by Simon Hawke
“Spent is just how I shall feel when all of this is over,” Middleton replied. “No sooner shall I have recovered from the ordeal of marrying off” my eldest daughter than I shall have to contend with marrying off” my youngest, who already has suitors flocked about her like hounds baying at the moon. A day does not go by, it seems, when some young rascal does not come pleading for her hand.”
“Well, be of good cheer then, Father,” Catherine said, “for at least you have never been beleaguered so on my account.”
“Had you a sweeter and more amiable disposition, like your sister, you might have been married sooner, Kate,” her father replied.
“Never fear, dear Father,” Catherine said pleasantly, with only the barest trace of sarcasm in her voice, “I shall be married soon enough, and sweet and amiable Blanche will surely follow hard upon, for all the panting swains who trip over themselves to find her favor. Then, when you are at long last rid of both your daughters, doubtless you shall find the peace and carefree solace you have always longed for.”
“Indeed, the day cannot come soon enough for me,” he said, stepping aside to let the tailor and his apprentices out the door. He wrinkled his nose as they passed and raised a small pomander on a gold link chain to his nose. The little golden ball was perforated, so that the scent within could escape and help mask offending odors. “Good evening, Elizabeth.”
“Good evening, sir,” she said, lowering her head, though not so much out of respect as to conceal her smile and barely-suppressed giggle at Catherine’s face, which was perfectly mimicking her father’s expression of distaste behind his back.
“I could just scream,” said Catherine, after he had left and shut the door behind him. She rolled her eyes. “The way he goes on over this wedding, one would think he was out at the elbows.”
“ ‘Tis a most elaborate and costly affair, though, you must admit,” Elizabeth said. “Her Majesty’s own tailor makes your wedding gown, a grand, costumed progress on the Thames is being planned, to say nothing of the players and the fair being held to commemorate the occasion… indeed, your father spares no expense.”
“But do you think any of it is truly for me?” asked Catherine, as her tire woman helped her out of her large hooped, canvas and whalebone farthingale, which she had worn over a simple homespun long tunic for the fitting. “He does it all only for himself, so that all of London shall talk of nothing but the wedding of Godfrey Middleton’s daughter. Such a spectacle! So grand! So fabulous! And to think what it must have cost him! That, my dear Lizzie, is the true object of this entire exercise.”
“But everyone knows full well how rich your father is,” Elizabeth replied, with a slight frown. “How does he profit by reminding them?”
“ ‘Tis not everyone he wishes to remind,” said Catherine, as she removed her long tunic and was assisted into a simple kirtled skirt of marigold velvet accented with gold and silver embroidery. “Mind you, he wishes everyone to speak of this Olympian wedding festival for months on end, but only so that an important few may hear.”
“But why?” Elizabeth asked.
“Well, you know, of course, that each year at about this time, the queen sets out upon her annual progress through the countryside,” Catherine replied. “She takes a different route each time, one year moving with her entire court from Whitehall to Suffolk, then to Norfolk and from there, on to Cambridgeshire, perhaps. Another year, she will travel from Westminster to Sussex to Kent, or else to Northamptonshire, and then on to Warwickshire and Staffordshire… but each and every year, with never an exception, she begins her progress the same way. Her first stop is always at Green Oaks, where Sir William Worley entertains her lavishly. And each and every year, Elizabeth, at about this very time, my father nearly wears his teeth down to the gums for gnashing them because the queen has chosen to sleep beneath Sir William’s roof instead of ours. He would do anything to have her stay at Harrow Hall, instead, even if ‘twas only once, for once is all that it would take to vault him into the vaunted ranks of the queen’s favorites. And once he can number himself amongst that exclusive company, he will have attained influence at court, prestige, and power, which is what he desires above all else. Meanwhile, what his daughter may desire concerns him least of all.”
“I know only too well how you must feel,” Elizabeth said, sympathetically. “Your father and mine have much in common, which is doubtless why they are good friends. They understand one another.”
“As do we, dear Lizzie,” said Catherine. “ Tis a pity they do not understand us as well. But then, they do not truly wish to understand. Men never do.”
And thinking of her argument with Smythe, Elizabeth sighed and said, “No, it seems that they do not.”
3
GODFREY MIDDLETON’S STATELY, TURRETED STONE manor was elegant testimony to his success in business, thought Smythe as their little caravan turned up the winding road leading to the estate. It was dramatic evidence of how the world was changing, when a “new man” like Middleton could, with luck and industry, pull himself up by his own bootstraps and enter the new-and much despised by some-English middle class, though there was nothing at all middling about Middleton’s estate.
Located a few miles to the west of Westminster, Middleton Manor overlooked the Thames, fronting on the river’s north bank. The large river gate gave access to several terraced flights of wide stone steps that led up to the house, and it was this way that most of the wedding party would arrive during the grand nautical progress that was planned. Part of the duties of the Queen’s Men, aside from putting on a play, would be to act as costumed greeters for the wedding guests, so they had been provided with a map drawn up especially for the occasion, showing the general layout of the estate, with instructions as to where their stage should be erected, as well as where the pavillions and the booths for the fair would be set up.
