The Slaying of the Shrew (Shakespeare & Smythe 2)

ixture in court society, though he has ambitions in that regard, that the guests at his daughter’s wedding celebration will not be among the upper crust, but rather the topmost layer beneath it, if you will. In other words, primarily the wealthy new men of the middle class and, perhaps, a few rather minor members of the nobility. He knows that there is still a chance his masquerade might be exposed, but the risk of that is not so great as ‘twould have been were any courtiers present, for they have little else to do but keep track of one another and their respective standing in the pecking order. Thus, our man puts on a bold face and proceeds as planned. But he does not know that I am here, or that I have been alerted to his villainy and have already made inquiries which have enabled us to narrow down our list of suspects to just two. As a result, the degree of risk for him has now become quite high… only he does not yet know that.”

“But he shall surely know it as soon as he becomes aware of your presence here, milord,” Elizabeth said.

“Which is precisely why he shall not become aware of it,” said Worley. “Save for the three of you, no one else knows I have returned. Therefore, let us keep it that way. Do not mention my return to anyone, and if anyone should ask, feign ignorance.”

“But… where shall you be, milord?” Elizabeth asked. “Even if you intend to conceal yourself in the upstairs rooms, the servants will become aware of you and they will surely spread the word.”

Worley smiled. “Never fear. Not even Godfrey Middleton will know I have returned. I have already made preparations in anticipation of this.”

“But… where will you be, milord?” asked Shakespeare.

“Hiding in plain sight,” said Worley, with a smile. But before he could continue, a sharp cry echoed suddenly across the grounds.

“Goodness! What was that?” Elizabeth said, clutching at Smythe instinctively.

“I think it came from over there,” said Shakespeare, pointing. “The maze!” said Worley. He started running towards the entrance.

“ Elizabeth, get back to the house,” said Smythe. “No, I am going with you.” “ Elizabeth, for God’s sake!”

“I feel much safer with you,” she insisted. “Do not bother to argue, for I am not going back!”

“What if I go back?” said Shakespeare.

“Oh, Hell’s bells! Come on, both of you! We must catch up with Sir William!”

Smythe quickly realized that was more easily said than done, for Sir William’s long legs had given him a considerable head start and he was running very quickly. If Smythe had not known about his secret life as the outlaw, Black Billy, he might have been surprised at how fit Sir William was for a supposedly indolent aristocrat, but he knew that Worley was in truth anything but that. By the time they reached the entrance to the maze, Sir William had already gone inside.

Their eyes were well accustomed to the night by now, but it was nearly pitch dark inside the maze. Smythe still had his sword, and he now drew it, holding it before him as they proceeded, for although it was difficult to see, what they heard gave them due cause for caution.

Somewhere within the labyrinthine hedges of the maze, a furious fight was taking place. They could hear the rapid clanging of blades ringing out in the darkness somewhere nearby, and judging by the sounds of the combat, it was in deadly earnest. Smythe knew enough of swordsmanship to tell, just by the sounds of blade on blade, that the men engaged were both skilled swordsmen.

“ Elizabeth, which way?” he said, tensely.

“To the right,” she said, keeping close behind him.

“Odd’s blood, I do not like this one bit,” said Shakespeare, glancing around uneasily. “I can scarcely see in this infernal shrubbery!”

“Now to the left,” Elizabeth said, directing them from memory as they proceeded. “Oh, I do hope Sir William is all right!”

“Sir William can take care of himself, never fear,” said Smythe. “He is an accomplished swordsman.”

“Well, he may be, but I am not,” said Shakespeare, “so if there is any fighting to be done, it is my devout wish that he shall be the one to do it, for I lack not only swordmanship, I lack a sword, as well!”

“You should have worn one,” Smythe said.

“And this from the man who forgets to wear one half the time himself,” Shakespeare replied. “For all the use a sword would be to me, I might just as well wear a farthingale.”

“And very fetching you would look in one, methinks,” said Smythe. He paused. “I do not hear anything now. Do you?”

“Not a thing,” Shakespeare replied.

“Should we call out?” Elizabeth asked, softly.

“And give away Sir William’s presence?” Smythe said. “He is somewhere ahead of us. If he needs help-”

“Will! Tuck! Come quickly!” Worley called out. He sounded very close.

A moment later, as they made another turn, they came upon him, standing stooped over what appeared to be a pile of leaves upon the ground. He dropped to one knee as they approached, stretching out his hand, and Smythe abruptly realized that it was not a pile of leaves at all, but a body lying on the ground.