As she gracefully drew the next card from the deck and turned it over, they could see it was reversed, or upside down. Granny Meg laid it crosswise over the first two cards. "The Knight of Cups, reversed. A messenger, or a new arrival, an invitation or a proposition. Reversed, however, it implies treachery and deceit. Duplicity and fraud oppressing you."
"That would be Gresham," Smythe said, grimly.
"Please," said Granny Meg. "She is the one who must interpret these things for herself."
Smythe merely nodded and kept silent.
Granny Meg drew another card and placed it face up on the table, in a position directly above the others. "This is the crowning influence," she said, looking at Elizabeth. "It represents what you hope to achieve, but have not, as yet. And it is the Lovers." She smiled. Elizabeth blushed at the frank depiction of a nude young man and woman on the card, surmounted by the sun and a godly or angelic presence. "You long for simple things, for what any young girl longs for. Attraction, beauty, true love, contentment and security, trials overcome…"
She drew another card and laid it down below the others. "This is beneath you," she said. "It signifies your past, what is yours, what you must work with in order to achieve that which you desire. The Eight of Swords."
Elizabeth drew in her breath sharply at the depiction on the card. A woman, bound and blindfolded, surrounded by eight swords stuck into the ground.
"You are in a crisis," Granny Meg said, looking at her. "There is conflict, bad tidings, and censure. And your ability to act is limited, if indeed, you have any ability to act at all in this current situation."
Elizabeth glanced at Smythe, alarmed at the accuracy, so far, of the reading. Granny Meg continued, drawing yet another card. "This is behind you, that which has passed or is passing even as we speak." She turned up the Death card and Elizabeth cried out and brought her hands up to her face, getting a sharp glance from Granny Meg. "The Death card does not always mean literal death, although it could," she said. "It could also signify mortality, corruption, destruction or a decisive end, a discovery, or an event which shall change the direction of the querent's life."
She dealt another card and put it in the opposite position, completing the formation of the cross. "This is before you, that which is coming into action, or about to come to pass. The High Priestess. Interesting. This signifies secrets, mysteries… the un-revealed future. There is much intrigue surrounding you, girl. Much that has yet to be revealed and resolved."
She dealt the next four cards in quick succession, placing them face up on the table to the right of the cross formation, one above the other. She pointed to the lowest card. "This card represents yourself," she said to Elizabeth, "and your attitude in relation to your current circumstances. It is the Tower."
"It is a frightening card," Elizabeth said, softly. "Even more so, 'twould seem, than the Death card."
"It frightens you because it represents your emotions and your current state," Granny Meg replied. "A tower struck by lightning, flames bursting forth, a man and woman, apparently a king and queen, plunging to their destruction… it all signifies catastrophic transformation, ruin, disgrace, adversity, a fall from grace, deception, sudden change. All most unsettling, of course. And this card," she pointed to the one immediately above it, "signifies your house or your environment, the influence of people and events around you. The Seven of Wands. A young man armed with a staff, or wand, in a belligerent attitude as he stands upon a height, confronting six staves that are raised against him. His opponents are unseen. This signifies bravery and valor, for he battles against superior numbers, and yet has the advantage of position."
Elizabeth glanced at Smythe and smiled wanly. She looked a little pale and she was breathing shallowly, through slightly parted lips.
"This card," Granny Meg pointed to the second to the last card, "represents your hopes and fears. It signifies how you would like things to turn out, or else how you fear they may turn out. 'Tis the Emperor. A father figure. The representation of power and stability and protection. A great man, one with the qualities of reason and conviction."
She pointed to the final card. "This is your final outcome. It represents how your current situation shall be resolved. And here we have the Wheel of Fortune. The card of destiny."
"What does it signify?" Elizabeth asked, anxiously.
"The end of troubles," Granny Meg replied. "Fortune, change, a moving ahead, either for better or for worse."
"It sounds like a good outcome," Smythe said. "I would say 'tis most encouraging."
