"Go on," said Burbage. "Tell us more. How does it begin?"
Shakespeare paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Well… it begins with an itinerant young tinker, an impoverished wastrel by the name of Christopher Sly, who is thrown out of an alehouse by his hostess for drunkenness and loutish behavior and for refusing to pay his bill…"
"A sly wastrel named Christopher?" said Fleming, smiling. "A bit of a dig at young Marlowe, perhaps?"
Speed belched ponderously. "Sod Marlowe."
"Bestill yourself, Robby," Burbage said. "Thus far, it seems a good beginning. Go on, Will. What happens next?"
Shakespeare took another drink and cleared his throat once more. "Well, Sly staggers about and rails at her in a roaring, drunken speech in which he foolishly claims noble descent from the Norman conquerors and so forth, taking umbrage at her treatment of him…"
"One could have some fun with that," interjected Kemp, clearly imagining himself in the role.
"… and then he falls into a drunken slumber in the road." Shakespeare continued, "whereon a lord and his hunting party arrive upon the scene. Finding him thus disposed—or indisposed, as the case may be—this lord, for want of some amusement, decides to play a trick upon the drunken tinker and instructs his retinue accordingly. They shall remove the tinker to this lord's estate, where they shall strip him of his clothing and place him in the lord's own bedchamber. All within the household are carefully instructed, when the tinker wakes, to treat him as if he were the lord himself who, having fallen into some madness for a time, had forgot himself and was now miraculously and mercifully restored to his wits… and to his loyal servants. And so, when the tinker comes to his senses, he is at first confused by all that happens, but soon comes to believe he truly is a lord, because all around him assure him it is so, even the lord himself, who plays the part of a servant."
"Oh, I like it!" Burbage said. "It has great possibilities for witty banter and tomfoolery. I think we should submit this play to Master Middleton as our first choice! What say you, lads?"
"Aye, 'tis a lighthearted and amusing sort of thing," said Bryan. "I can see how it would be received. I like it, too."
Shakespeare looked dismayed. "But… but, my friends… the play is not yet finished!"
"Well, we need not submit the entire book to Middleton for his approval," Burbage said. "I do not think that he would have the time or even the inclination to read it, in any event, what with all the preparations he must see to for the wedding celebration. A brief summary of the story should suffice."
"Aye, a man of Master Middleton's position would not be bothered with trifling details," Fleming agreed. "There is quite enough there from what Will has already described to satisfy him, I should think, and if there should be anything in the final book he may find disagreeable, why, we could always change it in rehearsal, as we often do."
"Indeed, it sounds like a fine idea to me," said Kemp, nodding with approval. "Put in a few songs, then add a jig or two, and it should prove just the thing to entertain the distinguished wedding party."
Seeing the stricken expression on his roommate's face, Smythe suddenly realized that for all his good intentions, he had made a serious mistake, though he did not quite understand just what it was. Yet it seemed quite clear that what he had thought would be a welcome opportunity for his friend to have one of his own plays acted by the Queen's Men, and in front of an influential audience, at that, was instead regarded by him as a horrible disaster. And when he turned towards Smythe amidst the general discussion of how they might present his play, Smythe saw in his face a look that struck him to the quick. It was an expression of great alarm… and of betrayal.
Chapter 2
THE CATHEDRAL OF ST. PAUL, KNOWN simply as "Paul's" to the native Londoner, did not present the sort of quietly spiritual surroundings that Smythe had learned to associate with church during his boyhood in the country. Like the city over which it loomed magnificently, Paul's was a curious amalgamation not only of architectural styles, but of the spiritual and the temporal as well, the exhalted simultaneously sharing space with the debased.
