by Simon Hawke
As the barge drew up to the river gate and the smaller boats held back, waiting for the bride and her party to disembark before they came up to discharge their passengers, all eyes were on the bride as she sat impressively upon her throne. She was dressed in a glittering white robe festooned with jewels and heavily embroidered with gold and silver. Her hair was covered by the imperial headdress, which was striped in black and white and held in place by a circlet of hammered gold, with a snake’s head rising from it just over the forehead.
“I do not believe the queen herself ever made a grander entrance,” Shakespeare said, as he came up to stand beside Smythe. “And I do not mean Cleopatra.”
Indeed, Smythe thought, it was truly one of the grandest spectacles that he had ever seen and every bit worthy of a pageant put on for the queen. That was, of course, precisely what Godfrey Middleton had intended. It was so impressive that Smythe wondered whether the queen, when she heard accounts of it, might even feel resentful that she had missed the celebration. He wondered if perhaps Godfrey Middleton had not overplayed his hand by putting on such an elaborate celebration when the queen was out of town and could not possibly attend. On the other hand, perhaps not. Even if she felt piqued that she had missed it, Her Royal Majesty’s appetite would certainly be whetted to see what sort of entertainment Middleton could stage for her if she gave him the opportunity. And after hearing about this, how could she not?
Part of the wedding party had disembarked and the high priests were now proceeding in line up the stone steps, carrying wooden staves with the heads of Egyptian gods upon them while two of the bridal maidens followed in their wake, strewing flowers as they went. The enthusiastic audience at the top of the steps applauded as they eagerly awaited the bride. But Queen Cleopatra had not moved. Catherine Middleton still remained seated on her throne.
“ ‘Tis what one might call royally milking an entrance,” Kemp said with a smirk as they all waited for her to come down off her throne.
“Perhaps she is waiting for someone to help her down,” said Burbage, with a slight frown. “That costume looks to be a bit cumbersome. Do you suppose that we were meant to go on board and welcome her, escort her? I cannot recall. Our directions did not seem very clear upon that point. I would hate to think that we have missed our cue!”
“She may only be experiencing the natural hesitation of a blushing bride,” said Fleming, with a smile. “You know, having herself a bout of stage fright, as it were.”
“When it comes to being married, fright is more often the natural condition of the groom,” said Shakespeare. “Perhaps she is unwell. Do you think we should go and see if-”
At that moment, someone screamed. It was one of the bridesmaids still aboard the barge, and in moments, her scream was taken up by others. This, clearly, was not part of the script.
Except for a couple of servants, the players standing on the steps by the river gate were the closest to the barge. Smythe led the way as he ran down the remaining couple of steps and jumped onto the barge, where chaos and confusion now reigned. With Shakespeare and several of the others right behind him, he shouldered his way past the rowers, who had stood up from their benches and were now milling about in confusion. Several of the women were screaming hysterically up on the platform which formed the upper deck and one of the unfortunate girls either fell or else was accidentally knocked overboard into the river.
She started screaming that she could not swim and within moments, the weight of her soaked garments pulled her under. A couple of the rivermen jumped in to save her and fortunately managed to grab hold of her and pull her in towards shore, thus saving her life, but it seemed the bride was not so lucky. When Smythe reached her, one of the hysterical bridesmaids was sobbing and crying out, “She is dead! She is dead! Oh, God have mercy, she is dead!”
Indeed, Smythe found that Catherine Middleton felt cold to the touch, and did not seem to be breathing. Her eyes were closed and she looked quite peaceful, as if she had simply drifted off to sleep.
“Oh, heaven!” Burbage said, as Smythe bent over her. “Dead! Can it be true?”
Smythe put his ear to Catherine’s chest. “I cannot hear her heart,” he said.
“Oh, woeful day!” said Burbage.
“Injurious world!” said Fleming. “Poor girl! To die so young, and on her wedding day! Could anything ever be more tragic?”
