The Slaying of the Shrew (Shakespeare & Smythe 2)

“Impertinent and insufferable, as well. Add intemperate and you can compass me with alliteration.” “I believe you are drunk, sir.”

“Not yet, but on such a night as this, ‘tis a course well worth pursuing. How may I serve you, sir? Something to do with the lately lamented Lady Catherine, no doubt?”

“I was listening when you spoke just now,” said Camden, as they continued down the path in the wake of Middleton and his torch-bearers. “You said something about Catherine planning this astonishing deception so that she might run off with a lover?”

“Aye, quite so.”

“Sir, I must say that I find this tale very hard to credit. Tis a harsh thing to defame the dead. I cannot believe that she would have done anything like what you propose. I have heard that Catherine could be somewhat shrewish on occasion, but at heart, she was a good woman.”

“Well, we might have a good woman born before every blazing star or at an earthquake,” Shakespeare said, “but I would not look for such a singular event with any greater frequency.”

“You have, it seems, a rather bilious and spiteful view of women, sir.”

“I am a married man, sir. My view is unobstructed.” “Who is this lover you allege Catherine of having?” “Ah, there I cannot answer you, for I have no knowledge of his name.”

“How, then, do you know that he exists? Or do you merely surmise?”

“Surmise, allege, tales hard to credit… I gather you must be the lawyer.”

“I have the honor to attend the Inns of Court. My name is Hughe Camden. You may know my father.”

“May I? Well then, so I shall, if you decide to introduce him. In the meantime, learned sir, know that whilst I cannot bear witness to the alleged lover’s name, I can vouchsafe his existence by the

testimony of the lady herself, who spoke of running off with him.”

“You have heard her say this?”

“Not with mine own ears, but earlier today, I spoke with one who did hear the lady say so.”

“Hearsay, sir. ‘Twas a lie, I’ll warrant.”

Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, we shall find out soon enough.”

“I am not at all sure what you have to gain by raising all this fuss,” said Camden, looking at him as if trying to gauge his motives.

“I have nothing at all to gain, sir,” Shakespeare said, “and only time to lose. You, on the other hand, would stand to gain a great deal more, I should think, if Catherine were truly dead. That would increase her sister’s worth considerably, would it not?”

“I do not care for your tone, sir.”

“I do not much care for yours, either. I have played penny whis-des that have made less grating noise.”

“What is your name, sir?” asked Camden, stiffly.

“Marlowe,” Shakespeare said. “Christopher Marlowe, at your service.”

“Marlowe.” Camden nodded. “I shall make a point to remember that name.”

“Suit yourself. I have already forgotten yours.”

Camden fell behind as Shakespeare increased his stride and hurried on ahead. He had almost caught up to Middleton, at the head of the procession, when yet another of Blanche’s suitors came up beside him and introduced himself.

“Sir, my name is Andrew Braithwaite. Might I have a word with you?”

“Have three, as you are the third to ask.”

“Indeed, I did see Dubois and Camden speaking with you just now. Did they say anything of interest?”

“No, not really. I rather hope you shall do better.”