by Simon Hawke
He could, of course, simply choose to forget about the whole thing. After all, it did not really concern him personally. What was Blanche Middleton to him? He did not know her. He had not met her. He had never even seen her. His only connection to the Middletons was of a most tenuous nature, indeed. Elizabeth was Catherine’s friend, and he cared about Elizabeth, who for all he knew no longer cared about him. He was disturbed at the idea of an innocent woman being duped and taken advantage of, but was it really any of his business? The whole thing was a pointless muddle, and it was giving him a headache, and perhaps he would do well just to forget about it all.
There was, however, the rather unsettling fact that they had tried to kill him, and might well do so again, if they discovered who he was. For that matter, it occurred to him that they might already know who he was. It was certainly possible that they could have come out of the maze before he did. If so, then they could easily have concealed themselves in the garden near the entrance to the maze and waited for him to come out, so they could mark him. After that, it would have been a simple enough matter to find out who he was. And even if he decided to avoid becoming involved, there was no way they would know that. The only way they could make certain that he could never give them away would be to kill him. It was not a reassuring thought.
He knew that he could count on Will to help him, but that would not be enough. Shakespeare had no more knowledge about London ’s upper crust than he did. Neither of them had been in the city very long. Without Sir William present, the only one who was in a position to help him was Elizabeth. And that brought him right back to the irksome problem of how he was to tell her what he knew and how he knew it. There seemed to be only one solution.
He would have to lie.
He recalled Sir William saying once that the best lies were those that kept closest to the truth, because they required the least embellishment and it was thereby easier to avoid making a slip. Therefore, he would stick to the truth as much as possible. He would say that he had overheard the two strangers plotting to take advantage of Blanche Middleton and her father. But then he would have to explain how it happened that he had heard them, but had never seen them. Once again, the simple truth would provide an easy and credible explanation, but what he wanted to avoid, if possible, was telling Elizabeth that he had overheard those men because he had followed her. And if he told her that it had happened last night, then even if he did not admit he followed her, she would realize that he had gone out to the maze at about the same time she did and she would doubtless guess the rest. So… the lie had to be concocted there.
It could not have happened any earlier than yesterday, he thought, for everybody knew when the players had arrived. But it could easily have happened several hours earlier, in the afternoon. There were several hours during which the Queen’s Men had been settling in, getting their equipment put away, and preparing the stage for their performance. He would need no more pretext to say why he had gone out to the garden than to tell her that he had gone along with Shakespeare, to help him work out some last minute changes in the play.
With most of the visitors to the estate either in the house itself or at the fairgrounds, the garden, and in particular the maze, would seem like the perfect place to go to have some privacy and quiet in which to work. He would need only to tell Shakespeare of his plan, so that Will would know to say that he had been there with him. And because he had already discussed last night’s events with him in detail, Will would not require any further briefing. He already knew as much as if he had been there himself.
Smythe nodded to himself with satisfaction. The plan at least seemed workable and he could see no flaw in it. It was also close enough to the truth to make it eminently practical. He would now have to try to find Elizabeth as soon as possible and tell her what he knew. In the face of this threat to the future of her friend’s sister, surely, her earlier quarrel with him would be forgotten. That was almost worth an attempt upon his life.
An abrupt change in the manner of the two servants at his side alerted Smythe to pay closer attention to the next boat that was drawing up to the gate. It was a larger boat, better appointed, with a small mast and gaff-rigged sail. Even Kemp, who was not the most observant of individuals, noticed that the manner of the servants had changed somewhat. Their backs had stiffened noticeably and they began to check their costumes, brushing at them and making small adjustments.
“Look smartly now,” said one of them. “Yonder boat bears Master Middleton and his younger daughter, with Sir Percival. Their arrival means that the wedding flotilla shall not be far behind.”
