The Slaying Of The Shrew

12

Shakespeare followed Hughe Camden outside and caught up to him as he was crossing the courtyard, heading towards the fairgrounds. By the time the poet fell in step beside him, the barrister had recovered much of his self-possession and gazed at Shakespeare with a look that conveyed both smug superiority and just the right amount of upper-class contempt.

Shakespeare did not find his snooty attitude even remotely unexpected. Camden was, after all, the son of a wealthy knight and he was given enough money that probably his greatest worry was how many times a month he could afford another suit of clothes or a fancy beaver hat, like those worn rakishly by all his colleagues at the Inns of Court. Then, too, as an inner barrister, he doubtless considered himself something of a connoisseur of theatrical productions, for the young gentlemen at the Inns of Court were well known for staging amateur theatricals in their halls for the better class of people, and the poets whose works they would perform were all university men such as Marlowe, Greene and Nashe. The Queen’s Men and their ilk, who performed for the crass groundlings of the public theaters and often staged the very same plays, were looked upon by them as vulgar second-raters.

Camden raised a disdainful eyebrow at the poet, but did not deign to start a conversation. Presumably, thought Shakespeare, one did not speak first to one’s inferiors. Fine, he thought, so be it. He simply smiled at Camden in a warm, comradely sort of way, and kept right on walking beside him, saying nothing. Camden cleared his throat after a moment, as if to prompt him, but Shakespeare merely smiled at him once more. This seemed to infuriate the barrister. His face flushed, the corners of his mouth turned down with scorn, and his aristocratic nostrils flared.

“If you suppose that there was any hint of impropriety in what you have just seen,” said Camden, haughtily, “and that what you believe you may have witnessed has somehow placed you in some position of particular advantage over me, then I can assure you, sir, that you are very much mistaken on both counts.”

“Oh, upon my word, that was well spoken!” Shakespeare said. “You flatter me, sir, to suppose such great complexity of thought to my most ordinary brain. Indeed, I can but scarcely apprehend your meaning. I can but hazard that your remarks just now were in some way concerned with your lying atop the lady in the library… or was it laying? S’trewth, lying, laying, I need my old schoolboy’s hornbook, for I can never keep them straight.”

“Now, see here…”

“Nay, milord, I was not seeking instruction, for doubtless you would know the difference, as you are a fine and educated gentleman of the Inns of Court. Eloquence, indeed, would be your proper province, whereas mine is but some foolish capering and posturing upon the stage. Odd’s blood, what would I know, indeed?”

“Aye, well, not a very great deal, I should think,” said Camden, stuffily.

“Not a great deal at all, I quite agree, I quite agree,” said Shakespeare. “Which is why, of course, I make every effort to learn more and better myself at every opportunity, you see. And I could see, indeed, that back in yonder library, you were but doing what you could to comfort the young lady, who was doubtless overcome in her bereavement, what with the twin tragedies of the deaths of both her sister and her lover.”

“Her lover, did you say?” Camden stopped abruptly, startled, but Shakespeare purposely kept right on walking, as if he had not noticed, forcing the barrister to run several steps in order to catch up.

“Aye, her lover, too, slain so tragically on the very same day that her poor, dear sister was murdered, and not once, it seems, but twice! So in effect, I suppose one might say that there were three murders, save for the fact that there were but two victims.”

“Wait a moment,” Camden said, frowning, “what the devil are you talking about? What do you mean when you say her lover? That is to say, whom do you mean? And who is it that was slain and how? And, for that matter, when)”

“Oh, why, that would be Daniel Holland, I believe,” said Shakespeare.

“ Holland!”

“Aye, indeed, he is the very one.”

“Good God! You mean to say that Holland was her lover?” “Once again, sir, your education speaks, for indeed, ‘twas was, not is, that is the proper form.”

“What?”

“Was,” said Shakespeare. “Was her lover, not is her lover, for as he is dead, he must perforce be was, not is.”

“What in God’s name are you babbling about?” “Why, good grammar, I believe.” “God damn your grammar, sir!”

“I know, milord, ‘tis atrocious, truly. I mangle each and every part and participle of speech. I am not fit to speak with educated gentlemen such as yourself. I am thoroughly ashamed. Forgive me, I shall be on my way and trouble you no longer.”