Surrounded by a stone wall, the churchyard of St. Paul's was a bustling place of business, full of crowded market and book stalls past which Smythe wound his way as he entered through one of the six gates leading into the enclosure. Within the courtyard, to the northeast, stood Paul's Cross, which always made him think of a miniature tower with its Norman-styled wooden cross atop a conical lead roof over an open pulpit built atop stone steps. Here, outdoor services were held at noon on Sundays, and important proclamations were read out to the citizenry. In the northwest corner of the yard stood the Bishop's Palace, near the college of canons and several small chapels. Here, too, could be found Paul's School, and the bell tower and the chapter house, incongruously elegant and solid compared to the hodgepodge of crudely fashioned merchant stalls thrown up all around the noisy churchyard.
The interior of St. Paul's, much to Smythe's surprise the first time he had seen it, was no less a bustling place of business than the cacophonous outer churchyard. The middle aisle of the Norman nave was known popularly as "Paul's Walk," and merchants as well as other, less desirable sorts routinely plied their trades there, even while services were being conducted, so that the choir frequently had to compete with the shouts of sellers hawking their various wares, like the Biblical moneylenders in the temple, whose spiritual if not lineal descendants also could be found doing a brisk business in Paul's Walk, counting out their coins upon the fonts.
Each supporting column in the cathedral was known for a type of business that could be transacted there. Various handwritten or printed bills were posted on the columns, people looking for work or else advertising one service or another. Smythe passed one column around which several lawyers were meeting with their clients or else negotiating with roisterers and layabouts who sold their honor for a shilling or two to bear false witness against someone in a case. Nearby, an ale seller had set up several small casks beside another column and was offering hardened leather drinking horns to passersby to taste his wares. Beside him, at another column, loaves of fresh baked bread were being sold, and the next column over was a place for buying books and broadsheets. Nearby, small portraits of the city's aristocracy were being sold, including, of course, all the fashionable courtiers and Her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth the Virgin Queen.
Smythe passed several small tables made of wooden planks placed atop empty wine casks where tailors sold their wares, and further on, men and boys looking for work vied for the attention of prospective employers, who in turn were being distracted by the prostitutes parading up and down the aisle of the cathedral, meeting every strolling gallant's eye with a bold gaze, a bawdy comment, a hipshot and a wink.
Over the echoing din, Smythe heard the sharp, staccato sounds of hoofbeats on the cathedral floor and quickly moved aside as a cloaked rider in a rakish hat went trotting past him down the center of the aisle, sword swinging at his side. Out for a casual morning canter through the house of God to look over the whores, thought Smythe. While he was certainly no papist, nor especially religious one way or another, Smythe could not help but think that the Dissolution over which the queen's father, King Henry VIII, had presided had become truly dissolute, indeed. He did not think that he would ever grow fully accustomed to the way that things were done in London.
"Tuck! Over here!"
He turned towards the familiar voice, smiling when he saw Elizabeth waving to him. She was dressed in a long, voluminous, hooded cloak of green velvet that stood out from her body where her whalebone farthingale held her skirts out from her waist, making her seem to glide across the floor as she approached, and she held before her face on a slim rod a fashionable mask of green brocade and feathers, as many ladies did when they went out in public, especially if unescorted. But mask or no mask, Smythe would know her anywhere. Each time he saw her, he was reminded of the first time they had met, and how she had struck him nearly speechle
ss with her beauty.
It had been at the Theatre, shortly after he had started working there with Will, and she had arrived in Sir Anthony Gresham's coach. Smythe had not known whose coach it was, only that it bore the same crest upon its doors as the coach that nearly ran them down on a country road while he and Will were on their way to London. In the heat of his anger, Smythe had forgotten himself completely as he ran up to the coach and threw open its door, fully intent on dragging out its occupant and thrashing him, gentleman or not, only to be brought up short at the sight of Elizabeth sitting there alone. She had taken his breath away, and Smythe found that familiarity had not diminished in the least the effect she had upon him.
She was nineteen, the same age as he, with pale blond hair, fair skin, and eyes so blue they almost seemed to glow. She was easily the most beautiful woman Smythe had ever seen, and he could scarcely believe that she was still unmarried, despite all her father's efforts to secure a husband for her. She was stunningly attractive, with a prominent, wealthy merchant for a father, and it seemed as if there would have been no shortage of eager suitors wanting to take her for a wife. However, anxious as he may have been to get his daughter married off, Henry Darcie would not accept just any suitor. In order to be suitable, a suitor for Elizabeth's hand in marriage had to be a gentleman, and preferably a titled one who could serve Darcie's desire for advancement. That alone narrowed down the field considerably, but Elizabeth herself narrowed it down still further.
