The Slaying of the Shrew (Shakespeare & Smythe 2)

An abrupt change in the manner of the two servants at his side alerted Smythe to pay closer attention to the next boat that was drawing up to the gate. It was a larger boat, better appointed, with a small mast and gaff-rigged sail. Even Kemp, who was not the most observant of individuals, noticed that the manner of the servants had changed somewhat. Their backs had stiffened noticeably and they began to check their costumes, brushing at them and making small adjustments.

“Look smartly now,” said one of them. “Yonder boat bears Master Middleton and his younger daughter, with Sir Percival. Their arrival means that the wedding flotilla shall not be far behind.”

Kemp drew himself up to his full height, which because he was not much taller than five feet had the comical effect of making him look like a bantam rooster trying to stretch itself into a game cock. The importance of making a good impression on their host, one of the richest men in London, was not lost on him, for Kemp had ambitions of his own that were no less lofty than Ned Alleyn’s.

As the boat pulled up to the steps, Smythe marked Godfrey Middleton as he prepared to disembark. Smythe realized that he had seen this man before, when he had attended to his elaborate, black lacquered coach at the Theatre, though he had not known who he was. Now, he recognized him as Middleton stepped off the boat, assisted by his servants.

He was not a young man, by any means, though he was stout and barrel-chested, with thick legs that seemed a bit too short for his torso, so that he seemed to waddle slightly when he walked. His wide and round-cheeked face was ruddy and his prominent, bulbous nose was red, though whether from the chill upon the river or overindulgence in fine wines, Smythe could not tell, though he could easily hazard a guess.

Godfrey Middleton had the appearance of a man who enjoyed all of the finer things in life and could easily afford them. His clothing was obviously expensive and exquisitely tailored. He wore a saffron ruff and his chestnut colored doublet was of the finest three-piled velvet, tailored in the French style, richly embroidered with gold and silver thread and sewn with jewels, puffed at the shoulders and slashed deeply at the sleeves, revealing bright glimpses of a marigold satin shirt beneath that must have been imported from Paris and probably cost more than Smythe could hope to make in a year. Middleton’s galligaskins were deep scarlet and gartered with marigold silk ribbons that matched the silk rosettes upon his gold-buckled shoes. The striking ensemble was topped off with a long cloak in dark, chestnut-brown brocade with a matching floppy bonnet set off with marigold silk ribbons.

“There’s a bright beplumaged bird,” said Smythe.

“Softly, simpleton, else he shall hear you!” whispered Kemp, glancing at him sharply.

“I doubt it,” Smythe replied, although he did lower his voice. “And methinks he would care little if he did. Look at him. He is positively green.”

Indeed, Godfrey Middleton looked decidedly ill as he stepped unsteadily out of the boat, assisted by his servants. He appeared genuinely grateful to be on dry land once again. Even though it had been only a relatively short boat trip on the Thames, Middleton acted as if he had just barely survived an arduous transatlantic crossing.

“Zounds, what beastly weather!” he exclaimed to his companions as they disembarked. “That wretched wind! ‘Twas a frightful chop out there, I tell you! I damn well nearly gave up breakfast!”

His voice was high-pitched and rather nasal and complemented his waddle perfectly. To Smythe, he sounded like a large, affronted goose, squawking with pompous indignation. The “frightful chop” that he referred to was, to Smythe’s eyes, no more than a slight display of whitecaps on the water’s surface, hardly what anyone would call rough sailing. It might be a bit of a rock in a small rowboat, perhaps, but it was only the Thames River, after all, not the English Channel. The breeze was brisk and cool, but it was a long way from being a “wretched wind.” And Smythe thought that the only reasonable excuse that anyone would have for giving up their breakfast out there would be if they were pregnant.

“Well,

‘twas a bit of an unpleasant journey, I’ll agree, but ‘tis over now and our feet are once again upon dry land,” said one of Middleton’s companions. “From now on, ‘twill all be smooth sailing.” The man chuckled at his own remark. “Eh? What? Smooth sailing? I say, that’s jolly good, what?”

This gentleman turned out to be the groom. Sir Percival Pennington-Pugh was at least the same age as the bride’s father, if not older, but there any similarity ended. Where Middleton was portly, thick-chested and short-legged, Sir Percival was thin as a hay-rake and practically all legs and elbows. And if Middleton brought to mind a puffed up goose, then Sir Percival looked like a spindly water fly, albeit one decked out in a costume so garish as to make Middleton’s clothing look positively subdued.