“Perhaps it could,” Shakespeare said.
They looked towards him. “What do you mean?” said Fleming. “What have you there?”
“A drinking flask,” said Shakespeare, as he sniffed it contents.
“Lord, hand it here,” said Kemp. “Methinks now we could all do with a drink!”
“I would be loath to have any of you drink from this,” said Shakespeare. “This potation might be of a potency not to your liking.”
“What is it, Will?” Smythe asked.
“ ‘Tis known as brand,” said Shakespeare. “Burnt wine, to some. A spiritous distillation from grape wine. Not a very common beverage, leastwise for the likes of us common folk. Our late, lamented Cleopatra had this flask lying right here at her feet.”
“To keep her warm against the river chill, no doubt,” said Burbage. “But what of it?”
“It does not smell right to me,” said Shakespeare. “And mine, gentlemen, is a most educated nose. There has been something added to this flask that did not come from the vine.”
“God shield us!” Burbage said. “Do you mean she has been poisoned?”
“Poisoned!” Kemp exclaimed.
The cry was taken up at once by everyone around them.
“I cannot say for certain,” Shakespeare said, “but there is something rotten in Egypt. History repeats itself, for unless I miss my guess, Cleopatra has once more fallen to a deadly venom.”
6
THE GUESTS WATCHING FROM THE plaza at the top of the steps knew something had gone wrong, but it was a while before word of what had happened reached them. They saw the commotion below them, where the wedding barge had pulled up to the river gate, and they heard the screaming and saw one of the bridesmaids fall into the river, which resulted in a burst of laughter breaking out among them, but within moments, they knew that something much more serious than a minor mishap had occurred.
When they saw the players rush onto the barge, accompanied by several of the servants, their merriment subsided into silence and the hush continued, stretching out uneasily as they saw the players gather around the bride. A few among the gathered guests began to whisper, wondering what had gone wrong, and then they heard the shouting. At first, they could not make out what was being shouted, and the whisperings among them grew into an anxious undertone that made the shouting down on the barge even more difficult to understand. Then, as people started running back up the steps, calling out what had happened, they finally learned the news of the bride’s death.
Godfrey Middleton had stood among the wedding guests, together with his youngest daughter and the groom, impassively watching the spectacle below him. He had frowned angrily at first when the commotion broke out on the barge, doubtless thinking that something had gone amiss at the last moment in all the carefully rehearsed arrangements, but moments later, when it became apparent that something more serious had occurred, his angry frown became a look of consternation. And then the color drained out of his face when he saw Smythe coming slowly up the stairs, carrying the limp form of Catherine in his arms.
Instinctively, the people standing near him drew back, as if proximity could somehow infect them with his horror. Meanwhile, Godfrey Middleton stood absolutely motionless with Sir Percival and Blanche beside him, the three of them forming a sort of island in the sea of guests around them, guests invited to a wedding that was now clearly not going to take place.
The gravity of the situation had apparently not yet impressed itself upon Sir Percival, who seemed oblivious not only to Middle-ton’s concern, but to the strained mood of the crowd around him, as well. “Dear
me!” he said. “The poor girl looks to have swooned, eh, what? Bridal jitters, I daresay. Mere trifle. A few sips of wine and we shall have her right as rain, eh, what?”
“For God’s sake, Sir Percival, shut up,” said Blanche.
His eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. “Well! I never! The cheek! Godfrey! Good Lord, Godfrey, is this how you taught your daughter to address a gentleman?”
But Middleton moved away from him as if he hadn’t even heard, and in all probability, he hadn’t. His stricken gaze was riveted on Smythe as he came up the stairs, carrying Catherine in his arms. Blanche went to her father’s side and took his arm, leaving the dithering groom standing alone, not quite knowing what to do with himself.
Middleton was pale as death as Smythe reached the top of the stairs and stopped before him. “Sir,” Smythe said, haltingly, “oh, sir, I am so very sorry.”