For one thing, she was tall for a woman, though not as tall as Smythe, who stood over six feet, and most gentlemen who were conscious of appearances—and what gentleman was not?—would not wish to have a wife who towered over them. For another, she was rather willful and independent—some would say spoiled, though Smythe did not find her so—qualities generally far less desirable in a gentleman's wife than compliance and amiability. And then there was the matter of her age, which could give a prospective suitor pause.
With most young women being betrothed at eleven or twelve and married at fourteen or fifteen, unmarried women of seventeen or eighteen were often considered to be approaching spinsterhood, especially if they came from a good family. And for prospective suitors, aside from the obvious desirability of a more youthful maiden, there was also the lingering question of why Elizabeth was still unmarried at nineteen. A man of position had to wonder what could be wrong with her that she was still unmarried, despite her dowry and her beauty. Immediately suspect would be her disposition. No gentleman of means and social prominence wanted to be married to a shrew.
For her part, Elizabeth did not hesitate to exploit such masculine concerns, for the truth was, as Smythe knew, she had no great desire to be married, unless it were for love. Even then, she had her reservations, especially after the near disaster of her betrothal to Sir Anthony Gresham, which at least for the present had cured Henry Darcie of his desire to see his daughter quickly married off. But if he had become more cautious concerning potential suitors for his daughter, Henry Darcie had become no less so concerning Smythe's involvement with her.
While he was grateful for the service Smythe had performed in saving his daughter from a terrible fate and himself from playing an unwitting part in a devilish foreign plot against the realm, which could easily have destroyed all hope of his advancement, Darcie was nevertheless not so grateful as to lose all sight of propriety, so Smythe and Elizabeth had to arrange to see each other on the sly.
"Elizabeth!" Smythe said, taking her hand in his and raising it gently to his lips.
"I have missed you," she said in that forthright manner that he found so absolutely charming, lowering her mask so he could see her lovely face.
"And I you," he replied. "I was so glad to get your message. I trust that nothing is amiss? Your family is well?"
"All is well at home," she said. " 'Twas kind of you to ask about them, as they do not inquire about you." She smiled, mischievously. "You have heard about the wedding of Godfrey Middleton's eldest daughter, Catherine?"
He nodded. "I have. The Queen's Men have an engagement to entertain the wedding party with the performance of a play."
She gazed at him anxiously. "I know. So then… you are going to be there?"
"Yes, I shall." He frowned. "Why? Are you not coming?"
"Of course I will be there," Elizabeth replied. She took his arm and they started walking slowly down the aisle, past the busy market stalls. "I am to be the maid of honor to the bride. Catherine Middleton is my very good friend. But the last time that you and I spoke, Tuck, you seemed uncertain about your standing with the company and I did not know if things had changed for you since then."
"Well, they have not dismissed me from their service yet, if that is what you mean," Smythe said. "For all of my appalling lack of talent, it appears I am still useful to them, albeit mostly in roles that do not require my presence on the stage."
She rolled her eyes. "You know, I do not think that you are nearly so inept as you portray yourself."
"There is an entire company of players who would give you a good argument upon that score," said Smythe, with a self-deprecating grin. "And as my Uncle Thomas used to say, ' 'Tis a wise man who knows his limitations.' I am well aware of mine, Elizabeth, for better or for worse."
"Then why do you persist in your desire to be a player? You told me once that you had learned the craft of smithing from your uncle, and that he had also taught you how to forge fine blades. Both pursuits are honorable trades. Why, a good armorer could, with the right patronage, achieve a reputation and advance himself into the gentry. That would not be out of your reach, you know. My father is already indebted to you, as is Sir William. Both men, I am quite certain, would be more than willing to assist you if you wanted to set up in trade. And if you were to become a gentleman, why then, Father could have no possible objection to our seeing one another."
