by Simon Hawke
Here, thought Smythe, was a different kettle of fish entirely, and he did not much care for how it smelled. One of the things he had discovered about the upper classes since coming to the city was that artifice was something that they often elevated to an art. They went to extraordinary lengths and expense to out-peacock one another, and an exaggerated sense of flamboyance-or at least so it seemed to Smythe, with his plain, country sensibilities-was usually the order of the day not only in fashion, but also in behavior. In this respect, Dubois excelled even in this company. True, the young Frenchman was not required, on this occasion, to compete with the more socially prominent and consequently more fashionably adept courtiers who were away from London with Her Majesty, but Worley had observed in passing, after only a brief glimpse of him, that Phillipe Dubois would have doubtless held his own with them, as well.
If Andrew Braithwaite could be considered handsome, Smythe thought, then Phillipe Dubois was very nearly beautiful to the point of femininity. Smythe had never before seen anyone quite like him. He could not have been very much older than twenty or so, but it was somewhat difficult to tell, for Dubois painted his face and wore a beauty mark, and his curled hair was so long that it hung almost to his waist. He clearly lavished a great deal of attention upon it and Smythe noticed not a few women gazing at his dark tresses with undisguised envy. Nor was envy the only emotion that Dubois seemed to engender in many of the ladies present.
He was tall, well-formed, and graceful to the point of being langorous. His slightest gesture seemed elegant, studied and deliberate, and his demeanor was the very epitome of cultured charm, which this French Huguenot supporter of Henry of Navarre wielded most adroitly and disarmingly.
Smythe had detested him on sight, in no small part because earlier he had observed Dubois walking with Elizabeth upon his arm, and Elizabeth seemed rather taken with him. It seemed unlikely, however, that this effete fop could be one of the plotters whom he had overheard, for those men both had English accents, and while Dubois spoke excellent English, his accent was unquestionably French. Nevertheless, Dubois had arrived together with his father, a French aristocrat who smiled at everyone, yet spoke to no one because, according to his son, he had gone completely deaf from some injury sustained upon the battlefield.
Then there was Hughe Camden of Pendennis, who had arrived at the estate with his father, Sir Richard. Smythe was not quite sure what to think of Sir Richard and his son. He supposed they could have been the men that he had overheard, although he could not say for certain. The white-bearded Sir Richard seemed rather aloof and close-mouthed, and acted as if he disdained the company that he was keeping. His short, curdy polite, yet somewhat irritable replies to any comments or questions that were addressed to him discouraged conversation. The general impression was that Sir Richard Camden was a solitary gentleman of leisure, and no one was quite certain what he had done to merit a knighthood. Knights, said Worley, who spoke as one, were even harder to keep track of than barons, earls and viscounts. Indeed, there was concern among some of the nobility that the rank of knight was being diminished by the recent increase in the ranks of knighthood.
“In the old days,” Sir William had said, “a mere merchant shipbuilder such as I would never have been knighted. But as I have done much to increase the royal coffers, so hath Her Majesty seen fit to increase my honor through my rank. ‘Twas a generous offer, and one that I could scarcely refuse, you understand. But at the same time, neither did I campaign for it, as so many others have, and continue to do, often successfully. Why, if one were to throw a stone at some annoying dog in London these days, one would be just as liable to miss and strike a knight. So then, Sir Richard Camden may indeed be entitled to wear spurs, for all I know. And then again, he just as well may not be. For my part, I do not know him from Adam. He and his son, therefore, must remain suspect, at least until I can find out more about them.”
