Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 02] The Slaying of the Shrew(v2)

by The Slaying of the Shrew (v2. 0) (mobi)

  He took a deep breath and shouted out, as loudly as he could, "Help! Help! Robbers! Assassins!"

  In calling out, he knew that he had given away his position, and if his pursuers were close by, then they might find him within moments and fall upon him. But the important thing was that they had heard a male voice calling out, and so would not suspect a female, even if they happened to catch sight of Elizabeth in or near the maze. At the same time, if Elizabeth was within earshot of his voice, his crying out would serve as a warning to her, one that he desperately hoped she would hear and heed.

  "Help!" he called out again. "Brigands! Thieves! Murderers!"

  In the distance, he heard answering shouts from the direction of the fairgrounds. If he had been heard back there, then surely Elizabeth must have heard him if she was still inside the maze. He could only hope that by now she had already gone back up to the house, but he had no way of knowing. He could not take that chance. He called out once more, as loudly as he could, and then stood very silent and absolutely still, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, listening intently. Almost at once, he heard a rustling behind him and spun around, jumping to one side as he did so, and just as he expected, a rapier blade came plunging through the hedge, stabbing at the place where he had stood an instant earlier. This time, however, he was prepared with a riposte.

  He had drawn his dagger, the only weapon he had with him, and as soon as he saw the glint of steel in the moonlight, he plunged his arm through the hedge up to his shoulder, using the rapier's blade as his guide. They struck almost simultaneously. He felt the resistance of the narrow, thickly growing branches as he pushed his knife blade through the brush, but was rewarded by a yelp of pain and a furious oath from the other side. He pulled back his knife and saw, with grim satisfaction, a dark smear of blood upon the blade.

  "Take that, you craven bastard," he said.

  He backed off a pace, making sure that he was well out of reach in case they struck again, then started moving to his left, listening intently and glancing all around. By now, his vision had grown somewhat accustomed to the darkness and the moonlight helped, though it was still difficult to see inside the tall walls of the maze. He had lost all sense of direction. He tried to gauge where his opponents might be on the other side of the hedge, but wherever they were, assuming they were still together, the two men were now taking care to move as quietly as he did. For all he knew, they had split up in an effort to converge upon him. It would have been the logical thing for them to do.

  He heard more shouting coming from the direction of the fairgrounds, only now it sounded closer and it allowed him to reorientate himself. It seemed that someone back there had determined the approximate direction from which his shouts had come and they had started searching. It would not be long before they thought to look within the maze. There was nothing that would so quickly galvanize a group of merchants into action as a cry of "Thieves!"

  Smythe could feel his heart pounding inside his chest, as if it were some wild thing trying to beat its way out through his ribcage. His breathing was coming in short gasps and he tried to steady it and keep it quiet, lest the sound of it should give his position away. It sounded unnaturally loud to him. At the same time, he tried to listen for any sounds his antagonists might make as they stalked him. He moved lightly on the balls of his feet, prepared to spring instantly to either one side or the other to avoid a deadly thrust coming through the hedge, while at the same time watching for the openings in the hedgerows that gave access to another corridor.

  He had to find his way out of the maze as quickly as he could. Help would be arriving shortly, but at the moment, that was not foremost in his mind. He knew his only chance to learn who his pursuers were lay in his finding his way out of the maze before they did, so that he could watch for them as they came out. And of course, he realized, the same thing must have occurred to them, as well.

  It struck him that if those two men found their way out of the maze before he did, then there was nothing to prevent them from joining with the searchers from the fairgrounds when they arrived and pretend to have responded to his shouts along with them. He would then be found, and they would be among those who would find him, at which point they could easily turn the tables on him, claiming that it was one of them who had called out for help and that he was the assailant. At night, and from a distance, one shout sounded much like any other. He would be able to prove nothing. He knew that he had managed to blood one of them, but that in itself would constitute no proof that they had attacked him. They could just as easily claim that he had struck first.

  On the other hand, he thought, they did not really have to do anything. If they got out of the maze before he did, there was nothing to prevent them from blending in with the searchers when they arrived and then simply wait for him to be found. The one he had blooded might not have his wound in some easily visible location, or else he might leave to have it tended to while his companion stayed behind to mark him and find out who he was, so that they could pick their time and dispose of him at a more opportune moment. Either way, he thought, it made no difference. If they got out of the maze first, the odds became entirely in their favor.

  He called out several more times, despite the risk, then used the answering shouts to help him find his way. It was all too easy, especially under the circumstances, to make several turns through the maze and then lose track of direction. That was the idea, after all. These arboreal mazes were all the rage among the idle rich, and so of course Godfrey Middleton absolutely had to have one that was larger and more intricate than anyone else's, for which Smythe roundly cursed him as he kept turning through the corridors, trying to keep his mind on which side of the hedge walls lay towards the exterior and which were towards the center. He tried not to think about Elizabeth, difficult as that was. He could only pray that she was safely gone by now.

