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

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

  "Well, 'twould seem that I have been the very last to hear of his demise," said Camden, dryly.

  "And yet I wonder if you were the very first to see it," Braithwaite replied, raising his eyebrow.

  "What do you mean, sir?" Camden bridled at him. "Are you suggesting I had aught to do with it?"

  "Well, one never knows, does one?" said Braithwaite. "As Master Shakespeare said, 'twould appear that one of us is anxious to eliminate his rivals and that one, for all we know, could very well be you."

  "Or it could just as well be you" Camden retorted, angrily. "I deeply resent your implication, sir!"

  "Well, a man who stands ready to club down a fellow with a leg of mutton could be capable of anything," said Braithwaite.

  "You mock me, sir!"

  "Tush, what use is there to mock a mockery?"

  "Will!" Robert Speed came running up to them and, ignoring the two rivals, moved between them to tug at Shakespeare's sleeve. "Where the devil have you been) And where is Tuck, for Heaven's sake? Why, we have all been searching high and low for both of you!"

  "Damn you!" said Camden, pale with fury. "I demand that you apologize at once!"

  "Oh, forgive me, milord; I do humbly beg your pardon. I did not mean to interrupt," said Speed.

  "Not you, you simpleton, I meant this gentleman!" said Camden, indicating Braithwaite. "I shall not stand here and suffer to be ridiculed!"

  "And yet you do it so very well," said Braithwaite.

  "Perhaps if we all took a moment—" Shakespeare began, but Speed began tugging on his sleeve again.

  "We have set up the stage and have been trying to rehearse all day, but 'tis a near impossibility without our book holder and the author of our play!" said Speed. "Kemp has lost all patience and has refused to proceed without you, for he does not like his scenes and demands changes, and Burbage has ordered everyone to spread out through the estate and find you—"

  "Will you shut up!" said Camden.

  "—and now there is all this talk of murder once again and no one even knows if we are to perform tomorrow—"

  "I said, shut up, you cursed fool!"

  "Oh! Forgive me, milord," said Speed, "I do humbly beg your pardon, but I thought that you were speaking to the other gentleman again."

  "Idiot!" said Camden, and lashed Speed viciously across the face with his leather glove.

  "I say, that was uncalled for," Braithwaite said. "See how you like a taste of your own broth." He removed his glove and struck Camden in the face with it.

  "Oh, God save us," said Shakespeare, backing away hurriedly and pulling Speed along with him.

  Camden's rapier sang free of its scabbard. "You shall die for that, you villainous churl!"

  "Lay on, barrister," said Braithwaite, drawing steel, "and damned be he that first cries, 'Hold, enough!' "

  "A fight!" cried Speed.

  "Gentlemen, please, put up your swords!" cried Shakespeare, but they were already engaged and a crowd quickly began to gather as the combatants dueled.

  "Upon my word, what's this?" asked Burbage, joining the assemblage as Braithwaite and Camden exchanged thrusts and parries.

  "More than I had bargained for, I fear," said Shakespeare.

  "What had you to do with this?" asked Burbage.

  "Everything and nothing," Shakespeare said. "I stirred up this brew, I fear, but now have naught to do with the result."

  "I do believe they mean to kill each other," Burbage said.

  "Aye, look at 'em go!" cried Speed, delighted with the spectacle, as indeed, were most of the observers, who cried out encouragement to one or the other of the combatants as they moved back and forth, their blades clanging against one another. The crowd surged back from them to give them room as they maneuvered. Camden lunged and Braithwaite parried, leaping backwards and knocking into the display board where the pies had been set out. Everything went crashing to the ground and the old man cried out and put his hands up to his head in consternation as his entire stall seemed in danger of collapsing, but Braithwaite recovered quickly and moved to the attack, and then Camden suddenly found himself on the defensive as he backed away, parrying furiously.

  Shakespeare recalled that Smythe had said something about Camden wearing a duelist's rapier, and indeed, the barrister seemed skilled, but Braithwaite was no slouch with a blade, himself. The two seemed evenly matched. As they moved back and forth, the crowd moved with them, growing by the minute as everyone present on the fairgrounds responded to the noise and came to see what was occuring. Camden lunged again, but Braithwaite parried his thrust and riposted quickly, catching the barrister off balance. Camden staggered back awkwardly as Braithwaite lunged. Camden seemed to parry the stroke, but fell back into the crowd as he did so. There was a collective cry as they caught him and shoved him back up again, but then with a gasp, Camden fell to his knees.