Kemp drew himself up to his full height, which because he was not much taller than five feet had the comical effect of making him look like a bantam rooster trying to stretch itself into a game cock. The importance of making a good impression on their host, one of the richest men in London, was not lost on him, for Kemp had ambitions of his own that were no less lofty than Ned Alleyn’s.
As the boat pulled up to the steps, Smythe marked Godfrey Middleton as he prepared to disembark. Smythe realized that he had seen this man before, when he had attended to his elaborate, black lacquered coach at the Theatre, though he had not known who he was. Now, he recognized him as Middleton stepped off the boat, assisted by his servants.
He was not a young man, by any means, though he was stout and barrel-chested, with thick legs that seemed a bit too short for his torso, so that he seemed to waddle slightly when he walked. His wide and round-cheeked face was ruddy and his prominent, bulbous nose was red, though whether from the chill upon the river or overindulgence in fine wines, Smythe could not tell, though he could easily hazard a guess.
Godfrey Middleton had the appearance of a man who enjoyed all of the finer things in life and could easily afford them. His clothing was obviously expensive and exquisitely tailored. He wore a saffron ruff and his chestnut colored doublet was of the finest three-piled velvet, tailored in the French style, richly embroidered with gold and silver thread and sewn with jewels, puffed at the shoulders and slashed deeply at the sleeves, revealing bright glimpses of a marigold satin shirt beneath that must have been imported from Paris and probably cost more than Smythe could hope to make in a year. Middleton’s galligaskins were deep scarlet and gartered with marigold silk ribbons that matched the silk rosettes upon his gold-buckled shoes. The striking ensemble was topped off with a long cloak in dark, chestnut-brown brocade with a matching floppy bonnet set off with marigold silk ribbons.
“There’s a bright beplumaged bird,” said Smythe.
“Softly, simpleton, else he shall hear you!” whispered Kemp, glancing at him sharply.
“I doubt it,” Smythe replied, although he did lower his voice. “And methinks he would care little if he did. Look at him. He is positively green.”
Indeed, Godfrey Middleton looked decidedly ill as he stepped unsteadily out of the boat, assisted by his servants. He appeared genuinely grateful to be on dry land once again. Even though it had been only a relatively short boat trip on the Thames, Middleton acted as if he had just barely survived an arduous transatlantic crossing.
“Zounds, what beastly weather!” he exclaimed to his companions as they disembarked. “That wretched wind! ‘Twas a frightful chop out there, I tell you! I damn well nearly gave up breakfast!”
His voice was high-pitched and rather nasal and complemented his waddle perfectly. To Smythe, he sounded like a large, affronted goose, squawking with pompous indignation. The “frightful chop” that he referred to was, to Smythe’s eyes, no more than a slight display of whitecaps on the water’s surface, hardly what anyone would call rough sailing. It might be a bit of a rock in a small rowboat, perhaps, but it was only the Thames River, after all, not the English Channel. The breeze was brisk and cool, but it was a long way from being a “wretched wind.” And Smythe thought that the only reasonable excuse that anyone would have for giving up their breakfast out there would be if they were pregnant.
“Well,
‘twas a bit of an unpleasant journey, I’ll agree, but ‘tis over now and our feet are once again upon dry land,” said one of Middleton’s companions. “From now on, ‘twill all be smooth sailing.” The man chuckled at his own remark. “Eh? What? Smooth sailing? I say, that’s jolly good, what?”
This gentleman turned out to be the groom. Sir Percival Pennington-Pugh was at least the same age as the bride’s father, if not older, but there any similarity ended. Where Middleton was portly, thick-chested and short-legged, Sir Percival was thin as a hay-rake and practically all legs and elbows. And if Middleton brought to mind a puffed up goose, then Sir Percival looked like a spindly water fly, albeit one decked out in a costume so garish as to make Middleton’s clothing look positively subdued.