Elizabeth seemed somewhat relieved, but still, she was uncertain. "You are sure 'twill all turn out well in the end?"
"These things are never certain, girl," Granny Meg replied. "Conditions could change at any moment. As things stand right now, this is what your situation portends. But there is much around you that is uncertain. A roiling, turgid cloud of intrigue. I sense that it does not truly have anything to do with you, but that you are caught up in the middle of it."
"What sort of intrigue?" Shakespeare asked.
"That I cannot say," Granny Meg replied. "But I sense great powers at work behind it all. As if great winds were gathering from far off to produce a fearsome storm. And somehow, for some reason, she has found herself at the center of it all, trapped within the tempest."
* * *
All throughout rehearsal the next day, Smythe kept thinking about Elizabeth, wondering how things had gone for her after they had taken her home. Had the story they had concocted for her been believed? It had been Burbage's idea on their way to the Darcie residence to have Elizabeth tell her parents that Granny Meg had seen favorable omens for the marriage and that Elizabeth had therefore changed her mind about it and was now willing and even eager to proceed. This would, of course, mean absolutely nothing in that Gresham had been killed, but as Burbage pointed out, her parents would probably not know that yet and it would allow Elizabeth to tell them something that they both wanted to hear.
Burbage had explained that this ploy would predispose them to accept the story, because people always tended to believe what they wanted to believe, regardless of any facts to the contrary. On the face of it, his reasoning had seemed to make sense at the time, but Smythe somehow could not shake the feeling that something somewhere had gone wrong. And it affected his performance. Not that there was much performance to affect. He had only one entrance and one line, but he couldn't even seem to get that right. Here was his dramatic stage debut, about to occur in the very next performance, and he was making a horrid mess of it.
"No, no, no!" Shakespeare said, standing in front of the stage and holding the book as Smythe missed his entrance cue for the fifth time in a row. "The cue is, 'I would give a king's ransom for a horse!' And then you enter from stage left, come to the center of the stage, and say your line. You do not enter before the cue has been given, nor do you enter while the cue is being given. You enter after the cue has been given. God's wounds, is that so difficult?"
Smythe sighed. "No, 'tis not difficult at all. I am sorry, Will. Truly, I am."
"Aye, you certainly are sorry," Will Kemp said, as if the comment had been addressed to him rather than the other Will. "You are the sorriest excuse for a player that I have ever seen."
"Oh, come on now, Kemp," said Speed, from stage right. "Give the lad a chance."
"Aye, 'tis only his first time," said Fleming. "I am quite sure that you were not perfect your first time on the stage, either."
"Perfection is one thing," Kemp replied. "And doubtless 'tis entirely unreasonable to expect perfection from a novice player. But with this one, even bare adequacy seems utterly beyond him!"
There were times, thought Smythe, when he wanted nothing quite so much as to hammer Will Kemp into the ground like a tent peg. Instead, he held his temper, took a deep breath, and said, "You are quite right. I have been making a thoroughgoing mess of it. I shall try once more. And I shall keep trying until I get it right."
Will
Kemp sighed dramatically. "Send out for victuals," he said. "We may be here all night."
"All right, everyone, I think a break would be in order at this time," said Shakespeare. "We shall resume from this point in a few moments. But let us take a little time to clear our heads."
"With some of us, that will take less time than with others," Kemp said, wryly. He turned and stalked offstage.
Smythe stared daggers at his back.
"Tuck," said Shakespeare, coming up to the edge of the stage and gazing up at him. "What the devil is wrong with you? Are you unwell?"
"No, no, nothing of the sort," said Smythe, sitting down on the edge of the stage. He sighed. "I just keep thinking about Elizabeth."
"What you need to be thinking about is the play," said Shakespeare, irritably. "The way you have been acting—or perhaps I should say not acting—you have already convinced Will Kemp that you have no ability as a player whatsoever. The rest of the company is disposed to be somewhat more lenient, since this is only your first time upon the stage, but if you keep this up, their patience will wear thin, as well."