  "A touch! A touch!" several voices in the crowd cried out.

  Braithwaite shook his head, perplexed. "Nay, I never pricked him!"

  "But look, he bleeds!" cried Speed.

  On his knees, Camden dropped his blade and brought a hand up to his side. It came away bloody. He gasped with pain, staring at Braithwaite with wide-eyed incomprehension.

  "But…'twas not me!" Braithwaite said. He examined the tip of his sword, then held it out towards Shakespeare. "See for yourself My blade is yet unblooded!"

  "He speaks the truth," said Shakespeare.

  Camden pitched forward onto his face and lay motionless.

  "Seize that man!" The cry came from an anguished Sir Richard, who had arrived upon the scene just in time to see his son fall dead onto the ground. "Seize him! There is your murderer! And he has killed my son!"

  "I have murdered no one! And he drew steel first!" protested Braithwaite, looking around with alarm at the throng surrounding him.

  "You challenged him!" shouted someone in the crowd, and then a scuffle suddenly broke out. More people started shouting and in the next moment, a well-dressed, older man was shoved out of the crowd to fall sprawling next to the slain Hughe Camden, only he fell with a cry, followed by a grunt of pain on impact, demonstrating that he was still very much alive.

  "There is your killer, Sir Richard!" a familiar voice called out, and Shakespeare stared in astonishment as the grizzled old pie vendor stepped out from the crowd, only now he was no longer stooped over, but stood straight and tall, and there was nothing even remotely subservient in his bearing. He reached up and removed his eyepatch and the wig he wore and stood revealed as none other than

  Her Majesty's own councillor and confidante, Sir William Worley. "I saw the blackguard stab your son from behind with a dagger when he fell back into the crowd."

  "Nay, 'tis not true!" the man cried out, as he got up to his knees. " 'Tis entirely innocent I am!"

  "Why, 'tis the elder Chevalier Dubois!" Shakespeare exclaimed.

  "Well, well," said Worley, standing over him. "And here we all thought you were deaf, monsieur, and did not speak because you could not hear. Yet you seem to have recovered miraculously. And 'tis even more miraculous that a nobleman from France should speak with a Cornish accent!"

  From out of nowhere, it seemed, grim-faced men armed with swords and maces stepped out of the crowd and surrounded the faux Frenchman, and Shakespeare realized that Sir William had not returned alone, but had brought a squad of guardsmen with him. Dressed in ordinary clothing, they had blended with the crowd, standing by for Worley's signal. The man's face fell as he realized that his situation was completely hopeless.

  "My apologies, sir," said Worley, turning to Braithwaite. "I had thought that the killer might be you, and in his haste to take advantage of your duel and make it seem as if you had killed a rival, this cowardly assassin very nearly made me sure of it. But although he tried to shelter himself within the crowd, I saw the fatal stroke when he stabbed Camden with this very bodkin." He displayed a bloody dagger that he had wrested from the killer. "Sir Richard…" He turned to the ashen-f
aced elder Camden. "I am most profoundly sorry for your loss, but in death, your son has helped us apprehend not only his own killer, but the murderer of both Catherine Middleton and Daniel Holland."

  "Nay!" the killer shouted. "Nay, I tell you! S'trewth, I may be damned now, but I shall not bear the blame for what I have not done! God shall be my judge, for I did kill young Camden, but I swear I never killed the wench! And I never slew Holland, neither!

  'Twas all his doing, I tell you! 'Twas all his plan from the start, and I'll not bear the blame for it alone!!"

  "Dubois!" said Shakespeare.

  The man spat upon the ground. "His name ain't no more Dubois than mine is. Why, he's no Frenchman. He—"

  With a sharp, whizzing sound, a crossbow bolt penetrated his skull right between the eyes, causing his head to jerk back abruptly. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Pandemonium ensued as everyone started shouting at once and running in all directions. Most of the onlookers desperately fled the scene, fearful lest they should be the next targets of the unseen archer, but everyone ran in different directions, many of them colliding with one another, and the scene erupted into chaos in an instant.

