by Simon Hawke
“Wait a moment,” Camden said, frowning, “what the devil are you talking about? What do you mean when you say her lover? That is to say, whom do you mean? And who is it that was slain and how? And, for that matter, when)”
“Oh, why, that would be Daniel Holland, I believe,” said Shakespeare.
“ Holland!”
“Aye, indeed, he is the very one.”
“Good God! You mean to say that Holland was her lover?” “Once again, sir, your education speaks, for indeed, ‘twas was, not is, that is the proper form.”
“What?”
“Was,” said Shakespeare. “Was her lover, not is her lover, for as he is dead, he must perforce be was, not is.”
“What in God’s name are you babbling about?” “Why, good grammar, I believe.” “God damn your grammar, sir!”
“I know, milord, ‘tis atrocious, truly. I mangle each and every part and participle of speech. I am not fit to speak with educated gentlemen such as yourself. I am thoroughly ashamed. Forgive me, I shall be on my way and trouble you no longer.”
“Stay, you impertinent rascal! Bestill yourself until I give you leave to go, you hear?”
“Why, certainly. Your servant, sir.”
They had stopped just inside the fairgrounds, amidst the colorful pavillions and painted wood stalls decorated with particolored banners, painted cloths, and pennants showing the wares being displayed. The hour was late, but every single stall and tent was open and the grounds were crowded by the guests, none of whom, it seemed, had left for home or even gone to sleep for fear of missing any more excitement. The grounds were lit with flickering campfires and torches and the tents were lit with candles, giving the entire fair a festive glow. The cookfires were all burning brightly and the food vendors were all doing a brisk business. The air was full of tantalizing roasting and baking smells and Shakespeare suddenly realized that he was hungry. He could also do with a pint of ale or nice flagon of spiced wine. The trouble was, he had no money.
“Now, what is all this about Daniel Holland being Blanche’s lover?” Camden demanded.
Shakespeare put a hand up to his brow, as if his head was paining him, and closed his eyes as he swayed slightly from side to side. “S’trewth, in all the excitement of the day, I fear I have not eaten anything. And here ‘tis night and I am so famished that I nearly swoon with weakness. My stomach growls and I feel weak-”
“Very well then, come on and we shall get some food inside you,” Camden said, leading him to the nearest stall that had a cook-fire, “but you shall, by God, answer my questions afore I lose my patience!”
“God bless you, sir, you are a kind and noble soul,” said Shakespeare, and within a moment he was munching contentedly upon a leg of mutton the vendor had been roasting.
“Now then,” Camden said, “tell me what you know of this matter of Daniel Holland and Blanche Middleton.”
“Mmpf!” said Shakespeare, clearing his throat several times, touching it as if something were caught there. “Urggh… guggh…”
“Oh, good God!” said Camden. “Here! You! Merchant! Some ale, and be quick about it!”
A moment later, the mutton was being washed down by a strong, dark ale and Shakespeare felt much better. “Ah! There, that seems to have dislodged it! I am much obliged to you, milord. Doubtless, you have saved my life, else I would have choked to death right here upon the spot!”
“I shall bloody well choke you to death right here upon this spot unless you give me an answer to my question!” Camden nearly shouted. “Now what is all this about Holland?”
“Oh, well, he is dead,” said Shakespeare, between bites of mutton leg. “He was killed, you see.” He frowned, considering. “Is dead, was killed… aye, that seems to be correct, grammatically speaking.”
“Speak whichever way you chose, you mountebank, but tell me how he was killed!”
“Run through, it seems,” said Shakespeare, smacking his lips and taking a drink of ale. “Oh, this is most excellent. I truly thank you for your kindness, milord. I was so weak with hunger, I could scarcely stand.”
“Stand and deliver me an answer, scoundrel! Run through by whom?” persisted Camden.
“Why, no one seems to know for certain,” Shakespeare replied. He pointed to a stall a few yards off. “Why, look there! Would those be shepherds’ pies?” He started walking towards a stall where an old man with an eye patch was laying out some freshly baked pies. “Ah, I can smell that tasty crust from here! My mouth waters with anticipation!”