"I know, I know."
"After all," said Shakespeare, " 'tis just one line! How difficult can it be to remember just one entrance cue and just one line? You come in on your cue… you walk to center stage… you say your line… and then you leave the stage. I do not see how I could possibly have made it any simpler for you!"
"You are quite right, Will. 'Tis really very simple. Just that I cannot seem to get it right. I do not know why. My head is all muddled."
"See here, Elizabeth will be fine," said Shakespeare, placatingly. "Her troubles, for the most part, are now over. All the portents were quite favorable. What you need to do now is get her out of your mind completely. Move on. She is much too far above your station. So stop mooning over the wench. 'Twill only drive you to drink."
"You speak from experience, do you?"
"Oh, sod off! Just learn your one damned line, come on at the right time, and say it right; 'tis all I ask."
"I know. And I am grateful, Will. I truly am. I greatly appreciate this chance."
"Then stop cocking it up, for God's sake!"
"I shall, Will. That is, I shall get it right, I promise."
"You had damn well better, or you will be back to holding horses at the gate."
"Well, I shall have to do that anyway, both before and after I complete my scene."
"Oh, your scene, is it? One line, and now 'tis an entire scene. Tell you what, I shall settle for one line, and then we shall see about a scene, all right?"
"You needn't be so peevish about it!"
"No, Kemp is peevish. I, on the other hand, am exasperated! I am trying my best to help you, Tuck. I am trying to help us. We have a chance here, both of us. We must not muck it up. All you need to do is walk onstage and say, 'Milord, the post horses have arrived.' And Kemp shall say his line and then you shall walk off with him. And that is really all you need to do! Is it not simple?"
Smythe exhaled heavily and nodded his head. "I know. 'Tis very simple, truly. I do not know why I cannot get it right."
"Because you have got your mind fixed upon that damned girl! Forget about her, will you please? She is not for you and never shall be. The odds are you shall not even be seeing her again."
"I say, Smythe," said Fleming, from the entrance to the tiring room, "is that not your lady from last night?"
They both looked in the direction he was indicating and, sure enough, there was Elizabeth Darcie, standing at the entrance to the playhouse, together with Dick Burbage and his father, James, along with another older gentleman and a younger, well-dressed man who looked vaguely familiar. Smythe frowned. And suddenly, it came to him.
"Good God! Gresham!"
"What, the man Elizabeth said was murdered?" Shakespeare said.
"Aye!"
"Are you quite certain?"
"Aye, we both saw him at the inn the night we met, remember?"
"In truth, I remember very little of that night," said Shakespeare. "I do seem to recall a gentleman arriving, but I do not believe I'd know him if I laid eyes on him again. And you are saying this is he?"
Smythe nodded, dumbstruck.
"How curious," said Shakespeare, turning back to look at the group. "I have heard it said that ghosts walk at the witching hour, but I have never heard of one who went abroad in daylight."
Smythe jumped down off the stage to the ground. "I do not understand this. Elizabeth said she saw him killed last night!"
Shakespeare shrugged. "Well, he seems to have recovered nicely."
Elizabeth spotted them and glanced in their direction. She did not say anything, nor did she gesture, but Smythe saw a look of desperate panic on her face. Gresham appeared hale and hearty, but she was the one who looked white as a ghost.
"I shall soon get to the bottom of this!" Smythe said.
Shakespeare grabbed him by the arm. "Hold off a moment," he said, in a level tone, "before you go making a complete fool of yourself."
At the same time, Dick Burbage saw them and quickly detached himself from the group and hurried toward them, gesturing to Smythe to stay where he was.
"What the hell is going on here?" Smythe muttered.
"1 suspect we are about to find that out," Shakespeare replied.
Chapter 12
YOU ARE, 'TWOULD SEEM, AS surprised by this turn of events as I was," Burbage said, as he approached them. He shook his head and beckoned to one of the hired men, who came running up to the edge of the stage. "Miles, tell the others that we are sticking to our story about last night. And to betray no surprise, whatever they may hear. I shall explain all in due course."