  Two of the guardsmen immediately threw themselves upon Sir William, bearing him down to the ground and covering him with their bodies, but he shoved them away, cursing furiously. "Never mind me, blast it! Search the fairgrounds! Get me that archer!"

  So fascinated was he by everything that suddenly began happening around him that Shakespeare completely forgot to be frightened. He simply stood there watching as people ran shouting and screaming in different directions, tripping over one another and knocking each other down in their mad rush to get away.

  The entire scene, somehow, took on the aspect of a dream to him. It was as if he were not a part of it, but stood on the outside somewhere, watching as if from a distance or from an audience. In his mind's eye, he replayed the scene of the assassin on his knees before them, at first protesting his innocence, then accepting his fate with resignation, then growing angry at the thought of being blamed for everything alone while his partner had planned it all… and then the slim, black bolt, flying straight and true, appearing to sprout all of a sudden from the killer's forehead…

  It had flown in at an angle.

  For the archer to have made the shot, over the heads of the crowd surrounding the assassin on his knees, he had to have been shooting from a height, an elevation…

  Shakespeare turned in the direction from which the arrow must have come, judging by the angle of the shot, and as he looked up the slope, back toward the house, he saw the stone wall that ran around the courtyard, and just beyond it, an open window.

  It was an amazing shot to have come from atop that wall. Robin Hood himself could not have bettered it. And of course, it could only have been Phillipe Dubois… or whoever "Dubois" really was. He must have made the shot, then climbed in through that open window. It was astonishing marksmanship. But then, Tuck had said that whoever had shot that bolt at him had come within a hair's breadth of hitting his head from a good distance—

  Good Lord, he thought, Tuck! The realization struck him suddenly that Tuck was still back at house. He turned, quickly. "Sir William!" he shouted. "Sir William! This way! Hurry, for God's sake!"

  Smythe felt guilty, apprehensive and confused as he slowly descended the stairs to the first floor. What had happened, or nearly happened, with Blanche Middleton had quite unnerved him. Unlike Shakespeare, who already had a family of his own, he had no experience with women. When he was younger, there had been a few girls in his village who had cast coy glances in his direction a time or two, but he had always been too shy to do much else than avert his eyes and blush. Then he would hear their girlish laughter and that would only make it seem much worse the next time that it happened.

  Since he came to London and started working at the theatre, there had been opportunities for him to gain a little more experience—and very likely more than a little, especially at The Toad and Badger, after their performances—but what had kept him from pursuing those opportunities were the feelings that he had for Elizabeth. On more than one occasion, Shakespeare had admonished him for his restraint, telling him that it was pointless and even ludicrous for him to remain faithful to a girl that he could never have, but that still had not changed his feelings or his constancy. He was in love with Elizabeth, and when one was in love, one remained true and faithful to that love. That was only as it should be.

  What now should he make of his response to Blanche? Knowing full well that she was a wanton, he had nevertheless felt such a strong desire for her that it had made his head swim. What did that say about his character, and even more important, what did it say about his feelings towards Elizabeth?

  If he had truly loved Elizabeth, he thought, then he should not have responded to Blanche the way he had. Certainly, there had been other times when he had not felt tempted by the saucy glances and the bawdy speech of the wenches at The Toad and Badger, but this had been completely different. It seemed to have taken every ounce of strength he had possessed to walk out of that room. And much to his chagrin, he realized that there was still a part of him—he knew only too well which part—that wanted very much to turn around and go back up the stairs, knock upon her door, and tell her that he had changed his mind. She had, quite simply, taken his breath away, and he had still not fully recovered.

  What sort of man am I, he thought, who could profess love for one woman and yet be so basely tempted by another? Even now, after he had turned her down, having mustered all his strength of will to do so, he still wanted her, in spite of everything. If I am so weak, he thought, then truly, I must not be deserving of a good woman's love.

  He stepped off the stairs into the deserted great hall of the manor. If Elizabeth had seen him leaving Blanche's room, then he was sure that nothing he could say would make the slightest bit of difference. For that matter, how could he protest his innocence when, in his heart, he knew that he was guilty, in thought if not in deed?

