The Slaying of the Shrew (Shakespeare & Smythe 2)

“Aye, all the time.”

“Lout. Aha! Here we are!” He brought forth his papers and a small box containing his inkwell and his pens. “Now… what was that line I wanted to set down?”

Smythe shrugged. “I dunno.”

“God’s wounds! You have forgotten?”

“You said you wanted to set it down; I recall that much. You did not say you wanted me to remember it for you.”

“Argh! I can see that you are not going to be of any use to me at all until you set your mind straight about that girl. Folly. Tis all folly, if you ask me. Go, find her. Find her and make it up to her. Abase yourself before her and tell her what a mighty goose you have been and how you should have known better, but were utterly blinded by your vanity and foolishness. A woman loves to hear a man admit to being a fool; it confirms her own opinion and lends credence to her judgement. Go and find her and plead for her forgiveness.”

“But… I had done nothing truly wrong,” said Smythe.

“Did you speak?”

“Well, aye, but-”

“Then you undoubtedly did wrong. Either way, it matters not. You shall not mend fences by stubbornly standing on your pride. Go on, get out. Leave me in peace. I must try to somehow make a play out of this dross that I have penned and must now see performed, thanks to your kind offices.”

“I never meant to cause you trouble, Will. I was only thinking that it might be an opportunity for you,” said Smythe.

Shakespeare sighed. “I know, Tuck, I know. And that is why I cannot be angry with you for it. I know that you meant well. As I, too, mean well when I tell you to go and tell Elizabeth that you are sorry for your quarrel. I still think that no good can come of this infatuation, but then I am like as not the last who should advise anybody on such matters.”

Smythe took a deep breath. “I do not know, Will… I am not even certain where to go and look for her.”

“Well, considering that they are setting up a fair outside,” said Shakespeare, “might not a young woman wish to be among the first to do a bit of shopping?”

It was drawing on towards evening, but the fairgrounds were still abustle as late-arriving merchants hurried to set up their stalls. Others, whose goods had already been displayed, were making last minute adjustments to their tables or else dickering with guests who had already arrived and were taking advantage of the warm and pleasant evening to peruse the tented and beribboned booths. Unlike other fairs that were open to the public, there was no official opening time. The invited merchants were free to begin selling as soon as they set up their stalls, so long as they refrained from remaining open during the wedding ceremony scheduled for the following day. It was a small enough concession, Smythe thought, considering the wealthy customers to whom the merchants would be given access and they were all doing their best to make the most of the opportunity by arriving early and setting up their stalls as soon as possible. And other than the singular oddity of this fair being held on the grounds of a private estate and restricted only to invited guests, it reminded Smythe of the one held at his village, or at least it did until he got a closer look at some of the goods being offered and heard the asking prices.

All fairs, large or small, had certain things in common, such as the sale of foodstuffs. Already, Smythe could smell the savory aromas of fresh fruit pies baked earlier in the day and carefully packed up for the journey to the fair. He could smell roast chicken and game birds cooking over braziers, as well as venison pastie. And much like the fair at home, there were merchants here selling bolts of cloth and ribbons, as well as finished goods, but only the very finest kinds.

There were bolts of three-piled velvet and Italian silk, as well as Flemish damasks and French lace, much finer than anything Smythe had ever seen at the country fairs back home. Expensive pewter bowls and plates and drinking goblets were for sale at one booth, fancy embroidered doublets at the next, and jewelry at the one past that. There were heavy gold rings and enamelled chains and bracelets and brooches all set with precious stones, the work of the city’s finest artisans. There was even an armorer’s stall where Smythe stopped to stare at the highly polished and extravagantly engraved armor of the queen’s own champion on display. Nearby, a booth with weapons laid out on the cloth covered tables and hung up on pegs affixed to slanted display boards drew his attention. He gazed with interest at the great double-handed swords and Scottish basket-hilted claymores, war axes, spiked morning stars and triangulated maces, all of which, in these times of peace, were far more likely to be purchased for display upon some wall rather than for potential use in battle. He paid closer attention to the more practical swords and daggers suitable for daily wear, such as the gleaming Toledo blades and Italian stilettos, their hilts wrapped with fine gold and silver wire; slim and graceful ladies’ bodkins with hilts of bone or ivory and precious jewels set into their pommels and crossguards; purposeful looking swords and knives from the best artisans of Sheffield, as well as elaborately-wrought

cup and basket-hilted French poignards and rapiers and main gauches. Save for a venison pastie, perhaps, or a roast goose drumstick, Smythe saw absolutely nothing that he could afford on his meager player’s pay.