Middleton’s lips began to tremble. He simply stood there for a moment, trying to find some way to accept the unacceptable. He looked up at Smythe, his eyes moist, holding an agonized expression. Somehow, he found his voice.
“Be so good as to take her into the house, young man,” he said, his voice strained with his effort to control it.
“Of course, sir,” Smythe replied.
The crowd parted before them silently as Smythe carried Catherine toward the house, with Middleton and Blanche following. As they passed Sir Percival, the groom stood there perplexed, with his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“Is… is there to be no wedding, then?” he said.
Middleton stopped and turned to stare at him, aghast. “My God, sir,” he said. “I knew you were a fool, but I did not suspect you were an utter, money-grubbing, inbred idiot.” And with that, he turned and followed Smythe and Blanche into the house.
As Smythe was coming back downstairs, he saw Elizabeth at last, standing in the entrance hall with Shakespeare, in conversation with a gentleman who had apparently just arrived. He was still wearing his cloak and was in the act of pulling off his riding gloves while listening to Elizabeth intently. It was not until he removed his hat and cloak and handed them to a servant that Smythe saw to his surprised relief that it was Sir William Worley.
Accustomed as he was to seeing Sir William attired in subdued and somber colors, Smythe almost failed to recognize him resplendent in a gold embroidered, burgundy velvet doublet with generously puffed shoulders and gold buttons, with the wide sleeves slashed to reveal the crimson silk shirt he wore beneath it. His breeches matched his doublet and were tightly gartered and tucked into high, cuffed brown leather riding boots that made him look like one of the privateering captains who commanded his ships. His shoulder-length black hair hung loose, framing his chisled, cleanshaven features.
He looked up at the sound of Smythe’s approach. “Tuck!” he said. “Elizabeth and Will were just telling me the dreadful news. ‘Tis a sad, sad day, indeed.”
Smythe came the rest of the way down the stairs and nodded. “Aye, milord. I have just carried Mistress Middleton upstairs to her room, where I have left her with her sister and her father.”
Worley shook his head. “Poor Godfrey. I came to attend his daughter’s wedding, and now it appears that I shall be attending her funeral, instead.”
“And ‘twould probably be best if ‘twere attended to as soon as possible,” Elizabeth said. “What with all the guests still here, their presence would doubtless be a comfort to Master Middleton in his time of grief. I should think ‘twould be unbearable if he were to delay in laying her to rest til everybody left and then have to face malting arrangements all over again.”
“I quite agree,” said Worley, nodding. “ ‘Tis a compassionate suggestion, and a very sensible one, as well. The sooner after death a body is interred, the better. Not only does it aid the bereaved in coming to grips with grief, but it lays the dead to rest before corruption can set in. I shall take the liberty of making certain his steward makes immediate arrangements to place Catherine in the family vault. It may be presumptuous, but under the circumstances, I suspect that I may be forgiven the presumption. Godfrey is doubtless devastated by what has happened. He shall need to have some help.”
“I should go and see how he is bearing up,” Elizabeth said. “And I should look to poor Blanche, as well.”
“Indeed, you should,” Worley agreed.
“ Elizabeth…” Smythe began, but she interrupted him.
“We shall speak later, Tuck. For the present, I must go and try to comfort the Middletons.”
“Of course. I understand.”
As she hurried away up the stairs, Smythe turned to Shakespeare. “Have you told Sir William everything?”
“Not yet,” Shakespeare replied. “ Elizabeth was here. ‘Twould have been a trifle awkward.”
“What do you mean?” asked Worley. “What is awkward? What more is there to tell?”
“A great deal more, Sir William,” Shakespeare said. “It has been a most unfortunate and trying day, a beastly trial for all concerned. And I, for one, could certainly use a drink.”
He took out a small flask and unstoppered it, then started to raise it to his lips. In that instant, Smythe recognized the flask.