As Miles ran to pass the word, Smythe turned to Burbage and said, in a low voice, "Dick, what the devil is going on? That man with Elizabeth is Anthony Gresham, is he not?"
"Indeed, he is," said Burbage, with a wry expression. "And you may well imagine my surprise when my father introduced me to him. Fortunately, my training as a player stood me in good stead. I think I managed to conceal my astonishment, for the most part. I clearly saw yours written on your face when we came in."
"But… how does he come to be alive?" Smythe asked, utterly perplexed.
"By the simple expedient of not having died yet," Shakespeare said, dryly. He put his hand on Smythe's shoulder. " 'Tis painfully self-evident, my friend. The wench has lied to you."
Smythe shook his head. "No. No, I cannot believe it. She was in earnest. You were there, you heard!"
"The proof stands yonder," Burbage said. "Together with her father, who has brought Mr. Gresham here to meet with my own father about investing in the playhouse. Mr. Gresham, 'twould seem, is most interested in the arts. In plays, especially."
"But… but I simply cannot believe she lied to me!" said Smythe, shaking his head as he stared at the group talking by the entrance to the playhouse. He saw Elizabeth looking toward him, desperately trying to catch his eye without seeming too obvious about it. Their gazes met and she shook her head, very slightly, but emphatically.
"Tuck, my friend, you would not be the first man lied to by a woman," Shakespeare said, gently.
"You do her an injustice, Will," said Smythe. "Look at her. She looks absolutely terrified."
"Aye, she had much the same look when she saw me," said Burbage. "The look of a surprised deer. She is afraid, all right. Afraid that we shall give her game away."
"What game?" asked Smythe, frowning.
"Her lie about the supposed murder of her intended, who now stands before us. Aye, she played us for a bunch of fools. She had her fun sporting with you and then we kindly provided her with the perfect alibi to avoid any suspicion of wrongdoing or impropriety." He snorted with derision. "All she had to do was ask our help and we would have done it anyway. Lord, the last thing Henry Darcie needs to know is that one of our players bedded his daughter. His very much betrothed daughter."
"But I did not…" Smythe broke off in exasperation and t
ook a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The other players would never believe he had not bedded the girl and all his protestations would only serve to make them more convinced. "Look, how was I to have any way of knowing who her father was?" he asked. "I had never even heard of Henry Darcie."
"Nevertheless, you still should have known well enough to realize that she was well beyond your station," Burbage said, in a tone of reproof. "And therefore, liable to be trouble. If Gresham ever found out about you, he could easily have you killed, you know. The whole thing is a bad business all around. If you ask me, the woman's touched, and I do not envy Gresham if he marries her. But then again, Henry Darcie has a lot of money, and money can buy no small amount of solace. Do yourself and all the rest of us a favor, Tuck, and keep well away from her. She will only bring you trouble. And that may bring us trouble, and I would prefer to avoid trouble, if at all possible. Now, Will, would you do me the courtesy of coming to see Sir Anthony? He would very much like to meet you."
Shakespeare frowned. "Why on earth would he want to meet me?"
"As I said, he is interested in plays," Burbage replied. "And I have told him that we have found a bright young poet who is just about to make his mark as one of England's greatest playwrights. A bit of an exaggeration, perhaps, but when dealing with investors, it never hurts to oversell."
"I'd like to make my mark, all right," said Shakespeare, in a surly tone. "Right on his damned jaw. I still remember all those thorns in my bum from when his coach ran us off the road that day!"
"Now don't you be giving me any trouble," Burbage said, sharply. "The man has come with money to invest. And we could all benefit from that. Aside from that, if you play your cards right, you never know, you might even get yourself a wealthy patron. 'Twould be well worth taking a few stickers up the arse, I should think. Now come on, put on your best fawning, servile manner and make a decent leg. This is business, my friend, business."
Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 01] A Mystery of Errors(v2.0) Page 18