Exasperated, Camden pursued him. “What do you mean, no one seems to know for certain? Do you mean that there is someone they suspect?”
“Oh, one of her suitors, I believe,” said Shakespeare, coming up to the stall and looking over the pies the grizzled, one-eyed vendor had set out. “Blanche Middleton’s suitors, that is. You know, the lady upon whom you were lying in the library. Or is that whom you were laying in the library? I am not quite certain. Both seem to me to be correct. Oh, my, these do look good…”
“Blast you! Here, you, vendor, let’s have one of those pies.”
“Certainly, milord,” the old man said, bowing and wiping his hands on his leather apron. “Which one would you wish, yer worship?” He indicated a dozen steaming pies freshly set out on his display board.
“Any one, it does not matter,” Camden said, impatiently.
“Oh, now, truly, sir, you do me honor…” Shakespeare said, as the old man selected one.
“Honor me with a reply and we shall both be satisfied.” said Camden, tersely.
Shakespeare appraised the pie, which looked quite tempting, and then dubiously glanced at the old man, who seemed a bit bedraggled with his long, stringy, white hair and grimey, floppy hat, but whose hands, at least, looked reasonably clean. “Well, now, I shall need to set this ale down… or else, methinks, this mutton…”
“Put it down upon the board,” said Camden.
“But it does not look too clean, milord.”
“Heaven help me!” Camden said, rolling his eyes. He threw some coins down for the pie. “Here, give me the mutton, and then you may take your blasted pie.”
“But… I was not quite finished with the mutton, milord.”
“Fine. Then I shall hold the ale, whilst you take the mutton and the pie.”
“Ah… well, that may work, I suppose, but then I cannot drink, you see.”
“Just give me the damned mutton leg!” said Camden through gritted teeth, snatching it away and brandishing it as if it were a club. “Now get on with it!”
“What was it I was saying, milord?”
“You were telling me who is suspected in the slaying of Daniel Holland!”
“Ah, well, one of the suitors, it seems, must have done it. Elimination of a rival, you see. They were seen together in the maze, it seems, that is to say, Holland and the lady… much as you and the lady were seen together in the library, and… oh, my goodness! I suppose that means that you could very well be next, milord!”
Camden paled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, if someone is killing off his rivals – “
“Then any one of us might well be next,” said Braithwaite, from behind them. Camden turned so suddenly, he nearly struck Braithwaite with the leg of mutton. Braithwaite jerked back and Camden, alarmed by the sudden movement, instinctively raised the leg of mutton like a club.
“Have a care with that,” said Braithwaite. “ ‘Twould be a waste to offer violence with a victual.”
“You startled me, sir,” said Camden, in an affronted tone.
“ ‘Twas never my intention, I assure you,” Braithwaite said. “I could not help but overhear what you and Master Shakespeare were discussing. I had already heard the news, however. Everyone speaks of nothing else. Tis a shame about Dan Holland. He seemed a decent enough sort, I suppose, though if he did dishonor to the lady, then I cannot feel too sorry for him.”
“Well, ‘twould seem that I have been the very last
to hear of his demise,” said Camden, dryly.
“And yet I wonder if you were the very first to see it,” Braithwaite replied, raising his eyebrow.
“What do you mean, sir?” Camden bridled at him. “Are you suggesting I had aught to do with it?”
“Well, one never knows, does one?” said Braithwaite. “As Master Shakespeare said, ‘twould appear that one of us is anxious to eliminate his rivals and that one, for all we know, could very well be you.”
“Or it could just as well be you” Camden retorted, angrily. “I deeply resent your implication, sir!”
“Well, a man who stands ready to club down a fellow with a leg of mutton could be capable of anything,” said Braithwaite.
“You mock me, sir!”
“Tush, what use is there to mock a mockery?”
“Will!” Robert Speed came running up to them and, ignoring the two rivals, moved between them to tug at Shakespeare’s sleeve. “Where the devil have you been) And where is Tuck, for Heaven’s sake? Why, we have all been searching high and low for both of you!”
“Damn you!” said Camden, pale with fury. “I demand that you apologize at once!”
