The Slaying Of The Shrew

by Simon Hawke

  It had flown in at an angle.

  For the archer to have made the shot, over the heads of the crowd surrounding the assassin on his knees, he had to have been shooting from a height, an elevation…

  Shakespeare turned in the direction from which the arrow must have come, judging by the angle of the shot, and as he looked up the slope, back toward the house, he saw the stone wall that ran around the courtyard, and just beyond it, an open window.

  It was an amazing shot to have come from atop that wall. Robin Hood himself could not have bettered it. And of course, it could only have been Phillipe Dubois… or whoever “Dubois” really was. He must have made the shot, then climbed in through that open window. It was astonishing marksmanship. But then, Tuck had said that whoever had shot that bolt at him had come within a hair’s breadth of hitting his head from a good distance-

  Good Lord, he thought, Tuck! The realization struck him suddenly that Tuck was still back at house. He turned, quickly. “Sir William!” he shouted. “Sir William! This way! Hurry, for God’s sake!”

  Smythe felt guilty, apprehensive and confused as he slowly descended the stairs to the first floor. What had happened, or nearly happened, with Blanche Middleton had quite unnerved him. Unlike Shakespeare, who already had a family of his own, he had no experience with women. When he was younger, there had been a few girls in his village who had cast coy glances in his direction a time or two, but he had always been too shy to do much else than avert his eyes and blush. Then he would hear their girlish laughter and that would only make it seem much worse the next time that it happened.

  Since he came to London and started working at the theatre, there had been opportunities for him to gain a little more experience-and very likely more than a little, especially at The Toad and Badger, after their performances-but what had kept him from pursuing those opportunities were the feelings that he had for Elizabeth. On more than one occasion, Shakespeare had admonished him for his restraint, telling him that it was pointless and even ludicrous for him to remain faithful to a girl that he could never have, but that still had not changed his feelings or his constancy. He was in love with Elizabeth, and when one was in love, one remained true and faithful to that love. That was only as it should be.

  What now should he make of his response to Blanche? Knowing full well that she was a wanton, he had nevertheless felt such a strong desire for her that it had made his head swim. What did that say about his character, and even more important, what did it say about his feelings towards Elizabeth?

  If he had truly loved Elizabeth, he thought, then he should not have responded to Blanche the way he had. Certainly, there had been other times when he had not felt tempted by the saucy glances and the bawdy speech of the wenches at The Toad and Badger, but this had been completely different. It seemed to have taken every ounce of strength he had possessed to walk out of that room. And much to his chagrin, he realized that there was still a part of him-he knew only too well which part-that wanted very much to turn around and go back up the stairs, knock upon her door, and tell her that he had changed his mind. She had, quite simply, taken his breath away, and he had still not fully recovered.

  What sort of man am I, he thought, who could profess love for one woman and yet be so basely tempted by another? Even now, after he had turned her down, having mustered all his strength of will to do so, he still wanted her, in spite of everything. If I am so weak, he thought, then truly, I must not be deserving of a good woman’s love.

  He stepped off the stairs into the deserted great hall of the manor. If Elizabeth had seen him leaving Blanche’s room, then he was sure that nothing he could say would make the slightest bit of difference. For that matter, how could he protest his innocence when, in his heart, he knew that he was guilty, in thought if not in deed?

  So preoccupied was he with his own thoughts that he almost failed to respond to the sound he heard behind him, but in the silence of the empty hall, he could not fail to hear the footsteps coming down the stairs that he had just descended.

  He froze, thinking that it could only be Elizabeth. Just as he had feared, it had, indeed, been she who had shut the door upstairs in the hall after seeing him coming out of Blanche’s room, and now she had decided to come down and confront him. How would he ever convince her that he had not done anything? And then another possibility occurred to him. What if it were Blanche, coming after him to try to make him change his mind? Just the thought of it made his heart beat a little faster, and he felt ashamed for it. He took a deep breath and turned to face whoever it would be.

  “So,” said Godfrey Middleton, standing behind him at the foot of the stairs, “thought you could get away with it, did you?” He held a sword in his right hand. He raised it and held the blade pointed towards Smythe’s chest as he advanced. “You saucy bastard. You thought you could dishonor my daughter and then boast about it to your friends, did you?”

  Understanding dawned as Smythe realized that it had been Blanche’s father who had seen him coming out of her room! Aghast, he hastened to explain himself.

  “Sir, I assure you, there was nothing-” Smythe began, but Middleton would not let him finish.

  “A pox on your assurances, you villain! Do you take me for a fool? I saw you coming out of my daughter’s bedroom! How dare you! And in my own home! Under my very nose!”

  “Sir, please,” said Smythe, backing away as the blade came uncomfortably near his throat. The man was much too close. If he tried to draw steel to defend himself, Middleton would run him through on the instant. “Sir, please listen, you do not understand what truly-”

  “I understand only too well!” Middleton said, his voice like a whipcrack. Smythe saw that he was breathing hard and his eyes were blazing with a fury akin to madness. And then Smythe suddenly noticed that the blade Middleton held was wet with blood. “I understand that I have taken serpents to my breast! Serpents! Harlots! Sluts! After all that I have done for them, after all those years of toil, this is how they have repayed me! By fornicating with common stable boys and players!”

  Smythe was alarmed by the man’s vehemence and filled with horror by the sight of the blood upon his blade, for he now realized what it had to mean. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and his mouth suddenly felt dry. “Sir, I beg you to hear me out,” he said. “ ‘Tis not at all what you think, I swear it in God’s name!”

  “You dare deny the truth to me when I have seen with mine own eyes, you scoundrel?” said Middleton, advancing on him. Smythe began to back away, still vainly trying to get a word in edgewise, but Middleton kept after him, the bloody blade hovering just inches from his throat. “Do you suppose that I shall suffer myself to be made a fool of in front of all these people? Do you think I shall allow myself to be dishonored and disgraced after all of the work that I have done? I shall see you in Hell first, along with both of those ungrateful bitches I have raised! Wanton sluts, just like their mother, may God curse her scarlet, strumpet soul! I sent that damned harlot to the Devil for her wickedness, hoping to spare my daughters from her evil influence, but I see now that they were poisoned within her very womb, for they both grew up just like her! Sluts! Serpents! And there is only one thing to be done with serpents!”

  “My God,” said Smythe, as the realization struck him like a thunderbolt. “ ‘Twas you! You killed Catherine!”

  “The ungrateful little witch left me no choice! I wept for her, thinking she was dead! I had such high hopes for her! She could have been a real lady, the culmination of everything that I had striven for my whole life long! Do you have any idea what it took to find a suitable husband for her, a nobleman who would consent to marry a common woman with a reputation as a shrew? And yet, at long last, I found a nobleman who would have her and on her very wedding day, to my profound chagrin, she dies! I went back to the tomb to grieve for her and all that might have been, and I stood there, weeping, and asked her why she had to ruin everything and lo! She rose again before my very eyes! In fe
ar, I fell onto my knees, thinking that she was a demon sent from Hell, or else a punishment from God, and I cowered before her and confessed her mother’s murder and begged for her forgiveness! And then she screamed, and railed at me and struck me, and called me vile, unspeakable things, and told me how she had planned to fool me with the potion and run off with that stable boy! A stable boy! I realized then I had been made a fool of and so I struck the treacherous wench and said that I would kill her before I allowed her to disgrace me! ‘Twas then that she produced the dagger, which that cursed stable boy had hidden by her mother’s bier… And so I had no choice, you see. No choice at all. She made me do it, just like her mother, and now her sinful sister…”

  “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 thin
k 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.