The Slaying Of The Shrew

by Simon Hawke

  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.”

  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 ha
s 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?”

  “We should have asked for some flasks of wine or perhaps a small keg of ale,” John Hemings said, as if prompted by the gesture. “These flimsy robes are none too warm.”

  “Aye, and adding to the morning chill, there is a stiff cold breeze coming in off the river,” Kemp complained as they made their way down the steps to the arched stone river gate. “I can feel the wind blowing straight up through the bottom of this pox-ridden robe.”

  “Well, ‘twould not be the first time you had your pox-ridden privates waving in the breeze, now would it?” Speed said.

  Kemp gave him a withering glare. “And how would you know, Bobby?”

  “Oh! Stabbed to the quick!” Speed cried out, grabbing at his chest and staggering down the steps. “Sweet mercy, I am slain!”

  They all burst out laughing as he “died” theatrically on the steps in a series of dramatic thrashings and convulsions. Even Kemp was moved to laugh, despite himself.

  “Well worthy of a Caesar’s death!” said Burbage, applauding. “Ned Alleyn himself could never have done better!”

  “Aye, and he frequently did much worse,” added Kemp, whose dislike for their late colleague, who had recently quit their company for their chief rivals, the Admiral’s Men, was matched only by the legendary actor’s profound distaste for him.

  The mention of Alleyn’s name momentarily broke their mood of levity, for aside from Kemp’s dislike of him, Edward Alleyn was sorely missed. He was widely acknowledged as the finest actor of the day and if Kemp considered both his talent and his ego overblown, Smythe knew it was because his feelings were motivated primarily by jealousy, for Alleyn’s was the name that drew the audiences. They were of different schools, with Alleyn being the realistic dramatist and Kemp the capering clown who played directly to the audience and ad libbed whenever the mood struck him, or whenever he could not recall his lines, which he took little trouble to memorize in any case.

  Unfortunately for Kemp, Smythe thought, his brand of broad, physical comedy seemed to be going out of style, just as Shakespeare had predicted, and Kemp seemed unwilling or unable to adapt. For all his grave portentousness and showy manner, Alleyn was now drawing significantly larger audiences at the Rose Theatre, and while the Queen’s Men could still boast Her Royal Majesty as their patron, their reputation as the preeminent players of the day was on the wane. Their repertoire was somewhat shopworn and though Shakespeare had managed to improve several of their plays with rewrites, they badly needed something new to bring their audiences back. They were all too well aware of this, and the mention of Ned Alleyn’s name merely served to underscore it.

  “Well, come on now, Speed, bestir yourself,” said Shakespeare, leaning down to give him a hand up. “You shall only soil your costume on these steps, aside from which, methinks I spy some boats drawing near.”

  Indeed, some small boats were approaching from the direction of the city, bearing the first arrivals of the day. After some brief discussion concerning the roles they were to play, they all decided simply to welcome the arriving guests as if they were citizens of Rome, coming to attend the wedding of Caesar and Cleopatra. It was decided that it would probably be for the best to avoid any reference to Calpurnia, or Mark Antony, for that matter, and that whatever they decided to call themselves as they improvised their way through their individual performances, the names of Casca, Cassius and Brutus might be a little inappropriate.

  The players were not the only ones awaiting the arriving guests at the stone gate. As the boats drew up to the stone steps that came down to the water from the arched river gate, several of the household staff stood by to check their invitations, in order to make certain that no uninvited guests would be admitted. Rather cleverly, Will Kemp took it upon himself to receive the invitations from the men who checked them and then announce the guests as if they were arriving at an imperial court. It allowed him an opportunity to ham it up in front of some of London’s most wealthy and influential citizens, while at the same time it kept him from having to keep going up and down the stairs to the house, as did all the others who escorted the arriving guests.