“Stay, you impertinent rascal! Bestill yourself until I give you leave to go, you hear?”

“Why, certainly. Your servant, sir.”

They had stopped just inside the fairgrounds, amidst the colorful pavillions and painted wood stalls decorated with particolored banners, painted cloths, and pennants showing the wares being displayed. The hour was late, but every single stall and tent was open and the grounds were crowded by the guests, none of whom, it seemed, had left for home or even gone to sleep for fear of missing any more excitement. The grounds were lit with flickering campfires and torches and the tents were lit with candles, giving the entire fair a festive glow. The cookfires were all burning brightly and the food vendors were all doing a brisk business. The air was full of tantalizing roasting and baking smells and Shakespeare suddenly realized that he was hungry. He could also do with a pint of ale or nice flagon of spiced wine. The trouble was, he had no money.

“Now, what is all this about Daniel Holland being Blanche’s lover?” Camden demanded.

Shakespeare put a hand up to his brow, as if his head was paining him, and closed his eyes as he swayed slightly from side to side. “S’trewth, in all the excitement of the day, I fear I have not eaten anything. And here ‘tis night and I am so famished that I nearly swoon with weakness. My stomach growls and I feel weak-”

“Very well then, come on and we shall get some food inside you,” Camden said, leading him to the nearest stall that had a cook-fire, “but you shall, by God, answer my questions afore I lose my patience!”

“God bless you, sir, you are a kind and noble soul,” said Shakespeare, and within a moment he was munching contentedly upon a leg of mutton the vendor had been roasting.

“Now then,” Camden said, “tell me what you know of this matter of Daniel Holland and Blanche Middleton.”

“Mmpf!” said Shakespeare, clearing his throat several times, touching it as if something were caught there. “Urggh… guggh…”

“Oh, good God!” said Camden. “Here! You! Merchant! Some ale, and be quick about it!”

A moment later, the mutton was being washed down by a strong, dark ale and Shakespeare felt much better. “Ah! There, that seems to have dislodged it! I am much obliged to you, milord. Doubtless, you have saved my life, else I would have choked to death right here upon the spot!”

“I shall bloody well choke you to death right here upon this spot unless you give me an answer to my question!” Camden nearly shouted. “Now what is all this about Holland?”

“Oh, well, he is dead,” said Shakespeare, between bites of mutton leg. “He was killed, you see.” He frowned, considering. “Is dead, was killed… aye, that seems to be correct, grammatically speaking.”

“Speak whichever way you chose, you mountebank, but tell me how he was killed!”

“Run through, it seems,” said Shakespeare, smacking his lips and taking a drink of ale. “Oh, this is most excellent. I truly thank you for your kindness, milord. I was so weak with hunger, I could scarcely stand.”

“Stand and deliver me an answer, scoundrel! Run through by whom?” persisted Camden.

“Why, no one seems to know for certain,” Shakespeare replied. He pointed to a stall a few yards off. “Why, look there! Would those be shepherds’ pies?” He started walking towards a stall where an old man with an eye patch was laying out some freshly baked pies. “Ah, I can smell that tasty crust from here! My mouth waters with anticipation!”

Exasperated, Camden pursued him. “What do you mean, no one seems to know for certain? Do you mean that there is someone they suspect?”

“Oh, one of her suitors, I believe,” said Shakespeare, coming up to the stall and looking over the pies the grizzled, one-eyed vendor had set out. “Blanche Middleton’s suitors, that is. You know, the lady upon whom you were lying in the library. Or is that whom you were laying in the library? I am not quite certain. Both seem to me to be correct. Oh, my, these do look good…”

“Blast you! Here, you, vendor, let’s have one of those pies.”

“Certainly, milord,” the old man said, bowing and wiping his hands on his leather apron. “Which one would you wish, yer worship?” He indicated a dozen steaming pies freshly set out on his display board.

“Any one, it does not matter,” Camden said, impatiently.

“Oh, now, truly, sir, you do me honor…” Shakespeare said, as the old man selected one.

