The Slaying Of The Shrew

by Simon Hawke

  There were two possiblities that immediately occurred to him. The first and most obvious explanation was that the archer had been one of the two plotters he had overheard, which would mean, of course, that they knew who he was. He had never seen them leave the maze, which must have meant that they had gotten out before him and had seen him when he came out, then later recognized him at the house. And the second possibility was that whoever Elizabeth was on her way to meet had noticed that she was being followed and had followed him in turn, either to make an attempt upon his life or else to scare him off. In either case, it had been only the narrowest of escapes, and Smythe felt his anger boiling up within him. The time was past for niceties. Whether she liked it or not, he was going to confront Elizabeth right now and find out what she was up to. One mystery on his hands was quite enough. He had no time for two.

  Cautiously, he stepped back out onto the path and resumed following Elizabeth, keeping a close watch out for anyone who might come up behind him. He made certain to avoid the open and keep as close to the trees as possible, moving in a weaving sort of pattern so that if the archer happened to return, he could not “lead” him with the bow. He moved quickly, anxious to catch up with Elizabeth. Before long, he reached the clearing where the vault stood.

  The iron gate was open. He quickly glanced around, then crossed the clearing at a run and came up to the gate. He saw Elizabeth standing by the door to the crypt… and beside her stood a young man in a dark cloak.

  The first thing he did was check to see if the young man was carrying a crossbow, though logic told him there was no way he could have shot that bolt and then run back to circle through the woods and reach the vault ahead of him. There would never have been enough time. Still, he thought, there had been two of them… He shook his head. No, it could not be possible. He could not imagine Elizabeth involved with anything like that. Catherine was her friend. And yet, incredibly, Elizabeth was apparently going to have an assignation with a lover in the very crypt where her close friend had only just been laid to rest! The very idea horrified him. He stepped through the gate and confronted them.

  “ Elizabeth! What the devil are you doing?”

  She turned towards him and gasped with surprise. At the same time, the young man she was with saw the rapier Smythe was holding and at once threw back his cloak and drew his own.

  “John, no!” Elizabeth cried out, but the young man was already rushing forward with his blade raised.

  Smythe met his rush and parried his stroke, then quickly riposted. The young man was surprised by his speed and barely managed a parry of his own, then quickly backed away to get some room. Smythe would not allow it. He kept after him, sensing that this was no experienced swordsman. His attack had been clumsy and his defensive parry had been more luck than skill. Their blades clashed against each other as the young man fought off Smythe’s furious attack.

  “Stop it, Tuck! Stop it!” Elizabeth cried out. “For God’s sake, stop! I beg you!”

  Smythe hesitated, allowing the young man some room, but he held his rapier at the ready. “Tell him to throw down his blade!”

  “And be run through for my trouble? I think not!” the young man replied. He was trying to sound confident, but his hard swallow and his rapid, shallow breathing betrayed his alarm.

  “Stop it, both of you!” Elizabeth said. “Tuck, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

  “I might well ask you the same thing!” said Smythe. He gestured with his rapier towards the door to the crypt. “In the name of Heaven, is this how you show respect to your dear, departed friend? By meeting with your lover here, within mere hours of her funeral?”

  Elizabeth ’s eyes grew wide. “My lover? Are you mad?”

  “Oh, Lord!” the young man said. “I see now what he thinks!”

  “Tuck, I swear to you that John is not my lover.” said Elizabeth.

  “Well, who in blazes is he, then?”

  “He is Catherine’s lover.”

  Smythe blinked. “What?”

  “John is Catherine’s lover!” Elizabeth repeated.

  The young man shook his head. His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “ ‘Tis all over,” he said, with resignation. “We are undone.”

  Smythe simply stood there, bewildered, the rain dripping off him, his hair matted to his forehead, his rapier lowered til the point nearly touched the ground. He stared at them both with complete incomprehension.

  “Did you say Catherine’s lover?” he said, not certain that he had heard correctly.

  “You misjudge the lady, sir,” the young man said. “I assure you, ‘twas not Elizabeth I came to meet, but Catherine.”

  “Have you both lost your senses? Or do you take me for an utter fool?” Smythe said. “Catherine Middleton is dead, for God’s sake!” He gestured toward the vault with his rapier. “We have just been to her funeral! That is her corpse that rests within!”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “She is not dead. She merely sleeps.”

  “What addle-pated prattle is this? Elizabeth, ‘twas I who lifted her up and carried her from the barge up to the house and then laid her down upon her bed before her grieving father. And I tell you that her sleep is eternal, one from which she shall nevermore awake. Catherine Middleton is dead.’”

  “No, Tuck,” Elizabeth insisted. “ Tis but the clever counterfeit of death, brought on by a potion she had taken in her wine.”

  “A potion? ‘Twas poison in the flask we found,” said Smythe. “Will has taken it to London, to Granny Meg, in the hope that she may tell us what sort of vile concoction it may be.”

  “Then he shall bear out my tale when he returns,” Elizabeth replied, “for ‘twas Granny Meg herself who had prepared it.”

