"Because she is screeching your damned name!"
"Wha'?"
"Get out of bed, you great, lumbering oaf!"
It began to penetrate through Smythe's consciousness that he was being beaten with something. It took a moment or so longer for him to realize that it was Shakespeare's shoe, which the poet was bringing down upon his head repeatedly.
"All right, all right, damn you! Stop it!"
He lashed out defensively and felt the satisfying impact of his fist against something soft. There was a sharp wheezing sound, like the whistling of a perforated bellows, followed by a thud.
"Will?"
There was no response. At least, there was no response from Shakespeare. From without, there was all sorts of cacophony. Smythe could hear frenzied hammering on the door, voices, both male and female now, raised in angry shouts, running footsteps, doors slamming open…
"Will?"
He sat up in bed and the room seemed to tilt strangely to one side. "Ohhhhh…" He shut his eyes and brought his hand up to the bridge of his nose. Somewhere right there, between his eyes, someone seemed to have hammered in a spike while he'd been sleeping.
"Tuck! Tuck! Oh, wake up, Tuck, please!"
He recognized the voice. It was Elizabeth Darcie. And she sounded absolutely terrified. He shook off the pain in his head, not entirely successfully, and lurched out of bed.
"I'm coming!" he called out.
"Ruaghhhh!" The growling sound from the floor on the opposite side of the bed scarcely seemed human.
"Be quiet, Will! And get up off the floor!"
"Oh, bollocks! I shall stay right here. 'Tis safer."
Smythe unbolted the door and opened it. Elizabeth came rushing into his arms. "Oh, Tuck! You must help me! 'Twas terrible! Terrible!"
There was a crowd gathered just outside his door. Several members of the company were there, or what little was left of the original company since Alleyn had departed. Dick Burbage was not present, for he did not lodge at The Toad and Badger, but stayed at his father's house. Will Kemp, however, was there in his nightshirt, as were Robert Speed and several of the hired men who had rooms at the inn.
"What the devil is going on?" asked Kemp, in an affronted tone. "What is all this tumult?"
Elizabeth was sobbing against Smythe's chest and clutching at him desperately.
"What is this?" demanded the inn's proprietor, the ursine Courtney Stackpole, elbowing his way through the onlookers. "What is the cause of all this noise?"
"I do not know… yet," Smythe replied, holding Elizabeth protectively.
"He's dead!" Elizabeth sobbed. "Oh, Tuck! He's dead! Murdered!"
"Who is dead?" asked Speed. "Who was murdered?"
"Murdered?" Kemp drew back. "Good Lord! Who? Where? Here?"
Everyone started talking at once.
"Silence!" Stackpole bellowed. "Go on and get back to your rooms, all of you! We shall determine what has happened here." He turned to Smythe. "Who is this lady?"
"Her name is Elizabeth Darcie," Smythe replied. "And I am going to take her inside where she may sit for a moment and compose herself."
"We still have some wine, I think," said Shakespeare, from behind him. "A drink might do her good."
"Darcie?" Speed said. "Not Henry Darcie's daughter?" He took a closer look. "Good Lord, it is! God save us!"
"Who is Henry Darcie?" Stackpole asked, as Smythe led the distraught Elizabeth back inside the room and shut the door.
"Only one of the principal investors," Speed replied.
"What, in the company?" said Shakespeare.
"In the playhouse itself," Speed replied. "Henry Darcie is one of the principal investors in the Burbage Theatre."
Shakespeare groaned. "Oh, no."
"Wait a moment," said Kemp. "I remember now! That was the same girl who was here before. She was the one with Smythe in… oh, no!"
"Will," said Speed, "Sweet Will, pray tell us he did not bed the daughter of one of the Theatre's principal investors."
"He did not bed the daughter of one of the Theatre's principal investors," Shakespeare replied.
"Oh, no," said Speed, shutting his eyes. "And now he's got her mixed up in some murder?"
"Oh, for God's sake, Speed!" Shakespeare replied. "She was here earlier this evening and left calmly, with her virtue intact, I am assured, without any talk of death or murder, and since then, Smythe has been in our presence all night long! Use your head, man! This is something that has happened only since she left!"