“Honor me with a reply and we shall both be satisfied.” said Camden, tersely.

Shakespeare appraised the pie, which looked quite tempting, and then dubiously glanced at the old man, who seemed a bit bedraggled with his long, stringy, white hair and grimey, floppy hat, but whose hands, at least, looked reasonably clean. “Well, now, I shall need to set this ale down… or else, methinks, this mutton…”

“Put it down upon the board,” said Camden.

“But it does not look too clean, milord.”

“Heaven help me!” Camden said, rolling his eyes. He threw some coins down for the pie. “Here, give me the mutton, and then you may take your blasted pie.”

“But… I was not quite finished with the mutton, milord.”

“Fine. Then I shall hold the ale, whilst you take the mutton and the pie.”

“Ah… well, that may work, I suppose, but then I cannot drink, you see.”

“Just give me the damned mutton leg!” said Camden through gritted teeth, snatching it away and brandishing it as if it were a club. “Now get on with it!”

“What was it I was saying, milord?”

“You were telling me who is suspected in the slaying of Daniel Holland!”

“Ah, well, one of the suitors, it seems, must have done it. Elimination of a rival, you see. They were seen together in the maze, it seems, that is to say, Holland and the lady… much as you and the lady were seen together in the library, and… oh, my goodness! I suppose that means that you could very well be next, milord!”

Camden paled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if someone is killing off his rivals — “

“Then any one of us might well be next,” said Braithwaite, from behind them. Camden turned so suddenly, he nearly struck Braithwaite with the leg of mutton. Braithwaite jerked back and Camden, alarmed by the sudden movement, instinctively raised the leg of mutton like a club.

“Have a care with that,” said Braithwaite. “ ‘Twould be a waste to offer violence with a victual.”

“You startled me, sir,” said Camden, in an affronted tone.

“ ‘Twas never my intention, I assure you,” Braithwaite said. “I could not help but overhear what you and Master Shakespeare were discussing. I had already heard the news, however. Everyone speaks of nothing else. Tis a shame about Dan Holland. He seemed a decent enough sort, I suppose, though if he did dishonor to the lady, then I cannot feel too sorry for him.”

“Well, ‘twould seem that I have been the very last to hear of his demise,” said Camden, dryly.

“And yet I wonder if you were the very first to see it,” Braithwaite replied, raising his eyebrow.

“What do you mean, sir?” Camden bridled at him. “Are you suggesting I had aught to do with it?”

“Well, one never knows, does one?” said Braithwaite. “As Master Shakespeare said, ‘twould appear that one of us is anxious to eliminate his rivals and that one, for all we know, could very well be you.”

“Or it could just as well be you” Camden retorted, angrily. “I deeply resent your implication, sir!”

“Well, a man who stands ready to club down a fellow with a leg of mutton could be capable of anything,” said Braithwaite.

“You mock me, sir!”

“Tush, what use is there to mock a mockery?”

“Will!” Robert Speed came running up to them and, ignoring the two rivals, moved between them to tug at Shakespeare’s sleeve. “Where the devil have you been) And where is Tuck, for Heaven’s sake? Why, we have all been searching high and low for both of you!”

“Damn you!” said Camden, pale with fury. “I demand that you apologize at once!”

“Oh, forgive me, milord; I do humbly beg your pardon. I did not mean to interrupt,” said Speed.

“Not you, you simpleton, I meant this gentleman!” said Camden, indicating Braithwaite. “I shall not stand here and suffer to be ridiculed!”

“And yet you do it so very well,” said Braithwaite.

“Perhaps if we all took a moment-” Shakespeare began, but Speed began tugging on his sleeve again.

“We have set up the stage and have been trying to rehearse all day, but ‘tis a near impossibility without our book holder and the author of our play!” said Speed. “Kemp has lost all patience and has refused to proceed without you, for he does not like his scenes and demands changes, and Burbage has ordered everyone to spread out through the estate and find you-”

“Will you shut up!” said Camden.

“-and now there is all this talk of murder once again and no one even knows if we are to perform tomorrow-” “I said, shut up, you cursed fool!”

“Oh! Forgive me, milord,” said Speed, “I do humbly beg your pardon, but I thought that you were speaking to the other gentleman again.”