  Smythe stared at her with astonishment. “What? Granny Meg prepared the poison?”

  “The. potion, not the poison, you fool!”

  “Tell him all of it,” the young man said. “It makes no difference now. The game is up. We are undone. ‘Twas all for nothing.”

  “No, John,” Elizabeth said, “ ‘twas not for nothing. Tuck is my friend. My very dear friend. He shall not betray us.”

  Smythe felt hopelessly confused. He glanced from one to the other, staring at them as if they were speaking in tongues. “What are you saying? What is there to betray? I understand none of this! Tis madness!”

  “Then ‘tis a madness that you, Tuck, of all men, should comprehend,” Elizabeth told him. “By arrangement, Catherine was to wed Sir Percival, as you know. But Catherine did not want the marriage. She did not love him. Nor could she ever come to love him. How could she? You saw him; he is an imbecile, a foolish, prattling old man whose only care in life is for the cut of his silk doublets. But when Catherine protested that she did not wish to marry, her father would not hear it. The match was made, and Catherine was to do as she was told. She was to do her duty, as a daughter should. Does that sound familiar to you?”

  Smythe nodded. It had been exactly so with Elizabeth, when her father had tried to force her to marry against her will. It was not uncommon for parents to arrange their children’s marriages for mutual advantage, unless they were poor, of course, in which case their children had the luxury of being free to marry for love. It was, perhaps, one of the very few advantages of being poor. He could see why Elizabeth had felt so sympathetic to Catherine’s situation.

  “Well, Catherine has always been a strong-willed and clever girl,” Elizabeth continued, “and she had absolutely no intention of marrying Sir Percy, since she was already in love… with John Mason, here. Only there was no chance of her father’s approving of anyone like John, for John is not a gentleman, you see. In truth, John’s station in life is very much like yours, Tuck. He is a groom at Green Oaks.”

  “Do you mean Sir William’s estate?” said Smythe.

  John Mason nodded. “I have served Sir William since I was a mere boy,” he said. “My father serves him, too, as groundskeeper.” He grimaced and shook his head. “There
was no question of my ever asking for Catherine’s hand in marriage. ‘Twould have been outrageous, presumptuous, and ridiculous. And yet, we were in love. We had met while out riding in the countryside. Catherine loves to ride, and ‘tis among my regular duties to exercise Sir William’s horses. Thus we encountered one another, and from the very first, we fell in love. We both knew it was hopeless, but there was no helping it, you see. Neither of us could conceive of life without the other. And so, we planned to run away.”

  “Only Catherine knew that her father would spare no expense to track them down and bring her back,” Elizabeth said. “She was afraid for John, as well, of what would happen to him if they ran away together and were caught. On the other hand, if she were dead…”

  “The plan was insane,” said Mason. “I should never have consented to it.”

  “You had no choice,” Elizabeth replied. “Catherine was going through with it with or without your consent, because she realized that there was no other way.”

  “So she came to you with this preposterous idea and you took her to see Granny Meg,” said Smythe.

  “I knew that if anyone could help us, then she would be the one,” Elizabeth replied. “We told her what was needed-a potion that would produce the semblance of death, yet without bringing it about. Something that would cause Catherine to fall into a deathlike sleep, and yet awaken without harm after a day or two.”

  “And Granny Meg actually agreed to this mad idea?” said Smythe.

  “Not at first. She did not wish to do it. She said it would be very dangerous. There would be risks involved of the sort that no apothecary nor even a skilled cunning woman could predict. But we both pleaded with her. And we also paid her very well.”

  “I see,” said Smythe. “Well, this truly passes all understanding and strains credulity to the very limit. So what you mean to tell me, if I have heard aright, is that Catherine is not really dead, but merely in some sort of deep, enchanted sleep that mimics death, and that when the effects of this potion wear off, she will simply awake as if nothing had happened?”

  “That was the plan, in its entirety,” Elizabeth said. “And then she and John can have a chance for happiness at last. They can go away together, and with her father believing her dead, no one shall go looking for them. I was to be their go-between, who would help them in the final stages of the plan. Once Catherine had gone to London, I was to carry messages to John.”

  “Then that was why you had gone out to the maze the other night?”

  “So that was you shouting! I thought the voice sounded familiar! You followed me!”

  “Aye, because I thought that you were going to meet another man. When I lost you in the maze, I shouted out to warn you that there were others present who might-”

  “You were jealous!”

  “Never mind that. ‘Tis of no consequence now. What matters most is that there are things that you and Catherine have overlooked, things that have cast this entire, unfortunate situation in a most disastrous light.”

  “True,” she admitted, “it did not all turn out quite as we had intended. We had planned for it to look as if Catherine had simply died. We did not count upon Will finding the flask nor anyone thinking it was poisoned. She was supposed to toss it overboard. I can only guess that the potion must have taken effect far more quickly than she had anticipated.”

  “And what of the carpenter whose instructions are to make the casket? What do you suppose shall happen when he comes to place Catherine’s shrouded corpse within it, only to find her gone?”

