Gresham frowned. He walked over to the door, opened it and called out, "Drummond! Come in here a moment, will you?"
His servant, who had been waiting with the carriage, came running in response. He bowed as he came in and took his hat off. "Aye, sir?"
"Drummond, do you see this lady here?" said Gresham, indicating Elizabeth. "Aye, sir."
"Do you know who she is?"
"Mistress Elizabeth Darcie, sir."
"Aha!" Elizabeth said.
"And how do you know that, Drummond?" Gresham asked. "Why… you told me so, sir. You said that you were coming here to see her."
"So I did. And what about last night?"
"Last night, sir?"
"Aye, last night. When you saw her."
"Sir?"
"Did you not see Miss Darcie last night?"
"Last night, sir?"
"Aye, are you deaf? Did you see her last night?" Drummond, looking confused, shook his head emphatically. "Sir, I… No, sir. I never saw her before in my life, sir."
"You liar!" Elizabeth cried out.
"Elizabeth!" her mother exclaimed with shock. "Mr. Gresham, I am quite simply at a loss to explain my daughter's behavior! Honestly, I do not know what has gotten into her!"
"Mother, they are both lying!" said Elizabeth.
"Elizabeth, go to your room, this instant!"
"But, Mother…"
"I said go to your room! Immediately! We shall discuss this when your father returns home. Please forgive me, Mr. Gresham…"
Elizabeth ran out of the room in tears. She was furious with her mother, furious with Gresham and his servant, and furious with herself for crying. Drummond had lied, of course, because Gresham had told him to. That was the obvious explanation. The man was a servant; he simply did as he was told. She told herself that she should not really be angry with him. But Gresham…
She had never hated anyone so much in her entire life. The man was an utter villain! What possible reason could he have for making her out to be conniving and deceitful? Worse than that, a fool. He had seemed so earnest and sincere when he had said he loved somebody else. Was it all a lie? apparently, it was. But why? She could make no sense of it.
Nobody would believe her. If her own mother did not credit her story, her father certainly would not. Especially after she had told him that Gresham said she was unsuitable. Too small bosomed and horse-faced. She never should have added that last part. But then, the whole thing had been his idea in the first place. Now, her father would know that she had made that up, and would, of course, believe that she had made all the rest of it up, as well.
Perhaps that was precisely what Gresham had intended, she thought, as she lay in bed and fought back tears of rage and helplessness. If he had wanted to create a rift between herself and her parents, he could not have succeeded more admirably. They already believed their daughter was too willful and too stubborn, now they would believe she was a liar, too. A spiteful, deceitful, and conniving shrew, she thought. That was what he had made her out to be. And now it would appear as if he were being magnanimous in taking her off her parents' hands. That might well allow him to turn the terms of the marriage more to his advantage, she thought. Much like a clever bargain hunter in the market, negotiating a cheaper price for a bolt of cloth because he had found a blemish in it. She gritted her teeth. What an utterly loathsome scoundrel he was!
And this, unless she could think of something absolutely brilliant to prevent it, would be the man to whom she would be married! It was unthinkable. It was simply monstrous. There had to be some way to escape this, to expose him…
Surely, someone must have seen her at the Theatre. She had been there with her father dozens of times; he was one of the principal investors, people knew him there, and they knew her… but no. She could not recall running into anyone she knew when she arrived. Most of the audience had already been seated in the galleries, and she would not know anyone among the groundlings, obviously, so nobody had seen her when Drummond had conducted her to Gresham's private box. And the box had been screened off, of course, so that no one could have seen her in there unless, perhaps, one of the actors on the stage had recognized her, though she did not really know any of them, had never spoken to them, so there was really no one who… The ostler!
She sat bolt upright in bed. That handsome young ostler had seen her! They had exchanged words! More than words, they'd flirted. Surely, he would remember her! But who was he? What was his name?
Wait, he had told her. What was it? She racked her brain. Something rather common, and yet uncommon. It tripped rather fetchingly off the tongue, as she recalled. But what was it? Smythe! That was it! Something Smythe… Something Smythe… Symington! Symington Smythe!