As he wandered among the stalls, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a familiar-looking hooded cloak of green velvet. It was the same one Elizabeth had worn when they had last seen one another at St. Paul ’s. The day that they had quarrelled, Smythe thought, ruefully. She had often worn that cloak; it was her favorite. He was about to call out her name, but then thought better of it and caught himself in time.

This was not the yard of St. Paul ’s, he reminded himself. This was a private celebration at the estate of Godfrey Middleton, one of the richest men in London, and all about him, aside from the merchants and their apprentices, were some of the most wealthy and influential people in all of England. It was not a place where Elizabeth would wish to call attention to her friendship with a lowly ostler and a sometime player, assuming, of course, that their relationship had not been irreparably damaged by their foolish quarrel.

The thought gave Smythe a sharp pang of anxiety. Friendship was probably the most that he could ever hope for with Elizabeth, although he longed with all his heart and soul for something more than that. But Shakespeare was right, she was too far above him. And if their relationship continued, she doubtless stood to lose far more than he did. The smart thing, the best thing, perhaps, would be for him to simply put her out of his mind, but what was simply said was not so simply done. Perhaps Shakespeare was right, he thought, and nothing good would come of it, but good or bad, either way, nothing would come of it at all if he did not go to her and beg for her forgiveness.

He hurried after her. A moment later, he lost sight of her among the stalls and tents, but then he caught a glimpse of green and spotted her again. She was moving quickly, purposefully it seemed, and he trotted after her. In his haste, he collided with someone and the man fell sprawling to the ground, landing flat on his back in a puddle of mud and horse manure that made a mess of his fine clothes.

“Your pardon,” Smythe said over his shoulder as he hurried to catch up with Elizabeth.

“Damn your eyes, you ruffian!” the man called after him, angrily. “Look what you’ve done! Come back here! Come back here at once, I said! Somebody stop that man!”

Smythe quickly put as much distance as possible between them, ducking between the stalls and tents. The last thing he needed now was to be taken for a thief, especially amongst this company! He could still hear the man blustering behind him, but he seemed to have made good his escape. Except that now, once again, he had lost sight of Elizabeth. He seemed to have come almost full circle around the fairground. He now found himself standing on the perimeter of the tents and stalls, among some carts and wagons. To his left, some thirty or forty yards away, were the wedding pavillions and the house. To his right, the field continued to slope away towards the pond and the road leading up to the house from the main thoroughfare. Behind him was the fairground, and further on, the river. And to his front ran the road, and beyond it, just below the house, were the gardens and the maze. And as the shadows of dusk lengthened, Smythe caught a glimpse of Elizabeth ’s green cloak billowing in the evening breeze, just before she disappeared from sight on the stone steps leading down to the gardens and the maze.

Once again, he felt tempted to call out to her, and once again, he hesitated. Where was she going? And what was she doing, going down to the gardens all alone at this hour? He frowned and started after her.

The sun was going down, and the merchants would soon be closing down their stalls until the morning, camping out with their goods or in their wagons. Already, he could see a few lanterns and torches being lit in the fairground behind him. It would not be long before it would grow dark. Smythe started to run.

He reached the top of the terraced steps from which he could look out over the garden below. As with his elegant manor home, Middleton had clearly spared no expense with his gardens. Even in the fading light, Smythe could see that a great deal of time and attention had been lavished on them. There were several garden plots spread out below in a circular pattern, each exquisitely laid out and painstakingly maintained. There were stone benches and ivy-covered bowers placed along gently curving flagstoned pathways. And just beyond the gardens, disappearing into the entrance to the tall and perfectly clipped hedges of the maze, was the billowing swirl of a cloak.

4

THERE COULD ONLY BE ONE reason why Elizabeth would be coming out to the gardens alone at this time of the evening, Smythe thought, and it was not to smell the flowers. She had come to meet someone. Why else make the pretence of going out to see the merchants’ stalls, only to circle round them and make her way clandestinely down to the gardens? As Smythe ran down the steps after her and along the garden pathways leading to the maze, anger and jealousy flared within him.