  As the morning wore on and guests continued to arrive, Smythe remained by the gate with Kemp, playing subserviently to his character as if he were some ministerial aide and collecting all the invitations from him while paying particular attention to the noblemen who were arriving together with their grown and eligible sons. To his dismay, there turned out to be over a dozen of them. And then there were other sons of noble birth who arrived together with their fathers and their mothers, though it occurred to Smythe that he should not eliminate them from consideration simply because of that. A man who was bold enough to pose as the son of a nobleman in all this august company would certainly be resourceful enough to find a woman who could play the part of his mother, just as he had planned to have his co-conspirator pose as his wealthy, aristocratic father.

  Unfortunately, thought Smythe, his background was not such that he would know any of these people. Some of their names might be familiar to him, but a lowly ostler and player such as himself did not move in such exalted circles, and so he therefore lacked the necessary knowledge to make any immediate determinations as to who was who. A good many of these people would naturally know one another, and would thus be better able to identify any strangers in their midst, but he could not simply approach noblemen and ask them to vouch for one another. Dick Burbage, perhaps, as one who had grown up in the city, would be better able to recognize many of these people, but more than anything else, Smythe wished that Sir William were here, so that he could consult with him. As a regular at court and a leader of London society, Sir William would certainly be able to help him narrow down the list of suspects.

  However, in all likelihood, Sir William had accompanied the queen on her sojourn in the country, because whenever Her Majesty made her annual progresses through the countryside, her entire court would travel with her. It meant that whichever of her subjects she chose to stay with when she stopped would have to bear the expense of playing host not only to the queen, but to her entire court, as well. It would take a mansion such as Green Oaks or Middleton Manor to house them all and it would take a large retinue of servants to see to their needs. Why anyone would wish to put up with such a monumental inconvenience and expense, much less compete with others for the dubious privilege, was beyond Smythe, but compete for it they did, and this wedding festival at Middleton Manor was planned to serve that very purpose. Smythe understood, in essence, that playing for the queen’s favor was important to those who wished to rise in rank and power, but he still found it difficult to understand why any of that would mean much to Sir William.

  The first time they had met, Sir William had tried to rob him. Of course, he had not known it was Sir William at the time. The last thing Smythe would have expected to encounter on a country road while on his way to London was a knight of the realm dressed as a highwayman. It was not until much later that he discovered who the infamous Black Billy really was or why one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in London chose to lead a secret life as a legendary brigand. As master of the Sea Hawks, the privateers who had achieved everlasting fame and glory when, led by
Sir Francis Drake, they had defeated and wrecked the Spanish Armada, Sir William had made his fortune as a shipwright. Though not personally a privateer, he liked to think of himself as something of a pirate, and in a sense, Smythe thought, he probably was. Though he had done his buccaneering with his purse strings rather than a cutlass, William Worley had been no less ruthless.

  Smythe found it difficult to imagine how a man like Sir William could indulge in the sort of social jousting practiced by men like Godfrey Middleton and most of the queen’s courtiers. It was rather like trying to imagine a hawk strutting with the chickens. It seemed both unlikely and absurd.

  However, a friendship between a knight like Worley and a player like himself seemed equally unlikely and absurd, and yet despite that Sir William was his friend, though Smythe was under no illusions that they would possibly ever be equals. Aside from himself, Shakespeare was the only other person who knew that Sir William was Black Billy, at least to Smythe’s knowledge. Sir Francis Walsingham undoubtedly knew, as well, though Smythe could only surmise that. Her Majesty’s chief minister was reputedly a man of many secrets and Black Billy would be one of the best kept.

  Without Sir William’s presence, Smythe could only try to think what he would have done if he were here, and how he might have advised him to proceed. It was difficult for him to tell who the players were without a scorecard, but it occurred to him that anyone who was outside the general circle of London’s high society should be immediately suspect. There were a number of foreign aristocrats in attendance, and they would need to be watched closely, as well as those nobles who came from beyond the environs of the city. Still, Smythe felt frustratingly handicapped by not knowing exactly who those people were.

  What he needed, he realized, was Elizabeth ’s help. But would Elizabeth even speak to him after their last argument? She would probably be disposed to help safeguard her friend’s sister from unscrupulous men, but how would he explain how he came by his information? He could just imagine her reaction if he told her that he had overheard two strangers plotting against Blanche Middleton because he had followed her out to the maze last night. No, he thought, that would never do.