The Slaying of the Shrew (Shakespeare & Smythe 2)

“Oh, very well, then. If you insist. We shall have to see if we can discover anything about who Blanche Middleton’s suitors might be, and who, among them, is an aristocrat-or pretends to be one- and who, among those, may be here together with his father-or a man who pretends to be his father. Then you must listen to them speak and see if you can recognize their voices. And ‘twill be interesting to see if they can recognize yours, as well, for if so, then that may suit our purpose admirably.”

“And just how would it do that?” asked Smythe, frowning.

Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, they have already tried to kill you once. They would doubtless try it once again to ensure that you did not give them away. And doing so, they might well give themselves away. And that would suit our purpose, you see?”

“ ‘Twould not suit my purpose very well if I were killed!”

“Quite. Therefore, we shall endeavor to keep you alive as long as possible. Long enough, at least, to get to the bottom of this nefarious intrigue and find out if Master Middleton is grateful enough to offer some reward.”

“I see. So I should therefore place my life at risk so that you might collect a reward from Master Middleton?”

“Well, I would share it with you, of course. Assuming you survived, that is.”

“How good of you.”

“Think nothing of it. What are friends for?”

“For getting other friends killed, it would seem.”

“Look, did I ask you to go out to the maze tonight on the trail of some pouty girl? Or did you, in fact, come to me to help you out with this?”

Smythe made a sour face. “I came to you,” he admitted.

“Indeed. Tis not too late to change your mind, however. We could still choose to act as if none of this had ever happened and blithely go about minding our own business as if we were naught but mere players hired to perform a foolish little play for the amusement of the wedding guests, then take our bows, and pack our things, and continue on our merry way to new adventures and amusements. And I, for one, would have no trouble whatsoever if we were to do precisely that. So then… what shall it be?”

Smythe sighed. “You know, Will, you can be a very irritating person.”

“I know. My wife used to say exactly the same thing, which is why she lives in Stratford and I live in London, where I can no longer irritate her.”

Smythe shook his head. “The devil take it all. I started this, I may as well see it through. Although I have a feeling we may both regret this.”

“Anything worth doing is often worth regretting,” Shakespeare said. “And we can start tomorrow.”

5

THE MORNING BROUGHT A BUSTLE of activity throughout the household as the staff arose well before dawn to begin making the final preparations for the wedding. The kitchen was in full roar well before sunrise, with the cooks bellowing at their helpers like sergeants on the battlefield barking out orders to their troops. The cleaning maids scurried throughout the house with feather dusters, polishing cloths, straw brooms and fresh rushes. The grooms and stable boys fed, curry combed and brushed the horses they were stabling for the guests and shoveled out the stalls for additional arrivals, although it was expected that most of the remaining guests would be arriving by boat, rowed out from the city by the rivermen.

Outside on the fairgrounds, the activity among the merchants seemed more leisurely compared to the frenetic atmosphere inside the house, but they, too, started very early. Most of them arose well before dawn, just like the household staff, and got their cook fires going, then started opening their tents and stalls and laying out their goods for market. By sunrise, the displays were all prepared and the goldsmiths could be heard tapping their hammers in their stalls; the weavers were click-clacking their looms; the tailors had their dummies set out and dressed with the finest doublets in their stock and the potters had their wheels spinning. Even the well-heeled guests who were accustomed to rising late had risen early-if not quite so early as the help-to breakfast in the hall, so that they could go out to the fairgrounds and get first crack at the merchandise, or else simply wander around and enjoy the spectacle.

Godfrey Middleton had certainly done himself proud, Smythe thought. An elaborate, gala wedding celebration for his eldest daughter, complete with a nautical procession worthy of a display for the queen’s own court, and along with that, a private fair open only to his guests, a joust, and the premier of a new play staged especially for the occasion all made for an event that would have everyone in London talking about it for months. All those who had not been in attendance would feel that they had missed something very special and momentous, especially those noble hangers-on who had gone along with the queen’s court on Her Majesty’s progress through the countryside.

The queen herself would be certain to hear of it, and with her well known fondness for masques and jousts, theatricals and balls and entertainments of all sorts, it was almost a foregone conclusion that next time she would include Middleton Manor on her itinerary, instead of Sir William Worley’s Green Oaks. And then once he had played host to the queen for a few weeks, which would be an even more expensive proposition, Godfrey Middleton would be well on his way to the knighthood that he coveted. It was all going to cost him a great deal of money, Smythe thought, but doubtless he considered it money very well spent. Especially since he had it to spend.

The Queen’s Men had their duties already set out for them in their instructions from the steward. They had a light repast with the serving staff in the kitchen, which with all the frenetic and boisterous activity going on around them was rather like eating breakfast in the middle of a battlefield, then changed into their costumes and made their way down to the river gate, where they would await the remainder of the guests and, finally, the wedding party. First, however, they all lined up in their white senatorial robes for inspection by the steward, Humphrey, who walked up and down the line like a general and looked them over with a sort of disdainful resignation, adjusted the fold or drape of a robe here and there, then sniffed and pronounced that they “would do.”

“There goes a man who ha

s missed his true vocation,” John Fleming commented wryly after Humphrey had dismissed them and they began to make their way down to the river. “With that bilious disposition, the man is a born critic if ever I saw one.”

Smythe chuckled, but Will Kemp’s perpetual grumbling and grousing forestalled his response.

“These costumes are ridiculous,” Kemp said. “Roman senators, indeed! We look more like a bunch of cadavers wrapped up in shrouds.”

“In your case, that would be particularly true,” Robert Speed replied.

“At least my talent is alive and well, which is certainly more than I can say for yours,” Kemp riposted, contemptuously.

Speed raised his hand and snapped his fingers, as if ordering up a tankard of ale. “Gentlemen, a shroud for Master Kemp’s talent, if you please?”