For the occasion of his wedding, Sir Percival had donned a white ruff and a doublet of robin’s egg blue silk with double rows of silver buttons set so close together that they touched. His sleeves were “pinked,” or slashed to show a silk shirt in a newly fashionable color named “dead Spaniard,” in honor of the sinking of the Armada. To Smythe, who did not have much of an eye for distinguishing fashionable subtleties of color, it simply looked dark purple. The groom’s fashionable if rather impractical shoes were made of light blue silk, to match his doublet, and they were likewise pinked to show off his morbid Spanish hose. His baggy gaskins were made of velvet in a violet hue and he wore so many jeweled rings that merely lifting his long-fingered, bony hands seemed to take an effort. He wore a wide-linked silver chain, enameled as was currently the fashion in shades of black and purple, to match his high-crowned hat, and in keeping with the latest court fashion of matching one’s tonsorial hues to one’s haberdashery, he had dyed his hair and pointy beard a purple shade, as well. The servants approached him and helped him don a long, purple fringed robe over his ensemble and then exchanged his hat for an elaborate, Romanesque laurel wreath made of hammered gold. Smythe thought that the unlikely combination of the pleated ruff together with the Roman robe made him look rather like an ambulatory tablecloth surmounted by the head of John the Baptist sitting on a platter.
“God blind me!” he said softly, as the groom and the father of the bride began to climb the steps toward them. “Pity poor Catherine Middleton. With such a Caesar, would for her sake these were the Ides of March and not his wedding day!”
“Shhh!” hissed Kemp, elbowing him in the ribs. “Mock this Caesar at your peril, fool,” he whispered. “They will club you down, stuff you in a weighted sack, and toss you in the river!”
Smythe fell silent, but not so much as a result of his companion’s admonition as from the sight that greeted him as the next passenger lightly stepped off the boat and pulled back the hood of her long, dark blue velvet cloak with a languid, graceful gesture.
Blanche Middleton was all of sixteen, tall for her age, raven-haired, buxom and small-waisted, with grayish-blue eyes that looked like cracked diamonds. She wore a crimson velvet gown over a cartwheel farthingale, which could not have been very comfortable for sitting in a boat, and her puff-sleeved, black velvet bodice was heavily embroidered in gold and stiffened with a pointed stomacher that accentuated a very ample bosom that was displayed even more boldly than the current fashion dictated. She looked around and her gaze settled upon Smythe with such a frank, smouldering directness that it made him look around, thinking that she must have been looking at someone else behind him on the steps, someone quite familiar to her. But when he turned, he saw that there was no one there. When he looked back, her gaze met his once again and she smiled with a sultry, mocking sort of amusement. It struck Smythe that, unquestionably, she was looking straight at him, and he looked back with a frank, appraising stare to see if she would drop her gaze. But she did not.
She came straight up the steps towards him, her eyes never leaving his, save for one moment when they flicked briefly up and down, taking his measure with a boldness that Smythe had never before encountered in a girl.
“My, my,” she said in a low and throaty voice, as she drew even with him. “You are a big one.”
Feeling flustered and not quite knowing how else to respond, Smythe bowed slightly and said, “Your servant, ma’am.”
“Indeed?” she replied, archly. “How lovely. I trust that you shall serve me well then.”
“Come on, then, Blanche, stop dawdling!” her father called to her, from further up the steps. “We must hurry up and take our places. The flotilla is approaching!”
“Coming, Father!” she called, without taking her eyes off Smythe. And then she cleared her throat slightly, took a deep breath, enhancing her already ample cleavage, lowered her eyelids, and pursed her lips before continuing on her way up the steps with a lingering backward glance over her shoulder.
It took Smythe a moment to find his voice, and when he did, all he could say was, “Good God!”
“Neither God nor goodness has anything to do with that, my dear boy,” said Kemp, dryly.
“Was I imagining things?” asked Smythe. “Kemp, did you hear? Did you see?”