“Idiot!” said Camden, and lashed Speed viciously across the face with his leather glove.

“I say, that was uncalled for,” Braithwaite said. “See how you like a taste of your own broth.” He removed his glove and struck Camden in the face with it.

“Oh, God save us,” said Shakespeare, backing away hurriedly and pulling Speed along with him.

Camden ’s rapier sang free of its scabbard. “You shall die for that, you villainous churl!”

“Lay on, barrister,” said Braithwaite, drawing steel, “and damned be he that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’ “ “A fight!” cried Speed.

“Gentlemen, please, put up your swords!” cried Shakespeare, but they were already engaged and a crowd quickly began to gather as the combatants dueled.

“Upon my word, what’s this?” asked Burbage, joining the assemblage as Braithwaite and Camden exchanged thrusts and parries.

“More than I had bargained for, I fear,” said Shakespeare.

“What had you to do with this?” asked Burbage.

“Everything and nothing,” Shakespeare said. “I stirred up this brew, I fear, but now have naught to do with the result.”

“I do believe they mean to kill each other,” Burbage said.

“Aye, look at ‘em go!” cried Speed, delighted with the spectacle, as indeed, were most of the observers, who cried out encouragement to one or the other of the combatants as they moved back and forth, their blades clanging against one another. The crowd surged back from them to give them room as they maneuvered. Camden lunged and Braithwaite parried, leaping backwards and knocking into the display board where the pies had been set out. Everything went crashing to the ground and the old man cried out and put his hands up to his head in consternation as his entire stall seemed in danger of collapsing, but Braithwaite recovered quickly and moved to the attack, and then Camden suddenly found himself on the defensive as he backed away, parrying furiously.

Shakespeare recalled that Smythe had said something about Camden wearing a duelist’s rapier, and indeed, the barrister seemed skilled, but Braithwaite was no slouch with a blade, himself. The two seemed evenly matched. As they moved back and forth, the crowd moved with them, growing by the minute as everyone present on the fairgrounds responded to the noise and came to see what was occuring. Camden lunged again, but Braithwaite parried his thrust and riposted quickly, catching the barrister off balance. Camden staggered back awkwardly as Braithwaite lunged. Camden seemed to parry the stroke, but fell back into the crowd as he did so. There was a collective cry as they caught him and shoved him back up again, but then with a gasp, Camden fell to his knees.

“A touch! A touch!” several voices in the crowd cried out.

Braithwaite shook his head, perplexed. “Nay, I never pricked him!”

“But look, he bleeds!” cried Speed.

On his knees, Camden dropped his blade and brought a hand up to his side. It came away bloody. He gasped with pain, staring at Braithwaite with wide-eyed incomprehension.

“But…’twas not me!” Braithwaite said. He examined the tip of his sword, then held it out towards Shakespeare. “See for yourself My blade is yet unblooded!”

“He speaks the truth,” said Shakespeare.

Camden pitched forward onto his face and lay motionless.

“Seize that man!” The cry came from an anguished Sir Richard, who had arrived upon the scene just in time to see his son fall dead onto the ground. “Seize him! There is your murderer! And he has killed my son!”

“I have murdered no one! And he drew steel first!” protested Braithwaite, looking around with alarm at the throng surrounding him.

“You challenged him!” shouted someone in the crowd, and then a scuffle suddenly broke out. More people started shouting and in the next moment, a well-dressed, older man was shoved out of the crowd to fall sprawling next to the slain Hughe Camden, only he fell with a cry, followed by a grunt of pain on impact, demonstrating that he was still very much alive.

“There is your killer, Sir Richard!” a familiar voice called out, and Shakespeare stared in astonishment as the grizzled old pie vendor stepped out from the crowd, only now he was no longer stooped over, but stood straight and tall, and there was nothing even remotely subservient in his bearing. He reached up and removed his eyepatch and the wig he wore and stood revealed as none other than Her Majesty’s own councillor and confidante, Sir William Worley. “I saw the blackguard stab your son from behind with a dagger when he fell back into the crowd.”

“Nay, ‘tis not true!” the man cried out, as he got up to his knees. “ ‘Tis entirely innocent I am!”