The house was set back a considerable distance from the road, on the crest of a gently sloping hill. The narrow, winding drive that led up to the imposing stone house from the main thoroughfare curved around a copse of good, stout English oaks and shrub thickets that hid a large pond from view from the road. They saw it as they came around the bend, where the road ran below and past the house for a short distance and then doubled back to the top of the hill, leading past lushly planted gardens and an elaborate maze with its tall hedges carefully clipped to perfection. As the road curved around the side of the house, leading towards the front entrance on the river side, it gave way to a cobblestoned plaza large enough for a coach to turn around.
Past the stables and some outbuildings, on the gentle slope to the east of the house, they could see the gayly striped and berib-boned pavillions for the wedding and, just beyond them, in the field, the stalls for the fair were being erected. Already, merchants were arriving and setting up their tables. Most came by boat, disembarking and unloading their goods at the ornately carved stone river gate, but others, eager for an opportunity to sell their wares to some of the wealthiest citizens of London, were braving the road in carts and wagons, taking their chances not only with highwaymen, but with the weather as well, which could easily render the road from the city impassable in the event of rain. The river was by far the preferable and most reliable way for most people to travel in the environs of London, but unfortunately, it would not serve a company of players setting out upon a wide-ranging tour of the surrounding countryside.
“Quite the hurly burly,” Shakespeare said, as he observed all the activity. “That ground will be all churned up into mud by the time this festival is over. I do not envy the groundskeepers all the work that they shall have to do to put it right again.”
“They shall doubtless merely plough it up for planting,” Burbage said. “There shall not be too much damage, as this is only a small, private fair, a social event for the wedding guests alone,” Dick Burbage said. “The merchants are allowed to participate by invitation only.”
Smythe shook his head. “Even so, I should not wish to
clean up after all of this. How many stalls and tents are they erecting? It seems I can count at least thirty or so from here. That does not seem like a small fair to me at all.”
Burbage laughed. “You will not say that after you have lived awhile in London, country boy. Bartholomew’s Fair boasts many more stalls and tents than you shall see here by a good measure, and the Stourbridge Fair, near Cambridge, is larger still. You would never see it all properly in just one day. However, I would wager that the goods you shall find for sale here will come a great deal more dearly than the run of what you might find at Bart’s or Stourbridge. These boys will all be charging as much as the traffic will allow, and you may be sure the purses here shall all be rather heavy ones.”
They were riding together at an easy walk, three or four abreast, with a wagon and two carts following behind, giving them the aspect of a small gypsy caravan. On the road, a company of players traveled as lightly as possible, but they still needed to bring all of their costumes and their props, as well as the materials to put up their stage and effect any necessary repairs to their equipment while they were out on tour. Sometimes it was necessary to send a rider or two on ahead to make preparations for their arrival in a town or at some country inn, and so they travelled with several spare mounts in addition to the cart and wagon horses. The wagon was painted with their name in ornate, gilt-edged letters, so that all would know the Queen’s Men were approaching, and they proudly flew their swallowtailed banner, as well.
As they approached the house, it took on even more grandeur up close than it had possessed from a distance, seen from the road. The carved stonework between the vast array of mullioned windows was now clearly visible and the sheer size of the place impressed itself upon them even more.
“Odd’s blood, ‘tis less a house than a small castle,” Shakespeare said. “It seems to lack only the moat and battlements and crenellations. ‘Twould not surprise me to find a ghost or two stalking the halls at midnight. How would you say this place compares to Sir William’s estate, Tuck?”
“Oh, quite favorably, indeed,” replied Smythe, very much impressed. “Only this has the aspect of a much newer construction. And I do believe ‘tis somewhat larger than Green Oaks, unless I miss my guess.”
“Your eyes serve you well,” Burbage said. “From what my father tells me, Middleton Manor was completed only four years ago, by the same architect who had built Green Oaks for Sir William Worley, save that Sir William’s house had been extensively refurbished, while Middleton Manor was newly built in its entirety. My father said the architect had been specifically instructed to surpass what had been done at Green Oaks, with no heed whatever to the cost. And from what I see before me, judging only by the exterior of the house, it would seem that little heed was paid, indeed, if any.”
“Middleton must have spent a goodly fortune on this place,” said Smythe. “I would swear there are more chimneys rising from this roof alone than could be found in my entire village. I will wager that each room has its own fireplace. And just look at all that glass! There are even bay windows in each turret! The morning light within must be quite blinding.”
As they proceeded around the side of the house, the river came into view below them, where the bank fell away sharply from the terraced slope. The sight that greeted them as they made the turn and saw the river made them all pull up short and stare.
Below them, a small flotilla of boats was approaching from the east in what looked like a carefully arranged formation. Most of the boats were being rowed by rivermen, but some of the larger ones were under sail and there were two barges being towed in the midst of the motley looking fleet. Both barges had been modified so that they had the aspect of craft that would convey Egyptian royalty, or at least someone’s idea of what such a vessel might have looked like. A large afterdeck had been erected on each barge, each with a dais and elaborate canopies of purple cloth fringed with gold, and benches had been placed along each deckrail for “slave rowers,” though it seemed that the oars were only for show. They appeared much too short to be very functional, scarcely brushing the surface of the water. And after a moment’s observation, it became evident that they were not functional at all, but nailed in place, for none of them moved at all. In one of the lead boats, a man was standing and shouting commands through a large horn as the boats bobbed in the choppy current, trying to maintain position relative to one another.