She had a witness. A witness who could corroborate that she'd been at the Theatre that night. And that she had met Drummond! She had to find him. And as soon as possible. He was her only chance to prove that she had told the truth. She got up and quickly started to change her clothes.
Chapter 8
GREEN OAKS, THE SPRAWLING ESTATE of Sir William Worley, was one of the most palatial homes that Smythe had ever seen. He had heard that the queen herself often visited Green Oaks, usually in late June or early July, when she would habitually leave London in procession with her entire court and make her summer excursions through the countryside, staying at various private residences. Green Oaks was where she usually began. Ostensibly, these excursions were a way for the queen to go out among her subjects every year and see some of the land she ruled. Co-incidentally, they also got her out of London during the height of the plague season and allowed her to vacation in the country at the expense of her hosts. And these royal visits could apparently be quite expensive, as they required that the queen be entertained and could last anywhere from a month up to six weeks, or whenever the queen grew bored and decided to move on. It was not unusual for one of Her Majesty's hosts to shell out from two to three thousand pounds to pay for such a visit, but most considered the princely, indeed, the queenly sum well spent in exchange for the favor and influence they believed it could procure.
Obviously, if Sir William could afford to entertain the queen in such a fashion on an annual basis, he had to be fabulously wealthy, and his estate gave ample testimony to the size of his fortune. Located well outside the London city limits, on several hundred lushly wooded and meadowed acres, the house was a huge, rough-hewn, gray stone edifice laid out in the shape of the letter "H," with a windowed hallway as the cross-stroke separating two large interior courtyard gardens.
Smythe had ridden one of the stable post horses out to the estate and as he trotted up the road leading to the house, he wondered what would come of this visit. He had not yet made up his mind about Sir William, but more to the point, he wondered if Sir William had made up his mind about him. He knew that he could very easily disappear during this visit, never to be seen again, and no one would ever think that Sir William could possibly have had anything to do with it. Only Shakespeare would know, or at least suspect what might have happened, and who would listen to a penniless young poet? Especially when it was his word against that of one of the richest men in the land.
As Smythe turned his mount over to one of the servants who came out to meet him, he gazed up at the imposing residence and took a deep breath, marshaling his courage. Just the idea of a visit to such an opulent place would ordinarily have been enough to make him feel intimidated, much less visiting it under such peculiar and possibly even dangerous circumstances. The man who lived here was not only one of the richest and most influential men in the country, he was also a brigand who robbed travelers on the roads leading to London, a flamboyant highwayman who called himself Black Billy. It seemed absolutely insane. And yet, Smythe knew it to be true. And Sir William knew he knew.
What Smythe couldn't understand was why. The man seemingly had everything. Entering the house, he could see walls paneled in imported woods and hung with rich tapestries, ceilings patterned with deli
cate plaster ribs forming arabesques, geometrical forms and figures of birds and beasts, each room different from the other. There were ornate staircases, some straight, some spiraled, with solid oak block steps and massive handrailings and newel posts, all heavily and intricately carved by master artisans.
He was conducted to a great hall with a long gallery, just like in a castle throne room, from which people could look down on what was happening below or, alternatively, Smythe thought, from where archers could shoot down at anyone who was being a boorish guest.
He grimaced. The suits of armor standing at either side of the entrance to the chamber had given his mind an unpleasantly martial turn, as did the maces and the battleaxes and the morning stars hanging on the walls, alongside pikes and halberds and great swords and shields and bucklers. It looked like the armory at Tower of London, another place he was anxious to avoid.
