, I would love to stay and chat, but there are a lot of people in pursuit of me right now and I really must run and steal a horse."
He raised the crossbow, aiming it at Smythe. "Now do stand still and allow me to go by, like a good fellow. And if you could find it in your heart to delay them just a bit, I truly would appreciate it. You might consider it evening the score, eh? Au revoir. Perhaps we shall meet again someday."
He grinned, gave Smythe a jaunty salute, then turned and ran towards the door. Smythe simply stood there, staring after him with disbelief, then he glanced down at Middleton's lifeless body. Another instant, and the man would have run him through. He felt a bit unsteady. He leaned back against the wall and took several deep breaths to steady his nerves.
A few moments later, he heard the sounds of running footsteps and men shouting. He stood and waited for them. They all came bursting into the great hall, led by Sir William, with Shakespeare right behind him.
"Tuck!" cried Shakespeare. "Thank Heaven! The Frenchman! Dubois! Have you seen him?"
"Aye, I have."
"Quickly, man, which way did he go?" asked Worley, and then his eyes widened as he saw Middleton's body lying on the floor. "Oh, good God! He has slain poor Godfrey!"
"Aye," said Smythe. "And in so doing, he has saved my life."
"Dubois?" said Shakespeare.
"Aye, for Godfrey Middleton was about to slay me," Smythe said. He pointed at Middleton's body as the hall became crowded with Dubois's pursuers. "He killed Catherine, for disgracing him with a stable boy, just as he had killed his wife for some like offense, whether real or imagined. He confessed it all to me. I fear that he has also murdered Blanche. That is doubtless her blood on his sword there. He was going to kill me, and then blame me for the deed."
"What?" said Worley, with astonishment.
"After we spoke in the library, and I told her about Daniel Holland's murder, Blanche was quite understandably distressed," Smythe explained. "I had escorted her back to her room, and when Middleton saw me leaving, he thought the worst of it. He followed me back downstairs and accused me of despoiling his daughter. He was enraged. He said… he said vile things that are best not repeated. There was a madness upon him. He told me how he had gone back to the tomb and saw Catherine awake as the effects of the potion wore off. He thought she was a demon or a spirit risen from the dead and so he fell upon his knees and confessed her mother's murder to her. She was horrified, and screamed at him, and in a rage told him how she had planned to stage her death and run off with young Mason. He struck her and then she produced the dagger Mason left there for her. He got it away from her and killed her with it. And he was about to kill me when Dubois came upon the scene and shot him down."
There was the sound of galloping hoofbeats outside on the cobbles and someone shouted out, "Stop him! He is getting away!" "After him!" shouted someone else.
"Nay, let him go!" commanded Worley. "I'll not have men breaking their necks out there in the darkness, chasing after phantoms. ‘Tis not worth the risk. I, for one, have seen quite enough corpses for one day. We shall deal with him another time… whoever he may be." He glanced at Smythe. "I do not suppose he told you that, did he?"
"No, Sir William, he did not," Smythe said, shaking his head. " ‘Tis a mystery. But whoever he was, he was most certainly not French. He spoke to me with a most definite Irish accent."
"Irish!" Shakespeare said. "He was an Irishman?"
"Aye," said Smythe. "And he murdered Holland, I'm afraid."
"He arranged for Camden's murder, too," said Worley, "then shot down the man who did it, so that he could not reveal his name or bear witness against him. So while he may have saved your life, there are at least three murders for which we cannot forgive him."
"Indeed," said Smythe, dryly, "and there is one thing more which I cannot forgive him."
"But I thought you said the Irishman had saved your life?" said Shakespeare.
"Aye, he did at that," said Smythe, with a grimace. "But in the end, he turned out to be a much better actor than I could ever hope to be!"
EPILOGUE
THE STAGE HAD BEEN TAKEN down and packed away, as had all of the tents and stalls that had stood upon the fairgrounds. Save for the players and a few merchants who were still putting away their wares, nearly everyone had left. The grounds were quite torn up, and it would apparently be some time before anyone thought about putting them right again. And given the way things had turned out, the festival at Middleton Manor would, indeed, be an event that people in London would talk about for a long, long time to come.
"Do you suppose that seeing his daughter apparently rising from the dead had unhinged his mind?" asked Shakespeare.
They stood together beneath some trees outside the house, not far from where the players' wagons waited. Worley sat in his light carriage, getting ready to drive back to Green Oaks, and from there, to rejoin the queen on her progress through the countryside.
"I suspect his madness came upon him long before." said Worley, "if, indeed, 'twas madness, for if it were, then he concealed it well. I think Tuck was closer to the truth when he said that it was rage. Godfrey Middleton was an ambitious, vain and selfish man. He wanted more than anything to be someone important, a gentleman, a courtier. Money alone was not enough. What he desired above all else was position. And it seemed that he would stop at nothing to achieve it. That was a sort of madness in itself, I suppose."
"And it seemed that all his daughters had desired was love," said Smythe. "Catherine had found it with a stable boy, and was willing to die for it. And poor Blanche kept looking for it everywhere, in vain."
"What will become of young Mason now?" asked Shakespeare.
"I shall take him back to work for me," said Worley. "Poor lad. He is quite undone with grief. I believe he shall get over it in time, but he is entirely blameless in the matter. I hold nothing against him. After all, all he did was fall in love above his station. He would not
be the first to do that."
"Nor the last," said Smythe, softy, thinking of Elizabeth, who had left earlier with her father. She had never liked Blanche Middleton, but she had been deeply saddened by her death. For her, too, it would take time to recover from the tragic events that had occurred at Middleton Manor.
"Has there been any word about the Irishman?" asked Shakespeare.
Worley shook his head. " ‘Twould appear that he has made good his escape. I have men out searching for him, but I suspect that coney will be quite difficult to catch. ‘Tis quite a shame, really, such talent and resourcefulness, put to such base use. I could use a man like that in the queen's service."
"Perhaps Black Billy would have better luck in finding him than any of the queen's men," Smythe suggested.
Worley smiled. "Perhaps. We shall see."
"Will! Tuck!" called Burbage from the wagons. "Come on! We are ready to depart!"
"Well, your tour awaits," said Worley.
Shakespeare grimaced. " 'Twill seem quite tame after all this." Smythe sighed. "I could do with something tame, methinks. I have had quite enough excitement for a while."
" 'Twas good of you to pay the players, Sir William," Shakespeare said.
Worley shrugged. " 'Twas not their fault they never had a chance to act their play. Besides, I shall make it back and then some from handling Her Majesty's disposal of the estate. There have already been several offers. Percival seems quite taken with the place. He said it has now attained a notorious reputation and no doubt the queen shall wish to come and see it."
"Well, the estate shall survive," said Shakespeare, dryly, "but I do not think I can say the same about my play. I do not regret not seeing it performed. 'Twas never any good, I fear."
"Oh, I would not say that, Will," Smythe replied. "Now, the beginning was quite promising, I thought. Perhaps you can keep that and use it somewhere else."
"Perhaps you can write a play about what happened here," said Worley, with a smile. " Twould be a tragedy, of course. Quite worthy of the Greeks, I should think. Murder, greed, imposture, lust and madness, dead bodies strewn everywhere about…"
"Been done," said Smythe.
"Still," said Shakespeare, scratching his chin thoughtfully, " 'tis an idea…"
Simon Hawke has been the author of two successful SF/F series (Time Wars and The Wizard of 4th Street), a New York Times bestselling Star Trek novel, and several books for TSR in the Dark Sun and Birthright settings. He currently lives in Greensboro, North Carolina. The Slaying of the Shrew is his second Shakespeare and Smythe mystery.
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