“What in God’s name are they doing?” Smythe asked, perplexed.
“We, of all people, should be able to tell that,” Shakespeare replied. “They are rehearsing.”
“Oh, of course,” said Burbage. “They are preparing for the wedding progress. The theme, remember? Queen Cleopatra comes to visit the Emperor Julius Caesar.”
John Fleming shook his head as he rode up beside them to watch the nautical maneuvering. “Methinks Cleopatra could use a better steersman,” he observed, dryly. “Her barge seems to be in the process of ramming her own escorts.”
Several of the boats had indeed suffered collision with the barge as Fleming spoke. The barge had drifted into them, and a number of the others steered quickly out of line to avoid the mess. One of the smaller boats was foundering and the man with the horn seemed to be having fits. He was holding the horn with one hand, shouting into it at the top of his lungs, and waving directions frantically with his free hand.
“I, for one, find that rehearsal with a company of unruly players on a stage poses challenges enough, without having to concern myself with the disposition of a small fleet,” said Burbage, with a chuckle.
“What concerns me more,” said Shakespeare, with a trace of anxiety in his voice, “is how our play shall compare with this elaborate nautical spectacle, to say naught of the distractions of the fair. I fear that we may have no easy task before us, my friends.”
As he spoke, the queen’s barge kept on drifting, sliding sideways in the current and bumping into two other small boats that were not quick enough to get out of the way, no matter how desperately their boatmen rowed. The man in charge of directing the flotilla began leaping up and down in a frenzy, shouting himself hoarse into his horn.
“He is going to upset that boat if he does not watch out,” said Speed.
The little boat was rocking violently and the boatman started shouting at his frantic passenger, who spun around angrily to shout back at the boatman and, in the process, lost his balance and plunged headlong into the river.
“Man overboard!” Will Kemp cried in his ringing stage voice, from his seat beside Speed in the wagon.
They all burst out laughing heartily, but Smythe’s laughter died abruptly in his throat when he saw the stricken expression on his roommate’s face. Shakespeare alone was not laughing. He was watching it all with a look of chagrin and, for a moment, Smythe could not account for it. He gazed at the poet with puzzled concern, and then a moment later, comprehension dawned.
Had he not known Will Shakespeare as he did, Smythe would not have understood, but all at once he realized that his friend was viewing the disaster down below-and especially their laughter at it-as a harbinger of things to come. Shakespeare had no confidence in the play that he had written. He had not wanted it performed. Indeed, he had kept insisting that it was not finished, but his concerns had been dismissed as nothing more than the natural hesitancy of a poet before the first performance of his work. If there were any problems, the Queen’s Men were confident that they could be fixed during rehearsal. After all, they had seen Shakespeare rewrite plays already in their repertoire at a lightning pace, often making extensive changes overnight, or even inbetween performances, and those changes were always for the better. It occurred to Smythe that Burbage and the others all took this ability for granted. The only one who apparently did not was Shakespeare.
It had become evident now that the barge was drifting due to the parting of one of its tow ropes. As they watched it skewing sideways, Smythe understood that Shakespeare was envisioning a similar disaster on the stag
e and seeing himself in the role of the unfortunate fellow with the horn. The man was being assisted back into the boat as they watched. Somehow, he had managed to retain a grip on his horn, but now, in a fury, he tossed it violently overboard.
“I would not concern myself overmuch with competition from that sort of spectacle, if I were you,” Burbage said to Shakespeare, leaning over in his saddle slightly and reaching across to clap him on the shoulder. “If they manage to pull it off without sinking themselves like Drake sank the Armada, why then at best, it shall be merely a parade of boats and two silly looking barges, one bearing a bride dressed like an Egyptian queen and the other conveying the wedding party. By the time they reach the river gate down there and disembark, all watching will have wearied of the sight. And if they repeat this sorry show, why, they shall merely amuse the audience and prime them for our own merrymaking. Odd’s blood, if the Queen’s Men cannot easily surpass a little water pageant, then we should all start looking for something else to do.”
They were met by the steward of the estate, a gaunt, balding and smugly self-important man who introduced himself as Humphrey. Like many of the wealthy middle class, in imitation of the aristocracy, Godfrey Middleton divided his time between residence at his country estate and a home that he maintained in the city. Even though it was less than a day’s ride to London, with his business concerns keeping him in the city much of the time, it was necessary for Middleton to have a capable steward in charge of his country house. It was a large responsibility, and Humphrey’s manner indicated he was quite aware of that and thought everyone else should be, as well. He was neither rude in his greeting of them nor was he dismissive, but he nevertheless gave the impression that he was a very busy man with many more important things to do, which was doubtless true, thought Smythe, at least under the current circumstances, considering all the preparations that he had to oversee for the wedding and the fair.