I've made a mistake in coming here, he thought. There was nothing to be served in doing this. He did not belong here. Was assuaging his curiosity truly worth taking such a risk? He decided, despite his apprehensions, that it was. It could have been pure chance that he had happened on Black Billy on the road to London. Shakespeare had not run into him. The poet had not, in fact, run into any robbers at all on his way from Stratford, but perhaps that was because he had not been traveling alone. He had said that he had fallen in with a company of travelers for the sake of safety in numbers. It must have worked. Smythe had traveled alone and been accosted several times. So, perhaps it was mere chance. But then to run into him again in London, in that tavern—and in the company of Marlowe, when it just so happened that he, too, was in the company of a poet, albeit one who was not yet successful—it simply seemed as if there were some fateful influence at work here. And Sir William had invited him, after all. If he had wanted to dispose of him, he would certainly not have needed to invite him to his home. Assassins could be hired cheaply from among the men who loitered around Paul's, cheap even for men with far fewer resources than Sir William could command.
"Young Master Smythe, was it?"
Smythe turned to see Sir William entering the hall. He was dressed very plainly in black doublet and hose, and a pair of silver buckled shoes. "Aye, sir," Smythe replied. "Though I cannot truthfully call myself a master of any art or craft. Did I come at an inconvenient time, milord? I could easily come back another day, if you prefer."
"Nonsense. Today is perfectly convenient. And you are welcome at Green Oaks. May I offer you some wine?"
"You are most kind, Sir William, but I would not wish to put you to any trouble on my account."
"Trouble? I have more wine in my cellars than I could possibly drink in a lifetime. Someone's going to have to help me drink it, you know. It can't all go down Her Royal Majesty's alabaster throat. And I would much rather it be an honest man who drank my wine than all those dissipated hangers-on at court."
Smythe smiled, despite his discomfort. "In that event, milord, it would be both an honor and a pleasure."
"Excellent. You should find a decanter of port and several glasses over on the sideboard there. Be a good fellow and pour us both a drink. I have given strict instructions that we are not to be disturbed."
Smythe glanced back at him as he made his way over to the heavy, carved mahogany sideboard. "That sounds rather ominous, milord."
Worley raised his eyebrows. "Does it? Are you afraid that I shall do away with you in here and secret your body underneath the floorboards? 'Twould eventually make the room smell rather piquant, don't you think?"
Smythe brought him a glass of port. No pewter or clay goblets here, he thought, but the very finest glassware. "To be sure, milord. In any event, 'twould be a far more elegant resting place than a man of my lowly station would deserve."
Worley raised his glass. "I see. Well, what shall we drink to, then? To… proper resting places? From each according to his ability to each according to his need? Hmm. In that event, paupers would be buried in Westminster and half the men at court would be thrown into Fleet Ditch."
Smythe chuckled. He was finding it impossible not to like the man. "Why not drink to chance encounters?" he said.
Worley grinned. "Splendid! To chance encounters, then."
They raised their glasses and drank.
"And 'twas, perhaps, our chance encounter that you wanted to discuss?" said Smythe.
"Which encounter?" asked Worley. "You mean the first or the second?"
"The first, milord. That day in the country, near the crossroads and the inn known as The Hawk and Mouse."
Worley smiled. "Ah. That encounter. Well, then. What of it?"
Smythe shook his head. "I… do not understand, milord," he said. "Why?"
Worley simply shrugged. "Why not?"
"But… you have everything, milord. Everything that it seems to me a man could conceivably want. Wealth, position, power, and influence… 'twould seem you lack for nothing. Why play at being some lowly highwayman?"
"I do it for the fun," Worley replied, bluntly.
"Fun?" said Smythe, with disbelief.
"Aye, fun," said Worley. "Is that so difficult to comprehend? That a man in my position might feel the need for some occasional stimulation? Some skylarking? A bit of fun? Besides, I am not just any highwayman, you know. I am the infamous Black Billy. Why, there are ballads and broadsheets written about me. You can pick them up in the stands down by St. Paul's. I have most of them here. I collect them. True, they exaggerate my exploits considerably, but I find them quite amusing."
"But… what of the risk, milord?"
"The risk?" Worley shrugged. "Oh, I suppose there is some slight risk, but that only makes it part of the fun, you see."
"Surely, you must realize that if they catch you, you shall hang."