  Then, suddenly, he was out. It took him by surprise when he stepped through a break in the hedgerows and abruptly realized he had come out. For an alarming moment, he felt exposed and vulnerable. He crouched, instinctively, holding his dagger out before him, glancing quickly to his left and to his right, but there was no sign of anyone. Then he heard shouting and saw figures in silhouette against the light coming from the house as they moved towards the steps leading down to the gardens.

  Quickly, he moved away from the entrance to the maze, keeping it in sight to see who might come out behind him. He went a short way down the garden path, keeping to the shadows, still in a position to see anyone who came out of the maze, but he could see no movement there. He hesitated to go any further, because as it was, he would not see anyone come out of the maze until they came away from the entrance and moved out onto the garden path. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to get a good look at anyone in the darkness.

  There were several people running down the steps now, entering the garden.

  " 'Allo! Allo! Allo! Who called for help? Allo! Are you there? Allo?"

  There was still no sign of anyone coming out of the maze. Smythe swore under his breath. Could he possibly have missed them? Or had they managed to get out ahead of him?

  " 'Allo! Where are you?"

  Smythe was about to call out in reply when something else occurred to him. If those men had managed to get out of the maze before him, then for all he knew, they could be the ones who were calling out to him right now. He would reply, and they would come running up to him, and he would think that they were coming to the rescue, when in fact…

  "Allo! Allo!"

  Smythe bit his lower lip. He had no time left to deliberate. He could hear running footsteps approaching. Quickly, he stepped back off the flagstoned path and concealed himself among the shrubbery just as several dark figures came running around the bend. He had a tense moment, wondering if they had seen him, but they ran right past his hiding place, heading towards the maze. He could hear them calling out to one another, asking if anyone had seen anything, and they kept calling out to
him, as well. However, he would give no answering shouts this time, for he did not know for certain who they were.

  He headed towards the steps, ducking back out of the way at least twice more to avoid being seen, then made his way back to the servants' wing of the house without further incident, for which he was profoundly grateful. He had experienced quite enough excitement for one night.

  "God's breath!" Shakespeare exclaimed, when Smythe had finished telling him what happened. " 'Tis a wondrous miracle you were not slain! What manner of deviltry have you stumbled into this time?"

  Smythe shook his head. "I know not the whole of it, but I know something of their plan, enough at least to warn our host what they intend. And by God, I shall do that, you may be sure of it! I am of a mind to go at once to Master Middleton and tell him all I heard. Will you come with me?"

  "Well, soft now," Shakespeare replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "let us pause a bit to consider these events before we rush to raise any alarums. There is nothing to be served by undue haste, and methinks nothing that shall not keep til morning. To be sure, with his daughter being married on the morrow, Master Middleton should not receive us very cordially if we were to call upon him at this late hour."

  They sat together in a tiny room on the first floor, in the servants' quarters. It was illuminated only by one candle stuck into a small, saucer-shaped brass sconce. The other members of the company were all abed by now, distributed throughout several rooms within the servants' wing. Some of them had been put up four or five to a room, because as players they did not rank above servants and, in truth, generally ranked well below them. Nor did any of them complain, for the accomodations that they had received were in fact better than those they often got, and in this case, certainly better than the merchants, who slept either in their tents or in their wagons, where they could keep close to their goods. Shakespeare and Smythe had a bedroom to themselves, though that was only because, as Shakespeare had earlier observed, calling it a room at all would be allowing it pretensions of grandeur. It was actually little more than a small closet, with two beds close together upon the floor. There was room for little else save for a small nightstand, a washbasin and a candle. That candle was now burning very low, for it was well past midnight.

  When Smythe returned, Shakespeare was still up, hunched over some papers. Squinting in the insufficient light from the candle on the little nightstand, he sat cross-legged on the bed, having improvised a writing desk with a wooden trencher he had borrowed from the kitchen. He was, even at this last moment, still working on the play they were to perform the following day. Since this was to be a private performance, taking place outside the city of London, there had been no need to submit a fair copy of the play to the Master of the Revels, as would have been necessary for a performance at their theatre, but at the same time, the more changes he would make at this late stage, the more burden would be placed upon the players, who would quickly have to memorize new lines and adapt themselves accordingly to any changes he might make in the stage directions. Shakespeare knew all this, of course, but still, he was not happy with the play. He was more than happy, however, to have an excuse to put it aside for awhile and discuss Smythe's fascinating situation.

  "I do see what you mean," Smythe said. "The last thing the father of the bride would need on the night before the wedding was a hue and cry raised about an overheard conversation in a garden. Still, it has a most intimate bearing on his family, and were it my own daughter who was being so intrigued against, I would most certainly wish to know!"

  "Indeed," Shakespeare agreed. "However, let us first examine what you do know."

  Smythe frowned once more. "But… what do you mean? Did I not just tell you?"

  "You told me that you had overheard a conversation," Shakespeare replied, "but between whom?"

  "Why, the two men in the maze!"

  "What were their names? What did they look like?"