“Why, ‘tis the elder Chevalier Dubois!” Shakespeare exclaimed.

“Well, well,” said Worley, standing over him. “And here we all thought you were deaf, monsieur, and did not speak because you could not hear. Yet you seem to have recovered miraculously. And ‘tis even more miraculous that a nobleman from France should speak with a Cornish accent!”

From out of nowhere, it seemed, grim-faced men armed with swords and maces stepped out of the crowd and surrounded the faux Frenchman, and Shakespeare realized that Sir William had not returned alone, but had brought a squad of guardsmen with him. Dressed in ordinary clothing, they had blended with the crowd, standing by for Worley’s signal. The man’s face fell as he realized that his situation was completely hopeless.

“My apologies, sir,” said Worley, turning to Braithwaite. “I had thought that the killer might be you, and in his haste to take advantage of your duel and make it seem as if you had killed a rival, this cowardly assassin very nearly made me sure of it. But although he tried to shelter himself within the crowd, I saw the fatal stroke when he stabbed Camden with this very bodkin.” He displayed a bloody dagger that he had wrested from the killer. “Sir Richard…” He turned to the ashen-faced elder Camden. “I am most profoundly sorry for your loss, but in death, your son has helped us apprehend not only his own killer, but the murderer of both Catherine Middleton and Daniel Holland.”

“Nay!” the killer shouted. “Nay, I tell you! S’trewth, I may be damned now, but I shall not bear the blame for what I have not done! God shall be my judge, for I did kill young Camden, but I swear I never killed the wench! And I never slew Holland, neither! ‘Twas all his doing, I tell you! ‘Twas all his plan from the start, and I’ll not bear the blame for it alone!!”

“Dubois!” said Shakespeare.

The man spat upon the ground. “His name ain’t no more Dubois than mine is. Why, he’s no Frenchman. He-”

With a sharp, whizzing sound, a crossbow bolt penetrated his skull right between the eyes, causing his head to jerk back abruptly. He was dead before he hit the ground.

Pandemonium ensued as everyone started shouting at once and running in all directions. Most of the onlookers desperately fled the scene, fearful lest they should be the next targets of the unseen archer, but everyone ran in different directions, many of them colliding with one another, and the scene erupted into chaos in an instant.

Two of the guardsmen immediately threw themselves upon Sir William, bearing him down to the ground and covering him with their bodies, but he shoved them away, cursing furiously. “Never mind me, blast it! Search the fairgrounds! Get me that archer!”

So fascinated was he by everything that suddenly began happening around him that Shakespeare completely forgot to be frightened. He simply stood there watching as people ran shouting and screaming in different directions, tripping over one another and knocking each other down in their mad rush to get away.

The entire scene, somehow, took on the aspect of a dream to him. It was as if he were not a part of it, but stood on the outside somewhere, watching as if from a distance or from an audience. In his mind’s eye, he replayed the scene of the assassin on his knees before them, at first protesting his innocence, then accepting his fate with resignation, then growing angry at the thought of being blamed for everything alone while his partner had planned it all… and then the slim, black bolt, flying straight and true, appearing to sprout all of a sudden from the killer’s forehead…

It had flown in at an angle.

For the archer to have made the shot, over the heads of the crowd surrounding the assassin on his knees, he had to have been shooting from a height, an elevation…

Shakespeare turned in the direction from which the arrow must have come, judging by the angle of the shot, and as he looked up the slope, back toward the house, he saw the stone wall that ran around the courtyard, and just beyond it, an open window.

It was an amazing shot to have come from atop that wall. Robin Hood himself could not have bettered it. And of course, it could only have been Phillipe Dubois… or whoever “Dubois” really was. He must have made the shot, then climbed in through that open window. It was astonishing marksmanship. But then, Tuck had said that whoever had shot that bolt at him had come within a hair’s breadth of hitting his head from a good distance-

Good Lord, he thought, Tuck! The realization struck him suddenly that Tuck was still back at house. He turned, quickly. “Sir William!” he shouted. “Sir William! This way! Hurry, for God’s sake!”