"But who is it that's been murdered?" Kemp asked. "And where? And how? And what has she to do with it? More to the point, what have we to do with it?"
"I imagine Tuck is attempting to ascertain those very things even as we speak," said Shakespeare. "In any event, we are not going to learn anything by congregating in the corridor. I suggest we all repair downstairs until Tuck can speak with her and then tell us what has transpired."
They all trooped downstairs, where Stackpole opened up the bar and, behind shuttered windows, they sat anxiously, drinking ale by candlelight and discussing what to do. They decided that Dick Burbage should be informed as soon as possible, and John Fleming, too, since both were shareholders of the company and Dick's father was in business with Henry Darcie. A couple of the hired men were at once dispatched to their homes. Otherwise, they did not yet know anything about the murder that Elizabeth had spoken of, such as who has been killed or how or where, but foremost in all their minds was the singular fact that one of their ostlers, and to all intents and purposes, one of their company, for Shakespeare had arranged a part for Smythe as a hired man, had become involved with the daughter of one of the principal investors in the Burbage Theatre.
Save for Smythe and Shakespeare, who were still new with the company, Hency Darcie was well known to them all. A wealthy merchant who, along with James Burbage's in-laws, had invested heavily in the construction of the playhouse, he received as a shareholder of the Theatre, as opposed to of the company, a portion of the profits. Before any of them got paid, Hency Darcie got paid and as such, he was a very important person in all of their lives. James Burbage, Richard's father and the owner of the playhouse, owed a great deal to Henry Darcie, and if—as it certainly appeared to all—Smythe had indeed ruined his daughter, who was, as Speed seemed to recall, betrothed to some nobleman, there would certainly be hell to pay.
"Oh, of all the bloody wenches he could have pronged, why in God's name did he have to choose Henry Darcie's daughter?" Kemp moaned, putting his head in his hands and overacting, as usual. "We are undone! We are all undone!"
"Well, for one thing, 'tis not so certain that 'twas Smythe who did the choosing," Shakespeare said. "Remember, I was there when she arrived. 'Twas she who came knocking on our door in search of him, and insisted upon waiting for him to return while I went to deliver my rewrite of the play."
"And you let her stay?" Kemp said, in a tone of outrage. "Alone in an inn, in a room shared by two men, unchaperoned?"
"Well, if she were alone, then she would be unchaperoned, wouldn't she?" Shakespeare replied.
"You can save your poet's word games, you know damned well what I mean!" said Kemp, angrily. " 'Twas your fault, then, that this whole miserable event happened in the first place!"
"How exactly do you arrive at that ridiculous conclusion?" Shakespeare countered. "How was I supposed to know whose daughter she was? I had never even heard of Henry Darcie. On the other hand, when she first arrived here and went up to our room, every single one of you was right here, wassailing and gorging yourselves on bread and cheese and meat pasties, toasting the success of the last performance. Which, I might add, would have been a miserable failure had I not doctored up your play for you."
"Oh, I see! So now 'tis you who are the savior of the company, is that it?" replied Kemp. "Why, you insolent young puppy—"
"Be quiet, Kemp, for Heaven's sake!" interrupted Speed. "This is getting us nowhere. For one thing, the play was not working, and h
e fixed it. And I, for one, did not hear anyone disputing that fact after the performance. For another, our friend, Shakespeare, is absolutely right. We were all here, Dick and John included, when the girl arrived and asked for Smythe and none of us paid her any mind. 'Twas not as if Elizabeth Darcie had never attended the Theatre before. She had been to many of our performances together with her father and she had met us all. We simply were not paying attention. We all saw her, but we did not notice her, because we were all much too busy celebrating."
Kemp snorted. "Well, I cannot go paying attention to every wench who happens to pass by!"
"You pay no attention to any of them," Speed replied, wryly, "and we all know why."
"The question is, what are you lot going to do now?" asked Stackpole. "The girl's parents are going to be concerned that she is missing. The sheriff's men may be called out."