For the occasion of his wedding, Sir Percival had donned a white ruff and a doublet of robin’s egg blue silk with double rows of silver buttons set so close together that they touched. His sleeves were “pinked,” or slashed to show a silk shirt in a newly fashionable color named “dead Spaniard,” in honor of the sinking of the Armada. To Smythe, who did not have much of an eye for distinguishing fashionable subtleties of color, it simply looked dark purple. The groom’s fashionable if rather impractical shoes were made of light blue silk, to match his doublet, and they were likewise pinked to show off his morbid Spanish hose. His baggy gaskins were made of velvet in a violet hue and he wore so many jeweled rings that merely lifting his long-fingered, bony hands seemed to take an effort. He wore a wide-linked silver chain, enameled as was currently the fashion in shades of black and purple, to match his high-crowned hat, and in keeping with the latest court fashion of matching one’s tonsorial hues to one’s haberdashery, he had dyed his hair and pointy beard a purple shade, as well. The servants approached him and helped him don a long, purple fringed robe over his ensemble and then exchanged his hat for an elaborate, Romanesque laurel wreath made of hammered gold. Smythe thought that the unlikely combination of the pleated ruff together with the Roman robe made him look rather like an ambulatory tablecloth surmounted by the head of John the Baptist sitting on a platter.

“God blind me!” he said softly, as the groom and the father of the bride began to climb the steps toward them. “Pity poor Catherine Middleton. With such a Caesar, would for her sake these were the Ides of March and not his wedding day!”

“Shhh!” hissed Kemp, elbowing him in the ribs. “Mock this Caesar at your peril, fool,” he whispered. “They will club you down, stuff you in a weighted sack, and toss you in the river!”

Smythe fell silent, but not so much as a result of his companion’s admonition as from the sight that greeted him as the next passenger lightly stepped off the boat and pulled back the hood of her long, dark blue velvet cloak with a languid, graceful gesture.

Blanche Middleton was all of sixteen, tall for her age, raven-haired, buxom and small-waisted, with grayish-blue eyes that looked like cracked diamonds. She wore a crimson velvet gown over a cartwheel farthingale, which could not have been very comfortable for sitting in a boat, and her puff-sleeved, black velvet bodice was heavily embroidered in gold and stiffened with a pointed stomacher that accentuated a very ample bosom that was displayed even more boldly than the current fashion dictated. She looked around and her gaze settled upon Smythe with such a frank, smouldering directness that it made him look around, thinking that she must have been looking at someone else behind him on the steps, someone quite familiar to her. But when he turned, he saw that there was no one there. When he looked back, her gaze met his once again and she smiled with a sultry, mocking sort of amusement. It struck Smythe that, unquestionably, she was looking straight at him, and he looked back with a frank, appraising stare to see if she would drop her gaze. But she did not.

She came straight up the steps towards him, her eyes never leaving his, save for one moment when they flicked briefly up and down, taking his measure with a boldness that Smythe had never before encountered in a girl.

“My, my,” she said in a low and throaty voice, as she drew even with him. “You are a big one.”

Feeling flustered and not quite knowing how else to respond, Smythe bowed slightly and said, “Your servant, ma’am.”

“Indeed?” she replied, archly. “How lovely. I trust that you shall serve me well then.”

“Come on, then, Blanche, stop dawdling!” her father called to her, from further up the steps. “We must hurry up and take our places. The flotilla is approaching!”

“Coming, Father!” she called, without taking her eyes off Smythe. And then she cleared her throat slightly, took a deep breath, enhancing her already ample cleavage, lowered her eyelids, and pursed her lips before continuing on her way up the steps with a lingering backward glance over her shoulder.

It took Smythe a moment to find his voice, and when he did, all he could say was, “Good God!”

“Neither God nor goodness has anything to do with that, my dear boy,” said Kemp, dryly.

“Was I imagining things?” asked Smythe. “Kemp, did you hear? Did you see?”

“I have ears and I have eyes,” Will Kemp replied. “And I have a very great concern for the integrity and preservation of my bones, which faculty I would most heartily commend to you, my lad. Yon saucy baggage is even more trouble than that Darcie wench. If that fire she has just ignited in your loins needs cooling, then may I suggest you jump into the river now and quench the flame post haste, before it burns you and all the rest of us, besides.”