For the present, it seemed somewhat easier to learn something of the younger Camden. Hughe was a slightly built, studious-looking young man in his mid-twenties, with a neatly-trimmed beard and moustache, and a thick shock of dark and curly hair that came just to his shoulders. He seemed as self-effacing in his dress as did Andrew Braithwaite in his manner, affecting somber hues of black and brown in his simple, unadorned doublet, breeches and hose with a plain, though well-made shoulder cloak. He was a student of the law, an inner barrister at the Inns of Court, and had a great fondness for poetry, which he had been observed to write in a fine Chancery hand well worthy of a scrivener. He seemed an amiable and pleasant enough fellow, and Middleton said he had applied for and been given a small stipend as Blanche’s tutor in poetry and literature while they were at their home in London. He seemed clearly smitten with her and she, in turn, seemed not averse to his company, but at the same time, Smythe had the distinct impression that there were few males between the ages of eighteen and eighty to whose company Blanche Middleton might actually be averse.
Finally, that left Sir Roger Holland and his son, Daniel. Sir Roger had, apparently, won his knighthood on the field of battle in his younger days, had married well, sired a brood of children, and was now primarily devoted to managing his wife’s fortune and her property in Lincolnshire. Beyond that, Middleton had said, he had not revealed very much of substance. He dressed reasonably well, if somewhat unfashionably, and had, in fairly short order, established himself as a crashing bore. He spoke of little else save hunting and his “sports”-the dogs he raised for fighting-and of those two subjects, he spoke almost incessantly. Middleton had said that regardless of what anyone tried to speak with him about, within moments Sir Roger would turn the conversation back to dog fighting or hunting and drone on with so much throat-clearing and hemming and hawing and harrumphing that one would be reminded of the sounds made by a pair of rutting hogs. apparently, he did not seem to notice that anyone he struck up a conversation with thereafter tended to avoid him as if he had the pox. Or, perhaps that was his intent.
Daniel Holland seemed much more amiable than his father, and looked a few years older than both Braithwaite and Camden, and possibly Dubois, for the latter’s age was not easy to determine and he had not volunteered it. However, what Daniel Holland may have lacked in youth, he made up for with a confident maturity that made him appear very self-possessed. Without saying so in so many words, he managed to give off the impression that he felt himself unquestionably superior to his rivals, and he positively smirked whenever his gaze fell upon the elegant Dubois. Blonde, bearded, green-eyed and good looking without quite being handsome, young Holland was of average height and stocky build. Being a gentleman of means, he had no need of a trade, although he claimed to know something of horses and their breeding. He stood to inherit a considerable amount of land and also spoke vaguely of some investments that he made in the New World.
Any of them, Smythe thought, could be the plotters he had overheard in the maze, though some seemed more likely candidates than others. There seemed to be no way, at least for the present, to verify their true status or their claims, and Smythe was certainly in no position to question their veracity. To his immense frustration, he was not able to recognize any of their voices. Dubois’ voice seemed the most unlike those that he had overheard, as did his accent, but then again, the accent could be something he was faking, although if he was, he was certainly convincing, and his father spoke not at all, which Smythe found a bit suspicious. Of the remaining three, Daniel Holland seemed, perhaps, the least likely to be one of the plotters, as both Worley and Middleton had thought, as well. He neither looked nor acted like a rogue, and if Smythe were casting for the part, Daniel Holland would probably have been the last one that he would pick. He looked like a student at the Inns of Court, and he seemed very well educated. He quoted poetry and wrote it. Yet since Sir William had departed, Smythe had noticed something else about young Holland that had given him some pause.
Most well-dressed gentlemen went armed, and the guests at Middleton Manor were no excepti
on, especially the young, fashionable men who vied for Blanche Middleton’s attention. Dubois, as might be expected of a French chevalier, had a very showy blade, a rapier with a curvaceous basket hilt and jewelled crossguards. It seemed quite well made, though Smythe was unable to make a close inspection. However, it made sense that a man who could afford the sort of elegant clothing Dubois wore would also be able to afford a first-class blade. Whether or not he knew how to use it was another matter entirely. He wore it in a rakish hanger, but beyond that, Smythe had his doubts that the blade had ever been drawn in practice, much less combat. Likewise, Braithwaite and Camden both wore blades, and if they were not as showy and expensive looking as the Frenchman’s, they were nevertheless quite handsome. Daniel Holland, on the other hand, who looked as if wearing a blade would suit him about as well as a silk dressing gown would suit a horse, wore a rather plain-looking rapier with a cup hilt and hooked cross-guards. It was of Spanish design, and it was most certainly not the blade of a courtier or fop or roaring boy. It was the purposeful blade of a duelist. It was, of course, quite possible that Holland had purchased it cheaply in the city from some down-on-his-luck soldier and had no more idea how to use it than Smythe had of writing poetry. But Smythe found it interesting, just the same.