Smythe felt guilty, apprehensive and confused as he slowly descended the stairs to the first floor. What had happened, or nearly happened, with Blanche Middleton had quite unnerved him. Unlike Shakespeare, who already had a family of his own, he had no experience with women. When he was younger, there had been a few girls in his village who had cast coy glances in his direction a time or two, but he had always been too shy to do much else than avert his eyes and blush. Then he would hear their girlish laughter and that would only make it seem much worse the next time that it happened.

Since he came to London and started working at the theatre, there had been opportunities for him to gain a little more experience-and very likely more than a little, especially at The Toad and Badger, after their performances-but what had kept him from pursuing those opportunities were the feelings that he had for Elizabeth. On more than one occasion, Shakespeare had admonished him for his restraint, telling him that it was pointless and even ludicrous for him to remain faithful to a girl that he could never have, but that still had not changed his feelings or his constancy. He was in love with Elizabeth, and when one was in love, one remained true and faithful to that love. That was only as it should be.

What now should he make of his response to Blanche? Knowing full well that she was a wanton, he had nevertheless felt such a strong desire for her that it had made his head swim. What did that say about his character, and even more important, what did it say about his feelings towards Elizabeth?

If he had truly loved Elizabeth, he thought, then he should not have responded to Blanche the way he had. Certainly, there had been other times when he had not felt tempted by the saucy glances and the bawdy speech of the wenches at The Toad and Badger, but this had been completely different. It seemed to have taken every ounce of strength he had possessed to walk out of that room. And much to his chagrin, he realized that there was still a part of him-he knew only too well which part-that wanted very much to turn around and go back up the stairs, knock upon her door, and tell her that he had changed his mind. She had, quite simply, taken his breath away, and he had still not fully recovered.

What sort of man am I, he thought, who could profess love for one woman and yet be so basely tempted by another? Even now, after he had turned her down, having mustered all his strength of will to do so, he still wanted her, in spite of everything. If I am so weak, he thought, then truly, I must not be deserving of a good woman’s love.

He stepped off the stairs into the deserted great hall of the manor. If Elizabeth had seen him leaving Blanche’s room, then he was sure that nothing he could say would make the slightest bit of difference. For that matter, how could he protest his innocence when, in his heart, he knew that he was guilty, in thought if not in deed?

So preoccupied was he with his own thoughts that he almost failed to respond to the sound he heard behind him, but in the silence of the empty hall, he could not fail to hear the footsteps coming down the stairs that he had just descended.

He froze, thinking that it could only be Elizabeth. Just as he had feared, it had, indeed, been she who had shut the door upstairs in the hall after seeing him coming out of Blanche’s room, and now she had decided to come down and confront him. How would he ever convince her that he had not done anything? And then another possibility occurred to him. What if it were Blanche, coming after him to try to make him change his mind? Just the thought of it made his heart beat a little faster, and he felt ashamed for it. He took a deep breath and turned to face whoever it would be.

“So,” said Godfrey Middleton, standing behind him at the foot of the stairs, “thought you could get away with it, did you?” He held a sword in his right hand. He raised it and held the blade pointed towards Smythe’s chest as he advanced. “You saucy bastard. You thought you could dishonor my daughter and then boast about it to your friends, did you?”

Understanding dawned as Smythe realized that it had been Blanche’s father who had seen him coming out of her room! Aghast, he hastened to explain himself.

“Sir, I assure you, there was nothing-” Smythe began, but Middleton would not let him finish.

“A pox on your assurances, you villain! Do you take me for a fool? I saw you coming out of my daughter’s bedroom! How dare you! And in my own home! Under my very nose!”

“Sir, please,” said Smythe, backing away as the blade came uncomfortably near his throat. The man was much too close. If he tried to draw steel to defend himself, Middleton would run him through on the instant. “Sir, please listen, you do not understand what truly-”

“I understand only too well!” Middleton said, his voice like a whipcrack. Smythe saw that he was breathing hard and his eyes were blazing with a fury akin to madness. And then Smythe suddenly noticed that the blade Middleton held was wet with blood. “I understand that I have taken serpents to my breast! Serpents! Harlots! Sluts! After all that I have done for them, after all those years of toil, this is how they have repayed me! By fornicating with common stable boys and players!”