“Oh, forgive me, milord; I do humbly beg your pardon. I did not mean to interrupt,” said Speed.
“Not you, you simpleton, I meant this gentleman!” said Camden, indicating Braithwaite. “I shall not stand here and suffer to be ridiculed!”
“And yet you do it so very well,” said Braithwaite.
“Perhaps if we all took a moment-” Shakespeare began, but Speed began tugging on his sleeve again.
“We have set up the stage and have been trying to rehearse all day, but ‘tis a near impossibility without our book holder and the author of our play!” said Speed. “Kemp has lost all patience and has refused to proceed without you, for he does not like his scenes and demands changes, and Burbage has ordered everyone to spread out through the estate and find you-”
“Will you shut up!” said Camden.
“-and now there is all this talk of murder once again and no one even knows if we are to perform tomorrow-” “I said, shut up, you cursed fool!”
“Oh! Forgive me, milord,” said Speed, “I do humbly beg your pardon, but I thought that you were speaking to the other gentleman again.”
“Idiot!” said Camden, and lashed Speed viciously across the face with his leather glove.
“I say, that was uncalled for,” Braithwaite said. “See how you like a taste of your own broth.” He removed his glove and struck Camden in the face with it.
“Oh, God save us,” said Shakespeare, backing away hurriedly and pulling Speed along with him.
Camden ’s rapier sang free of its scabbard. “You shall die for that, you villainous churl!”
“Lay on, barrister,” said Braithwaite, drawing steel, “and damned be he that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’ “ “A fight!” cried Speed.
“Gentlemen, please, put up your swords!” cried Shakespeare, but they were already engaged and a crowd quickly began to gather as the combatants dueled.
“Upon my word, what’s this?” asked Burbage, joining the assemblage as Braithwaite and Camden exchanged thrusts and parries.
“More than I had bargained for, I fear,” said Shakespeare.
“What had you to do with this?” asked Burbage.
“Everything and nothing,” Shakespeare said. “I stirred up this brew, I fear, but now have naught to do with the result.”
“I do believe they mean to kill each other,” Burbage said.
“Aye, look at ‘em go!” cried Speed, delighted with the spectacle, as indeed, were most of the observers, who cried out encouragement to one or the other of the combatants as they moved back and forth, their blades clanging against one another. The crowd surged back from them to give them room as they maneuvered. Camden lunged and Braithwaite parried, leaping backwards and knocking into the display board where the pies had been set out. Everything went crashing to the ground and the old man cried out and put his hands up to his head in consternation as his entire stall seemed in danger of collapsing, but Braithwaite recovered quickly and moved to the attack, and then Camden suddenly found himself on the defensive as he backed away, parrying furiously.
Shakespeare recalled that Smythe had said something about Camden wearing a duelist’s rapier, and indeed, the barrister seemed skilled, but Braithwaite was no slouch with a blade, himself. The two seemed evenly matched. As they moved back and forth, the crowd moved with them, growing by the minute as everyone present on the fairgrounds responded to the noise and came to see what was occuring. Camden lunged again, but Braithwaite parried his thrust and riposted quickly, catching the barrister off balance. Camden staggered back awkwardly as Braithwaite lunged. Camden seemed to parry the stroke, but fell back into the crowd as he did so. There was a collective cry as they caught him and shoved him back up again, but then with a gasp, Camden fell to his knees.
“A touch! A touch!” several voices in the crowd cried out.
Braithwaite shook his head, perplexed. “Nay, I never pricked him!”
“But look, he bleeds!” cried Speed.
On his knees, Camden dropped his blade and brought a hand up to his side. It came away bloody. He gasped with pain, staring at Braithwaite with wide-eyed incomprehension.
“But…’twas not me!” Braithwaite said. He examined the tip of his sword, then held it out towards Shakespeare. “See for yourself My blade is yet unblooded!”
“He speaks the truth,” said Shakespeare.
Camden pitched forward onto his face and lay motionless.
“Seize that man!” The cry came from an anguished Sir Richard, who had arrived upon the scene just in time to see his son fall dead onto the ground. “Seize him! There is your murderer! And he has killed my son!”