Until he knew more, Smythe could not eliminate any of them from consideration. Sir William had the best chance of uncovering any possible deception with a few inquiries at court, but until he could return, Smythe was on his own. The trouble was he did not know what, if anything, he could accomplish. He wished that Shakespeare would return from London soon, for the poet had a clever way of thinking through things and looking at situations from all sides that doubtless came from plotting out his plays. His mind was quite adept at doing that. However, as the day wore on towards evening and Shakespeare still did not return, Smythe could but observe the suspects from a distance and attempt to guess which, if any of them, had tried to kill him in the maze.
At the same time, he could not help but notice that Elizabeth kept right on avoiding him. At the funeral, she had wept openly and unashamedly, and was more demonstrative in her grief than anyone, even Blanche, who dabbed daintily at her eyes with a handkerchief and kept her gaze downcast. Elizabeth had been escorted by her father, who had left for London shortly thereafter, promising to send a carriage for her on the following day, for she had seemed much too distraught to travel. Since then, Smythe had not even seen her. He told himself that she had every reason to feel upset and had probably retired to one of the upstairs rooms. But something told him there was more to it than that.
Elizabeth simply did not seem herself, and some instinct told him there was more to it than grief over a murdered friend, however unlikely that may have seemed. He simply could not shake the feeling. He had learned to trust his instincts. Therefore, when he saw Elizabeth come furtively down the stairs that evening as the sun was going down and head outside, he followed her once more.
8
HE WAS COLD AND WET and there was mud all over his clothing from helping the coachman wrestle with the wheel of the carriage in the pouring rain. The fool had been as reckless with his breakneck speed on the return trip as he had been going out to London, but this time, instead of worrying about a wreck, Shakespeare had urged him to go even faster.
Shortly after they set out, it began to rain and he had held on for dear life, gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the way the light carriage careened and bounced along the rutted road. He could think of nothing else but what Granny Meg had told him and he knew he had to get back to Middleton Manor as soon as humanly possible. And so, of course, they had a wreck.
The wheel had come off after the carriage had bounced up and come down particularly hard, and Shakespeare was very nearly thrown from the seat. He and the driver had both somehow managed to hang on as the carriage slewed to a stop, further damage prevented only by the fact that the road had completely turned to mud where a creek had overflowed its banks and washed across their way, thereby softening the surface. Fortunately, the wheel had not been damaged and together they were able to replace it, effecting a barely workable repair. However, that was not until they had sworn and shouted at each other and pretty much exhausted their entire repertoire of epithets, at which point the driver, exasperated to the point of sheer blind fury, had launched himself at Shakespeare and together they tumbled down into the mud, where they grappled and pummelled one another until the utter absurdity of their situation struck them and they had started laughing, which ended the fight and induced a spirit of mutual cooperation in the face of adversity.
“Come on, now, Ian, God blind you,” Shakespeare urged the coachman, from his seat beside him, “can you not go any faster?”
“Not unless you want that poxed wheel to come off again,” Ian replied. “Now sit still, damn you, and stop pestering me!”
“Tis growing dark,” said Shakespeare, with concern. “How much farther?”
“God!” Ian rolled his eyes. “Not far. Only a few miles. Have patience!”
“We wasted too much time back there.” “Well now, whose fault was that, eh?”
“You dissentious scoundrel! You dare suggest ‘twas mine? The reins were in your hands!”