“Will!” He reached out and snatched it from him just before he drank. “For God’s sake, man! The poison!”
Shakespeare paled. “Oh, sweet, merciful heavens! What in God’s name was I thinking?”
“Poison?” said Sir William, with a frown. “What poison?”
“You had not told him?” Smythe said.
“I had not,” Shakespeare replied, shaken by what he had almost done. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair distractedly. “ Elizabeth did not seem to know and I did not wish to upset her any further, though it shall not be long before she hears about it, I am sure. The rumors are already flying among the guests. ‘Tis entirely my fault, I fear. I should have been more discreet down at the barge, rather than blurt it out as I did.” He put a hand up to his brow, as if he suddenly felt faint. “Odd’s blood, I cannot believe I nearly drank the vile stuff!”
“Right,” said Worley, grimly. “Come with me.” He led them to the library in a brisk manner that made it clear he knew his way around the house. Once there, he closed the door behind them firmly and looked around to make sure they were alone. “Now… what is all this about poison?” he asked, frowning.
“Catherine Middleton was apparently drinking from this flask during her journey on the wedding barge,” said Smythe, holding it up for Sir William to see. “Will found it lying stoppered at her feet.”
“I opened it and sniffed to see what it contained,” said Shakespeare. “And I knew at once that there was something wrong.”
“Let me see it,” Worley said.
Smythe handed it over. Worley unstoppered it and took a tentative sniff. He frowned. “Brand,” he pronounced at once, identifying it correctly. “But for a surety, ‘tis mixed with something else. There is a curious, uncommon, musty sort of odor.” “I thought so, too,” said Shakespeare.
Worley sniffed the flask once more, frowned, then shook his head. “I cannot put a name to it. And you say Catherine was drinking from this?”
“ ‘Twould appear so,” Smythe replied, “although we did not see it for ourselves.”
“But Will found it lying stoppered at her feet, you said. If she were drinking from it, and ‘twere poisoned, then would she not have dropped it while it was still open?”
“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare. “But like one who has already had too much to drink and falls insensible in the act of raising the cup once more, if she had already drunk from it earlier and the poison was not very quick, then she may have been preparing to open the flask to take another drink when it finally took effect, causing her to drop the flask unopened.”
Worley nodded. “That is certainly possible. And ‘twould explain why the flask was still stoppered and unspilt. But though it may smell peculiar and raise a foul suspicion, we must nevertheless find ou
t for certain if ‘tis poison and, if possible, what the poison is. ‘Twill take a skilled apothecary to make such a determination.”
Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances and simultaneously replied, “Granny Meg.”
“She is the cunning woman who had helped you once before, as I recall,” said Worley.
“Aye,” said Smythe. “She has an apothecary shop in the city.”
“And she is possessed of uncommon skills,” added Shakespeare.
“Her name is not unknown to me,” said Worley. “But ‘tis said she is a witch.”
“If so, then she is an honest one,” said Smythe. “And witch or no, she knows her herbs and potions. If anyone can tell us what manner of poison has been put into this wine, she is the one.”
“So be it,” Worley said, nodding. “Middleton has a light carriage in which you can make the journey with dispatch. In the meantime, I shall see to matters here and send word to Her Majesty that I shall not be rejoining her because of pressing matters that require my immediate attention.”
“There is more, Sir William,” Smythe said.
“What, more? Come on, then, out with it.”
As quickly as he could, Smythe told him about what he had overheard the previous night in the maze, and how an attempt had been made upon his life to silence him.
“I see,” Worley said, when he had finished. He fixed Smythe with a sharp look. “And how did it happen that you were in the maze to overhear this intrigue in the first place?”
Smythe hesitated awkwardly.
“Come on, Tuck, tell him, for God’s sake,” said Shakespeare. “There is no shame in it.”
“I… was following Elizabeth,” said Smythe, somewhat sheepishly. “We had quarrelled previously, some days ago, and I suspected that she was seeing someone else.”