  So preoccupied was he with his own thoughts that he almost failed to respond to the sound he heard behind him, but in the silence of the empty hall, he could not fail to hear the footsteps coming down the stairs that he had just descended.

  He froze, thinking that it could only be Elizabeth. Just as he had feared, it had, indeed, been she who had shut the door upstairs in the hall after seeing him coming out of Blanche's room, and now she had decided to come down and confront him. How would he ever convince her that he had not done anything? And then another possibility occurred to him. What if it were Blanche, coming after him to try to make him change his mind? Just the thought of it made his heart beat a little faster, and he felt ashamed for it. He took a deep breath and turned to face whoever it would be.

  "So," said Godfrey Middleton, standing behind him at the foot of the stairs, "thought you could get away with it, did you?" He held a sword in his right hand. He raised it and held the blade pointed towards Smythe's chest as he advanced. "You saucy bastard. You thought you could dishonor my daughter and then boast about it to your friends, did you?"

  Understanding dawned as Smythe realized that it had been Blanche's father who had seen him coming out of her room! Aghast, he hastened to explain himself.

  "Sir, I assure you, there was nothing—" Smythe began, but Middleton would not let him finish.

  "A pox on your assurances, you villain! Do you take me for a fool? I saw you coming out of my daughter's bedroom! How dare you! And in my own home! Under my very nose!"

  "Sir, please," said Smythe, backing away as the blade came uncomfortably near his throat. The man was much too close. If he tried to draw steel to defend himself, Middleton would run him through on the instant. "Sir, please listen, you do not understand what truly—"

  "I understand only too well!" Middleton said, his voice like a whipcrack. Smythe saw that he was breathing hard and his eyes were blazing with a fury akin to madness. And then Smythe suddenly n
oticed that the blade Middleton held was wet with blood. "I understand that I have taken serpents to my breast! Serpents! Harlots! Sluts! After all that I have done for them, after all those years of toil, this is how they have repayed me! By fornicating with common stable boys and players!"

  Smythe was alarmed by the man's vehemence and filled with horror by the sight of the blood upon his blade, for he now realized what it had to mean. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and his mouth suddenly felt dry. "Sir, I beg you to hear me out," he said. " 'Tis not at all what you think, I swear it in God's name!"

  "You dare deny the truth to me when I have seen with mine own eyes, you scoundrel?" said Middleton, advancing on him. Smythe began to back away, still vainly trying to get a word in edgewise, but Middleton kept after him, the bloody blade hovering just inches from his throat. "Do you suppose that I shall suffer myself to be made a fool of in front of all these people? Do you think I shall allow myself to be dishonored and disgraced after all of the work that I have done? I shall see you in Hell first, along with both of those ungrateful bitches I have raised! Wanton sluts, just like their mother, may God curse her scarlet, strumpet soul! I sent that damned harlot to the Devil for her wickedness, hoping to spare my daughters from her evil influence, but I see now that they were poisoned within her very womb, for they both grew up just like her! Sluts! Serpents! And there is only one thing to be done with serpents!"

  "My God," said Smythe, as the realization struck him like a thunderbolt. " 'Twas you! You killed Catherine!"

  "The ungrateful little witch left me no choice! I wept for her, thinking she was dead! I had such high hopes for her! She could have been a real lady, the culmination of everything that I had striven for my whole life long! Do you have any idea what it took to find a suitable husband for her, a nobleman who would consent to marry a common woman with a reputation as a shrew? And yet, at long last, I found a nobleman who would have her and on her very wedding day, to my profound chagrin, she dies! I went back to the tomb to grieve for her and all that might have been, and I stood there, weeping, and asked her why she had to ruin everything and lo! She rose again before my very eyes! In fear, I fell onto my knees, thinking that she was a demon sent from Hell, or else a punishment from God, and I cowered before her and confessed her mother's murder and begged for her forgiveness! And then she screamed, and railed at me and struck me, and called me vile, unspeakable things, and told me how she had planned to fool me with the potion and run off with that stable boy! A stable boy! I realized then I had been made a fool of and so I struck the treacherous wench and said that I would kill her before I allowed her to disgrace me! 'Twas then that she produced the dagger, which that cursed stable boy had hidden by her mother's bier… And so I had no choice, you see. No choice at all. She made me do it, just like her mother, and now her sinful sister…"