“Aye, but you distracted me!”
“Odd’s blood, you were born distracted, you simpleton!”
“Sod off!”
“You bloody well sod off!”
“One more word and God be my judge, ‘tis walking back ye’ll be!”
The carriage lurched suddenly and skewed sharply to the left, coming down with a jarring impact and skidding to a halt as the hoses neighed and reared in protest.
“Oh, Hell’s spite! The poxed wheel’s come off again!” said Ian, throwing down the reins in disgust. “Now it looks like we shall both be walking.”
“The devil you say!” Shakespeare replied. “Unhitch the horses.” “What? And leave the carriage? Master Middleton would strip the hide straight off me if I was to abandon it.”
“I promise you, he will do much more than that if we are delayed much longer,” Shakespeare said. “Now unhitch them, damn you! We must reach Middleton Manor before nightfall!”
It had begun to rain and Smythe cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring along a cloak, as Elizabeth had. Unlike most of the guests at the estate, whose sense of fashion had demanded that they bring enough suits of clothing with them to change at least several times a day, he owned but one cloak, two doublets, two pair of breeches, two shirts, two pair of hose-both threadbare-and but one pair of shoes, which were well worn. On one hand, it made packing fairly simple. On the other, it meant that ruining one suit of clothes left him with only one to wear. There would have been no time to run and get his cloak, for he would have lost track of Elizabeth. Therefore, he was forced to go dressed as he was, which meant getting cold and wet as he pursued Elizabeth outside. However, mindful of what had happened the last time he had followed her, he hesitated only long enough to grab a rapier off the wall in the great hall, where it had been displayed along with its companion and a buckler. He was pleased to note that it was a good Sheffield blade, not ostentatious, but quite servicable.
He gave Elizabeth some leadway, so that she would not suspect that she was being followed. She had been furtive in her movements as she went outside, glancing around several times, as if to make certain no one saw her. Several times Smythe had to duck back out of sight in order to prevent her spotting him, but now she seemed far more intent upon her destination than upon making sure she was not followed. Once more, Smythe thought, she was going out alone at night, in a manner that was most suspicious. If she were not going to meet a man, then what else could she possibly be doing?
He had expected her to circle back around the house and head out towards the maze again, on the other side. Instead, she kept on going straight, away from the house and the fairgrounds, down a path leading towards the river. It struck him that she was taking the same path that the funeral process
ion had followed to the Middleton family vault.
It started raining harder as Elizabeth disappeared from sight, heading down the slope and towards the woods. Smythe gave her a moment’s lead, then ran across the open courtyard on the river side of the house, towards the path leading down into the trees. He could not see Elizabeth as he came running down the slope, following the pathway, but as he reached the trees, he caught a glimpse of her dark cloak, disappearing round a bend, into the woods. He paused to let her get a little more ahead of him, lest the sounds of his running footsteps give him away. He waited for a moment, catching his breath as he leaned back against a tree.
It sounded quiet and peaceful, just the steady, trickling sounds of raindrops pattering down and dripping from the leaves and the calls of a few birds. Then there was a sudden, sharp, whistling sound followed by a soft thunk as a crossbow bolt embedded itself deeply in the tree trunk merely an inch away from Smythe’s right ear.
It was a sound that he was all too familiar with from the time a hidden archer had attacked him on the road while he had been on his way to London. Smythe knew what it was at once, even before he saw the bolt sticking in the tree, and he ducked down and scuttled back into the brush alongside the path, the rapier held ready in his hand. He knew that a good archer with a longbow could loose several shafts in just the space of a breath, but a crossbow could not be shot as quickly. It would take more time to wind back the powerful steel spring with the handle and then insert another bolt and aim. He peered out through the brush, but could not see very far in such conditions, what with the rain and the failing light. There was no following shot, nor was there any sign of the archer. However, he heard running footsteps in the distance, spashing in the puddles on the pathway. It sounded as if whoever it was had run back towards the house.