"Oh, that is all we need!" wailed Kemp. "We shall all wind up in the Marshalsea!"
"No one is going to prison," Shakespeare said. "None of us has done anything wrong. Smythe, admittedly, looks to be somewhat at risk, but the rest of us have not broken any laws."
"It makes no difference," Kemp said. "Henry Darcie has influential friends. Powerful friends. He shall have the playhouse shut down and we shall all be out of work!"
"As a principal investor, if he has the Theatre shut down, then he only ends up taking money out of his own pocket," Shakespeare said. "And I have never known a merchant willing to do that."
Before long, Fleming and young Burbage both arrived. When they'd heard what happened and whose daughter was involved, they had wasted no time in getting there. They were quickly informed of what had transpired in their absence. By that time, Smythe rejoined them. He was alone. No sooner had he come into the tavern than they all surrounded him, peppering him with questions and accusations.
"Enough!" Stackpole shouted at them all. "Leave the lad alone! Give him a chance to speak!"
Smythe glanced at the burly innkeeper gratefully and thanked him.
"First things first," said Shakespeare. "How is she?"
"She has calmed down a bit and is resting," Smythe replied. "I gave her some wine. She will sleep now, I think. She has had quite a fright, indeed."
Stackpole brought him an ale. "There ya go, lad. On the house."
"Thanks, Court."
"What happened?" Speed asked.
Smythe related everything Elizabeth had told him, from the time they first met when she came to the Theatre in Gresham's coach to her report of Gresham's murder.
"Oh, God!" said Kemp, running his fingers through his hair. "Now we have a murdered nobleman! This just keeps getting worse and worse!"
"Be quiet, Will," said Burbage, with an annoyed glance at Kemp. "Did she see who did it, Tuck?"
Smythe shook his head. "She does not recall seeing or hearing anyone or anything. They were engaged in an argument, it seems, and she was furious with Gresham for the way he'd treated her and wished that he would be struck down. The very next moment, he was."
"Good Lord!" said Fleming.
"She said he gave a sort of grunt and fell against her. She almost went down herself, trying to support his weight, and then noticed a dagger protruding from between his shoulder blades. She quite understandably panicked and took to her heels. She ran straight back here."
"The poor girl!" said Fleming.
"I do not understand," said Burbage, frowning. "How could he have been stabbed and she not have seen who did it?"
"I was a bit confused about that, too," said Smythe. "It took a while to calm her down and she does not seem to remember what happened very clearly. But she does recall that there was an alleyway behind them, so my conjecture is that someone threw the dagger from within the alleyway."
"Threw it!" Fleming said. "Lord! It might have hit the girl!"
Smythe shook his head. "I doubt it. She said it had gone in up to the hilt. That much, she remembers vividly. Whoever threw that dagger knew what he was about."
"What do you mean?" asked Burbage.
"He means the man was an assassin," Shakespeare said.
"What!"
"An assassin!"
"But how could you know that?" asked Burbage.
"It only stands to reason," Shakespeare replied. "There seems to have been no attempt at robbery. And Gresham's clothes alone would have fetched a tidy sum, to say nothing of his jewelry and what he must have had in his purse. Elizabeth certainly would not have deterred a robber who was willing to kill to get what he wanted. So, if the man was not killed for what he had, then he was killed for who he was. Somebody wanted Anthony Gresham dead."
"But there is no way you can know any of this for certain," Kemp said.
"No, not yet, anyway," Smythe replied. "But for the moment, I can think of no other explanation."
"So then she simply left the body lying in the street?" asked Kemp.
"What did you expect her to do, pick it up and carry it back here?" said Speed, with a grimace.
"Well, I merely meant that someone would certainly have discovered it by now," said Kemp.
"That would be a reasonable assumption," agreed Burbage. "Men are killed on the streets of London every night, but they are not often noblemen. The sheriff's men will surely be asking questions."
"But not necessarily of us," said Speed.
"And why not?" asked Fleming.
"Well, Gresham was killed a considerable distance from here," Speed replied. "And none of us had anything to do with it. We were all right here, in the tavern. All night long. So why, then, would the sheriff's men want to question any of us about anything?"