"You think? Well… I may hang, I suppose. And then again, I may not. The queen is rather fond of me, you know. But she is a bit of a stickler for form. She might be moved toward clemency, or else she might just have me beheaded. Bit quicker that way. Or so they say. In any event, I should think the odds are greater that I might be killed during a robbery, rather than be apprehended."
"How can you discuss this with so little concern?" asked Smythe, amazed not only at the substance of their conversation, but at Worley's casual tone about it.
"Because it does not concern me," Worley replied.
"But… how can it not, milord?" Smythe asked, with exasperation.
"Look, sit down, Smythe, and stop standing there looking like some great self-righteous oak. If you will give me your attention for a few moments, I will endeavor to explain."
Smythe obediently sat.
"Good," said Worley, remaining on his feet, rather to Smythe's discomfort. He did not feel that he should be sitting in the presence of a knight, but then again, sitting in the presence of a brigand certainly seemed permissible. The protocol of the situation seemed rather confusing, not to say unsettling.
"Now then," Worley continued, pacing as he spoke, "as you have quite correctly pointed out, I am a very wealthy man. And I, indeed, have everything. Or so 'twould appear, at least, to anyone such as yourself. I could easily sit back and rest upon my laurels, like the rest of the slothful, parasitic fools who make up the larger part of our blue-blooded nobility, but then, such is not my nature.
"You see, Smythe, I did not inherit the fortune I now possess. I earned it. Or else stole it, depending upon one's perspective. Either way, 1 worked damned hard to get it. And I enjoyed getting it. Every damned bit of it. From my very first business venture, in which I risked every single penny I had earned since boyhood and parlayed it into my first ship, to the latest addition to my fleet, which is even now under construction in Bristol and promises to make Drake's Golden Hind look like a river barge, I have played the game of risk and won. Well, occasionally I lost, but losing is just part of the game. And the ones who play it best are those who are not afraid to lose.
"Look about you, Smythe," said Worley, indicating their surroundings wit
h a sweeping gesture. "What do you see? Opulence. Grandeur. Elegance. Taste… Well, I am not so sure about the taste part, for some of this monstrosity I call a home is rather overdone, I must confess, but the point is, it is the refined and genteel residence of a knight of the realm, soon, perhaps, to be a lord, as strange as that may seem. And yet… and yet… how did I get here? How did I achieve all of this?"
Smythe simply stared at him, uncertain as to whether the question was rhetorical or not. Worley was looking at him as if he expected an answer, but Smythe had none to give. Or else, all he could do was repeat back what Worley had just told him.
"Through hard work, milord?"
Worley snorted. "Through piracy, my lad. Through piracy. I worked hard at it, to be sure, but it was piracy, nevertheless."
"Piracy, milord?"
"Aye. Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, the rest of them who either sail my ships or else have bought them from me… all pirates. A slightly better class of pirate, I will grant you, than your tarry-haired, rum-swilling, eyepatch-wearing, smelly buccaneer, but pirates, nonetheless. They attack ships and loot them, take them as prizes when they can and sink them when they cannot, and they are wined and dined as heroes here in England, instead of being strung up to dangle from the gallows. And why? Because they attack Spanish ships. And because the queen gets a share of all their booty. And that makes the queen no less a pirate than all the rest of them."
"I cannot believe that you would call the queen a pirate!" Smythe said, with astonishment.
" 'Tis the truth," said Worley, with a shrug. "And believe it or not, in private, she would even admit to it. Her Majesty is nothing if not practical. She always sees a thing for what it is, and not for what it should be or could be. And if she is not always honest with her ministers and courtiers and other heads of state, she is unfailingly honest with herself, which is why I rather like the old girl. She is a woman who has made her way in a man's world without ever once submitting to a man, and she has done so with courage and intelligence, duplicity and guile, good-heartedness and malice, trickery and effrontery, and pure, unadulterated rapaciousness, God bless her great black heart, and I love her better than I loved my own sweet mother because I understand that wondrous royal bitch. She, young Smythe, is every bit as much a thief as I am. And what is more, she revels in it!"
Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 01] A Mystery of Errors(v2.0) Page 11