  "Why, how in the world should I know? I do not think that either of them used the other's name. And as for what they looked like, I never even caught a glimpse of them!"

  "Precisely," Shakespeare said, with a wry grimace. "You have overheard a conversation which may lead you, justifiably, to make an accusation, but against whom?" He shrugged. "There are many visitors here. This is the largest wedding the society of London has seen since… well, certainly since we have been in London. And what have you to go by to identify these men save for the sounds of their voices? For that matter, unless a voice should have some marked characteristic that renders it uncommon, one voice often sounds much like another. Can you be certain, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that you could pick these two voices out from all the rest? Or from one that may sound similar?"

  " 'Sdeath! You have me there. I should think that I would know them if I heard them once again, but to say they are the ones beyond any shadow of a doubt… but wait… there is one thing! I know that they plan to pose as a nobleman and his son! That should enable us to identify them!"

  "Indeed?" said Shakespeare. "And how many noblemen do you suppose will be in attendance at this wedding, hmm? Considering, of course, that this celebration is to be the single most significant social event of the season. And how many of them, do you suppose, shall bring their sons along, as well, especially considering that the extremely, one might even say obscenely wealthy Master Middleton still has an emminently marriageable and, by all accounts, extremely beautiful younger daughter?"

  "Ah," said Smythe, weakly.

  "Ah, indeed."

  "So then… what are we to do?"

  "Well, 'twould seem to me that you have a number of things to consider before we can answer that question," Shakespeare replied. "For one thing, you seem to have neglected, at least for the moment, the matter of what brought you out to the garden maze last night in the first place."

  "Elizabeth!"

  "Precisely. Now, can you be certain that she is not somehow involved in this?"

  "Elizabeth? I could never believe that of her!" Smythe replied. "Not after what she went through herself! Zounds, does anyone get betrothed in London without all manner of plots and counterplots?"

  "One might say that marriage is a plot in and of itself, but that is neither here nor there," said Shakespeare, wryly. "If you are going to be reporting what you heard tonight to Master Middleton, or to anyone else, for that matter, then quite aside from being questioned closely about what you had heard, you will doubtless be questioned about why you were out there in the first place, especially at such an hour. Now, would you be comfortable saying that you were there because you had seen Elizabeth entering the maze alone and therefore followed her? For if you were to say that, then chances are it would cast suspicion upon her, and she would be summoned to explain why she went out there all alone, with darkness falling."

  "I would like to hear that explanation, myself," said Smythe.

  "Ah, but are you entitled to it?" Shakespeare countered. "And even if you were, which is certainly open to argument, then how do you suppose Elizabeth would feel about that?"

  "She would probably be furious with me," Smythe said, glumly. "She does have quite the temper."

  "Mmm, don't they all?" said Shakespeare.

  "What are we to do then?"

  "We?" The poet raised his eyebrows. "I thought 'twas your problem that we were discussing. How does it happen, Tuck, that I always manage somehow to be pulled into your intrigues?"

  "Because you are my friend," said Smythe.

  "Aye, worse luck."

  "And because you cannot resist it. You are as curious as a cat, Will."

  "True, and worse luck, still," said Shakespeare, with a grimace. "So then, where does that leave us?"

  Shakespeare sighed. "Well… it leaves us with not one, but two puzzles, it would seem. The first, and the most immediate, since it nearly resulted in your getting skewered tonight, is the matter of these two mysterious and rather unpleasant gentlemen and their plot involving Blanche Middleton. The second i
s the question of what Elizabeth was doing out in the maze tonight, and whether or not her business there had aught to do with these two gentlemen. I know that you do not believe it, but we cannot dismiss the possibility. We must keep our heads about us and not allow our feelings to influence our better judgement. You say that you neither saw nor heard her after you had entered the maze yourself?"

  Smythe shook his head. "No. It seemed to me that she must have known her way around in there, for I lost track of her and became confused myself."

  "You became what you had already become, else you would not have gone out there in the first place," Shakespeare said, dryly.

  "Are you going to help me or criticize me?"

  "I criticize you only to help you, my lad," the poet replied. He took a deep breath. "That girl is going to be the ruin of you yet. But… you are my very best friend, Tuck, for better or for worse, and so, as I am a loyal friend, your ruin shall be our ruin, and we shall both go down magnificently."

  Tuck rolled his eyes. "You are being melodramatic."

  "Of course, I am being melodramatic, you ninny. I am a poet."

  "And a player."

  "Aye, and thus stand doubly damned. Well then, what shall we do about this curious predicament?" He stroked his beard and thought for a moment. Then he nodded to himself. " Twould seem to me that saying anything to Master Middleton at this point would serve no useful purpose. We do not know enough to tell him anything of substance. That someone might plot to take advantage of him and his daughter, to marry her for money, well, that is something that any man in his position would readily surmise and take steps to prepare for. And who are we, after all, to be pointing accusatory fingers at any of his guests? We are but two lowly players, whose own motives might easily be suspect. We need much more than just the few remarks you overheard tonight before we can go to Master Middleton."