"Elizabeth," said Smythe, squeezing her arm gently, "your father has objected to more than one gentleman already. And aside from that, becoming a gentleman does not always solve one's problems. My father is a gentleman, with his own escutcheon, for all the good that it has done him."
She stood and stared at him, startled. "What! But you have never told me this!"
He merely shrugged. "I saw no reason to make mention of it."
"No reason! No reason, indeed! You mean to tell me that you come from a good family? That your father is a gentleman, a country squire, and you came to London to become an ostler?" She stared at him with disbelief.
"I came to London to become a player."
"Well, you were an ostler when we met and, in any event, a player is not much better than an ostler in my father's eyes. But do not try to change the subject! Why did you not tell me?"
"Because I do not see what difference it could possibly have made," said Smythe.
"To me, none," Elizabeth replied, "but 'twould have made a world of difference to my father!"
"Methinks not," said Smythe. " ‘Twould only have made matters worse, if your father knew the truth of it."
"Whatever do you mean? What truth?"
"My father is a very vain and foolish man," said Smythe, without any trace of bitterness or rancor. "I know 'tis disrespectful to speak so of one's parent, but if it makes me a bad son to speak the truth, so be it, then. The truth is that my father wanted so to be a gentle-man, to have an escutcheon of his own that he could blazon upon the windows and the mantle and the entryway, embroider upon the blue coats of his servants and gild upon his coach, that he spent a goodly portion of his inheritance in currying favor and paying bribes and buying influence. In time, and at no little cost, he was able to achieve his goal and was eventually granted his escutcheon by the heralds, which he then proceeded to affix to everything you could imagine, from his pewter cups to his gauntlets and his handkerchiefs of Flemish lawn and sarcenet. Meanwhile, my Uncle Thomas, to whom I had been sent for rearing, had no such lofty ambitions or pretensions. Even if he had, he could ill afford them, for 'twas my
father as the eldest who had been favored in the will."
"And you mean to say he never helped your uncle?" asked Elizabeth.
"That matter was never formally discussed with me, but I am as certain that my uncle never asked as I am that my father never offered," Smythe replied. "Who is to say but that had my father raised me, instead of Uncle Thomas, then perhaps I might have turned out more like him, so I am grateful that my uncle was much more of a father to me than the man whose name I bear."
"But it nevertheless is the name of a gentleman," Elizabeth said.
"Aye, a gentleman who was not satisfied with having achieved the rank that he had bought so dearly and instead newly set his sights upon a knighthood. To which end, he spent himself very nearly into debtors' prison. He is now little better than a pauper, and the truth is I rather doubt your father would find very much about him of which he could approve."
"For all that they seem to have so much in common," Elizabeth said, wryly, referring to her father's own considerable social ambitions. "Oh, but Tuck, why did you never tell me this?"
"As I have said, I saw no reason for it. My father is my father, for better or for worse, as I am myself. I have no part of his accomplishments or failures. I prefer to be judged on my own merits, or the lack of them, whichever the case may be. And 'twas never my desire to be like my father, or my Uncle Thomas, for that matter, for all of the respect and love I bear him. Toiling at a forge is hard and honest work, good work, and I believe I am an able craftsman, but the truth is that it has never been my passion. Ever since I saw my first play acted out upon a tavern stage, I have wanted to become a player. 'Tis all I ever wanted. Nothing more."
"And your father did not approve, of course," Elizabeth said, nodding with understanding.
"Aye, he did not. He stormed and thundered, threatened to disown me, but I would not give up my dream, and in the end, when he had squandered what was left of his inheritance—and mine—I realized at last that there was nothing left to hold me, and so I left home and came to London to pursue my dream. Perhaps I am as vain and foolish in that as my father was in his pursuit of social position and a knighthood, so who am I to judge him?"
Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 02] The Slaying of the Shrew(v2) Page 3