  “He has been richly bribed,” Elizabeth said. “He shall place stones within the coffin and then seal it up, and none shall be the wiser. Then not long thereafter, he shall depart the estate and with what he has earned for aiding us in this deception, he shall be able to set himself up in trade somewhere. Thus, his future depends upon his silence. No one else shall ever know that Catherine is not dead. And all you need do to ensure that, Tuck, is keep silent and tell no one what you have learned tonight. If not for Catherine’s sake, then at least for mine. Surely, ‘tis not asking for so very much, is it?”

  She gazed at him with intense entreaty in her eyes and Smythe was not unsympathetic. He also realized that what Elizabeth had come very close to admitting, without actually saying it in so many words, was that John and Catherine’s situation was very much like theirs. They were two people from different social classes, different worlds, who had been drawn together by their love for one another, in spite of all the obstacles that stood between them. It was as close as Elizabeth had ever come to openly acknowledging that there was something more than friendship between them. He felt ashamed for having suspected her of infidelity… as if fidelity were anything she even owed him. Yet, though he felt moved by her plea, he still felt torn.

  “ Elizabeth… I do not know what to tell you,” he said. “ Tis not all as simple as you think. For one thing, you have entirely forgotten about Will. He has gone to London on the instructions of Sir William, and he should have returned by now. And unless Granny Meg has chosen to deceive him, which I think most unlikely considering the circumstances, then even as we speak, he may already be at the house, giving out what he has learned. If not, then he shall reveal the truth as soon as he returns.”

  “Then you must stop him!” said Elizabeth.

  “It may already be too late. And if not, then there is still Sir William to consider. He has taken a personal interest in this and there are few men in England with more influence or power. Aside from that, I owe him a great deal, as, indeed, do you. The problem is that everyone believes that Catherine has been murdered. The hunt for her killer shall not cease if Will and I choose to keep silent. What if it befalls that someone innocent is blamed? Should Will and I and Granny Meg and the carpenter and even you and John and Catherine keep silent while someone innocent of guilt is hanged for a crime that never was committed?”

  “But that is all mere supposition!” cried Elizabeth. “No one has been blamed for Catherine’s death because no one has killed her! So what if they shall seek a murderer? They shall never find him, because he does not exist! How can someone who has done no wrong be found guilty of a crime that has never been committed?”

  Smythe sighed. “Oh, Elizabeth, how little you know of the inequities of life! There are men who are thrown into prison every day for offenses no greater than stealing a mere loaf of bread. When the daughter of a rich man with powerful friends is killed-or falsely believed to have been lolled-then they shall never stop looking for a killer til they find one.”

  “He is right, Elizabeth,” said Mason, who had listened to their conversation with a look of utter helplessness. “When no murderer is found, then they will find instead some hapless wretch and beat a confession out of him rather than admit that they have failed. ‘Twould not be the first time a man was hanged for a crime that he did not commit. The plan had risks enough when it entailed merely the pretense that Catherine had died. Now that they believe it to be murder, how could we ever live in peace, knowing that our happiness may have been bought at the price of an innocent man’s life?” He shook his head emphatically. “Even the possibility of that would be enough to ruin any chance of happiness that we could ever have. ‘Twould destroy us in the end.”

  Elizabeth looked desperate. “So what would you have us do instead, John? Confess the fraud and have all the pains that we have gone to be for naught? And do you suppose that there would be no consequences for what we have done?”

  “Your part in it need never be revealed,” John replied. “No purpose would be served in that. I cannot believe that Catherine’s father would be too severe with her. After all, a daughter he thought dead would be suddenly restored. Surely, ‘twould be welcome news that would mitigate his anger. For my own part, I would endeavor to bear whatever consequences should be meted out with manly fortitude.”

  “A brave speech and well spoken,” Smythe said. “And I can find no flaw in your character for it save a slight lack o
f practical consideration. For a certainty, you shall be made the scapegoat for this entire melancholy situation, and to use your own words, no purpose would be served in that, either.”

  “What would you have me do, run off like some craven coward?”

  “You have already proven that you are no coward,” Smythe said. “You know that, and now I know it, Elizabeth knows it, and I am certain Catherine knew it from the start. Others may not, but does their opinion truly matter?”

  “And what of my family?” Mason asked. “Would you have me run away and leave them in disgrace?”

  Smythe sighed. “I see your point, and have no counter to it. But there must be some other solution to this unfortunate dilemma. Perhaps if I spoke with Sir William-”

  “Wait,” Elizabeth said, suddenly. “What if it turned out that Catherine had killed herself?”

  “What?” said Mason.

  “Hear me out,” Elizabeth said, intently. “I have just had an idea that could provide us with the solution that we seek! What if Catherine had obtained the so-called poison knowingly, and drank it so that she might end her life rather than condemn herself to living with a man she did not love?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Elizabeth!” said Mason. “Why would anyone believe that?”

  “Why would they not believe it, if a note were found, written in Catherine’s own hand, explaining all? She could write it herself, as soon as she awoke!”