"But the girl came here," said Fleming. "She came here straight afterward."
"And she was here before," said Kemp.
"And the less said about that, the better," Speed replied. "If she knows what's good for her, then she will keep her mouth shut about the whole thing."
Smythe frowned. "What are you saying?"
"Just this, my lad," Speed replied, "that she should not have been here with you in the first place, and in the second place, if everything she told you about this Gresham chap was true, then this neatly solves her problem for her, does it not? Gresham's dead." He shrugged. "His body will be found, if it has not been found already, and the sheriff's men will ask their questions, and it shall turn out, as it always does, that no one has seen anything or heard anything. And even if anyone did, why then, they heard no more than a woman screaming and they saw no more than a woman running. It is highly unlikely that anyone will ever connect her with any of this."
"You are forgetting the servant, Drummond," Smythe said. "He was driving Gresham in the carriage. And he saw Elizabeth."
"What of it?" Speed replied. "You said she told you that Gresham told him to drive off. So he was not there when it happened. Elizabeth will simply say they spoke on the street and then they parted and he must have been killed afterward. The point is, there is no reason to drag any of us into this. And if she does, then it shall only make things worse for her. If it comes out that she has been with you, then her reputation will be ruined and Henry Darcie will certainly hold you to blame, if not all of us. There is simply nothing to be served in her being honest here. 'Twill certainly not bring Gresham back. 'Twill only bring disaster down on one and all."
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Stackpole broke the silence. "He has a point, you know-"
"Aye, he does," agreed Burbage, nodding. "I cannot say that I like it, but it does make sense."
"Makes sense to me," said Kemp.
Smythe looked from one to the other of them. Finally, his gaze fell on Shakespeare. "Will?" he said.
The poet pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I hate to admit it," he said, "but Speed does have a point. I cannot see where honesty in this case would be the best policy at all. Quite the contrary, 'twould only hurt everyone concerned. Especially the two of you."
"The question is," said Burbage, gazing at Smythe intently, "can you make her see that
?"
Smythe exhaled heavily. "I suppose that I shall have to try. For her sake, and for all of yours, if not for my own."
"Then we are all agreed?" said Burbage, glancing around at his comrades. "Elizabeth Darcie was never here at all. Not tonight, not earlier today… not at all. We never saw her. None of us. We do not know anything about this. Is that quite clearly understood?"
Everyone agreed.
"But what shall she tell her parents she was doing tonight?" Shakespeare asked. "If she does not have a good story for them, one that they would easily accept, then if they pressed her for the truth, she would probably break down and tell them."
"Is there not some friend she could say she was visiting?" asked Speed.
"Perhaps," said Smythe. "But whereas a friend might lie for her, the others in the household probably would not. Parents, servants, any of them could give her away."
"True," said Shakespeare. "We would need a rather more convincing fiction, I should think."
Burbage glanced at Stackpole. "Granny Meg?" he said.
The innkeeper grinned and nodded. "Granny Meg," he agreed.
Chapter 11
WHO IS GRANNY MEG?" ASKED Elizabeth, as they rode through the nearly deserted streets together in the small carriage Burbage had arrived in.
"She is what some people call a 'cunning woman,' " Burbage replied.
"In other words, she is what other people would call a witch," Shakespeare said, wryly.
"A witch!" Elizabeth's eyes grew wide. "You are not taking me to see a witch?"
"My dear Mistress Darcie," Burbage said, "you have just, by your own account, witnessed a murder. Surely you are not going to quail before the notion of visiting a harmless old woman?"
"But a witch!" Elizabeth replied. "They are said to be in league with the Devil!"
"They are no such thing at all," Burbage said, calmly. "Cunning women such as Granny Meg have been around long before your doctors and apothecaries. For hundreds of years, in fact. They are folk healers and charmers and diviners whose knowledge is passed on from mother to daughter throughout the generations."
"But they practice sorcery and black magic, do they not?" Elizabeth asked, apparently not quite reassured.
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