“I have murdered no one! And he drew steel first!” protested Braithwaite, looking around with alarm at the throng surrounding him.
“You challenged him!” shouted someone in the crowd, and then a scuffle suddenly broke out. More people started shouting and in the next moment, a well-dressed, older man was shoved out of the crowd to fall sprawling next to the slain Hughe Camden, only he fell with a cry, followed by a grunt of pain on impact, demonstrating that he was still very much alive.
“There is your killer, Sir Richard!” a familiar voice called out, and Shakespeare stared in astonishment as the grizzled old pie vendor stepped out from the crowd, only now he was no longer stooped over, but stood straight and tall, and there was nothing even remotely subservient in his bearing. He reached up and removed his eyepatch and the wig he wore and stood revealed as none other than Her Majesty’s own councillor and confidante, Sir William Worley. “I saw the blackguard stab your son from behind with a dagger when he fell back into the crowd.”
“Nay, ‘tis not true!” the man cried out, as he got up to his knees. “ ‘Tis entirely innocent I am!”
“Why, ‘tis the elder Chevalier Dubois!” Shakespeare exclaimed.
“Well, well,” said Worley, standing over him. “And here we all thought you were deaf, monsieur, and did not speak because you could not hear. Yet you seem to have recovered miraculously. And ‘tis even more miraculous that a nobleman from France should speak with a Cornish accent!”
From out of nowhere, it seemed, grim-faced men armed with swords and maces stepped out of the crowd and surrounded the faux Frenchman, and Shakespeare realized that Sir William had not returned alone, but had brought a squad of guardsmen with him. Dressed in ordinary clothing, they had blended with the crowd, standing by for Worley’s signal. The man’s face fell as he realized that his situation was completely hopeless.
“My apologies, sir,” said Worley, turning to Braithwaite. “I had thought that the killer might be you, and in his haste to take advantage of your duel and make it seem as if you had killed a rival, this cowardly assassin very nearly made me sure of it. But although he tried to shelter himself within the crowd, I saw the fatal stroke when he
stabbed Camden with this very bodkin.” He displayed a bloody dagger that he had wrested from the killer. “Sir Richard…” He turned to the ashen-faced elder Camden. “I am most profoundly sorry for your loss, but in death, your son has helped us apprehend not only his own killer, but the murderer of both Catherine Middleton and Daniel Holland.”
“Nay!” the killer shouted. “Nay, I tell you! S’trewth, I may be damned now, but I shall not bear the blame for what I have not done! God shall be my judge, for I did kill young Camden, but I swear I never killed the wench! And I never slew Holland, neither! ‘Twas all his doing, I tell you! ‘Twas all his plan from the start, and I’ll not bear the blame for it alone!!”
“Dubois!” said Shakespeare.
The man spat upon the ground. “His name ain’t no more Dubois than mine is. Why, he’s no Frenchman. He-”
With a sharp, whizzing sound, a crossbow bolt penetrated his skull right between the eyes, causing his head to jerk back abruptly. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Pandemonium ensued as everyone started shouting at once and running in all directions. Most of the onlookers desperately fled the scene, fearful lest they should be the next targets of the unseen archer, but everyone ran in different directions, many of them colliding with one another, and the scene erupted into chaos in an instant.
Two of the guardsmen immediately threw themselves upon Sir William, bearing him down to the ground and covering him with their bodies, but he shoved them away, cursing furiously. “Never mind me, blast it! Search the fairgrounds! Get me that archer!”
So fascinated was he by everything that suddenly began happening around him that Shakespeare completely forgot to be frightened. He simply stood there watching as people ran shouting and screaming in different directions, tripping over one another and knocking each other down in their mad rush to get away.
The entire scene, somehow, took on the aspect of a dream to him. It was as if he were not a part of it, but stood on the outside somewhere, watching as if from a distance or from an audience. In his mind’s eye, he replayed the scene of the assassin on his knees before them, at first protesting his innocence, then accepting his fate with resignation, then growing angry at the thought of being blamed for everything alone while his partner had planned it all… and then the slim, black bolt, flying straight and true, appearing to sprout all of a sudden from the killer’s forehead…