“I have ears and I have eyes,” Will Kemp replied. “And I have a very great concern for the integrity and preservation of my bones, which faculty I would most heartily commend to you, my lad. Yon saucy baggage is even more trouble than that Darcie wench. If that fire she has just ignited in your loins needs cooling, then may I suggest you jump into the river now and quench the flame post haste, before it burns you and all the rest of us, besides.”
A crowd had gathered at the top of the steps behind them, drawn by the arrival of their host and their anticipation of the wedding flotilla bearing the bride. Many of the men were also doubtless drawn by the arrival of Blanche Middleton, who was certainly worth looking at and who seemed to delight in the effect she had on any male within viewing distance. Smythe noticed that all of the young aristocrats he had marked earlier were there, vying for her attention and trying to elbow one another out of the way. If this sort of thing kept up, he thought, there could well be trouble brewing before the day was through.
What concerned him more, however, was that he had as yet seen no sign of Elizabeth. Where could she be? Catherine was due to arrive at any moment. It puzzled Smythe that while Catherine Middleton had spent the night in London, at the residence her father maintained there, Elizabeth had been here, at Middleton Manor. Why? One would think that the logical place for her to have been was at her friend’s side as she got ready for the wedding. And why was Elizabeth not part of the wedding party that was arriving on the barge?
The specter of suspicion rose up in his mind once more. There was no reason in the world that Smythe could think of why Elizabeth should not have been in London with Catherine, so that she could arrive with her on the “royal barge,” unless of course, coming out early to Middleton Manor would have given her an opportunity to meet with someone. And that someone could only be another man. Nothing else made any sense. And as his thoughts returned to that once more, it again struck him how convenient it was that they had quarrelled the last time they had seen each other.
So… where, was Elizabeth? He knew where she had been last night. Where was she now? Why was she not here, with everybody else?
Someone called out that the wedding flotilla was approaching, and in moments, everyone was pointing and shouting excitedly. Indeed, the wedding party was approaching in a fleet of boats accompanying the royal barge, just as he had seen them rehearsing the previous day. This time, however, it all seemed to be going smoothly, and despite the “wretched wind” and “frightful chop” that Godfrey Middelton had complained of, the flotilla was approaching in perfect formation, albeit spaced out a bit more widely than before, no doubt in order to avoid the sort of collision that had occurred yesterday.
Smythe had to admit that it certainly looked impressive. The rivermen were an independent and often surly lot, but somehow Middleton’s man had succeeded in getting them to work together and take direction in this waterborne pageant. The smaller boats stayed more or les
s in line and relatively equidistant from one another, forming an escort for the wedding barge that was being drawn by the larger boats in the center of the formation.
The crowd oohed and ahhed as the flotilla drew near and the details of the barge could now be seen. The elaborate, fringed purple canopy waved in the breeze, luffing and cracking like a sail as the “slave rowers” manned their oars, which were really more ornamental than functional. Some of them were actually dipping into the water, and perhaps providing some small amount of motive force, but most of the oars were simply waving in the air. On the flat deck of the barge, Egyptian maidens and high priests waved at the onlookers and tossed flower petals into the water from baskets. On the “upper deck,” which was really no more than a wooden platform erected on the barge, Cleopatra sat regally upon her massive throne.
The rest of the Queen’s Men now came back down the stairs so that they could finish playing their senatorial roles by greeting the queen of Egypt as she arrived.
“Well, at least they have not smashed into one another this time,” Fleming said as the boats drew near.
“Pity,” Speed replied. “ ‘Twas much more fun to watch, what with people shouting and falling overboard and such.”
One of the servants overheard and gave him an irate look, which brought the irrepressible Speed an elbow in the ribs from Burbage.
As the barge came closer, they could see the details of the throne, which had been constructed especially for the occasion. It was made of wood, carved and painted to resemble gold and set with bits of colored glass to reflect the sunlight and make it look as if it were covered in jewels. The backrest was positively huge and resembled the prow of a ship. It was carved into the shape of a snake’s head, meant to mimic the imperial Egyptian headdress that Catherine Middleton wore.