Smythe was alarmed by the man’s vehemence and filled with horror by the sight of the blood upon his blade, for he now realized what it had to mean. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and his mouth suddenly felt dry. “Sir, I beg you to hear me out,” he said. “ ‘Tis not at all what you think, I swear it in God’s name!”

“You dare deny the truth to me when I have seen with mine own eyes, you scoundrel?” said Middleton, advancing on him. Smythe began to back away, still vainly trying to get a word in edgewise, but Middleton kept after him, the bloody blade hovering just inches from his throat. “Do you suppose that I shall suffer myself to be made a fool of in front of all these people? Do you think I shall allow myself to be dishonored and disgraced after all of the work that I have done? I shall see you in Hell first, along with both of those ungrateful bitches I have raised! Wanton sluts, just like their mother, may God curse her scarlet, strumpet soul! I sent that damned harlot to the Devil for her wickedness, hoping to spare my daughters from her evil influence, but I see now that they were poisoned within her very womb, for they both grew up just like her! Sluts! Serpents! And there is only one thing to be done with serpents!”

“My God,” said Smythe, as the realization struck him like a thunderbolt. “ ‘Twas you! You killed Catherine!”

“The ungrateful little witch left me no choice! I wept for her, thinking she was dead! I had such high hopes for her! She could have been a real lady, the culmination of everything that I had striven for my whole life long! Do you have any idea what it took to find a suitable husband for her, a nobleman who would consent to marry a common woman with a reputation as a shrew? And yet, at long last, I found a nobleman who would have her and on her very wedding day, to my profound chagrin, she dies! I went back to the tomb to grieve for her and all that might have been, and I stood there, weeping, and asked her why she had to ruin everything and lo! She rose again before my very eyes! In fear, I fell onto my knees, thinking that she was a demon sent from Hell, or else a punishment from God, and I cowered before her and confessed her mother’s murder and begged for her forgiveness! And then she screamed, and railed at me and struck me, and called me vile, unspeakable things, and told me how she had planned to fool me with the potion and run off with that stable boy! A stable boy! I realized then I had been made a fool of and so I struck the treacherous wench and said that I would kill her before I allowed her to disgrace me! ‘Twas then that she produced the dagger, which that cursed stable boy had hidden by her mother’s bier… And so I had no choice, you see. No choice at all. She made me do it, just like her mother, and now her sinful sister…”

“You shall hang for this, Middleton, even if you kill me,” said Smythe, trying to avoid being backed against a wall. If he could only get a bit more room, a bit more space between them… “You have already locked up John Mason, so you cannot put the blame on him. And none of Blanche’s suitors would ever seriously regard me as a rival, nor would they have any reason to kill Blanche. You shall never get away with this.”

“Oh, I think I shall,” Middleton replied, his eyes gleaming. “For ‘twas you who had committed the foul deed! You followed Blanche up to her room and forced yourself upon her, and then you killed her so that she could not reveal what you had done, just like you killed her sister and the others, but I heard the noise, you see, and I pursued you down the stairs and…”

The bolt from the crossbow caught him in the hollow of his throat. He staggered back and dropped his blade, gurgling and gagging horribly and clutching at the wound, then he fell backward onto the floor, where he thrashed for a moment, then lay still.

“What the devil were you waiting for, you idiot?” said Dubois, lowering the crossbow. “He was about to kill you.”

Smythe stared at him, speechless. It was Dubois, and yet… it was not Dubois. His posture and demeanor were completely different. Gone entirely was the French accent and the foppish manner. Even his voice sounded different. More resonant, more manly, more… Irish, of all things!

He expertly rewound the spring on the crossbow as he spoke and quickly fitted another bolt. “Strange how things turned out, eh? The bugger was quite mad, you know. And here I had gone to all that trouble to kill Holland and arrange for Camden ’s speedy dispatch, and now ‘twas all for nothing. No doubt, I shall get the blame for Blanche’s death, as well, unless you feel compelled to speak up on my behalf, seeing as how I saved your life just now. I do not kill women, you know. Not that it makes a great deal of difference, I suppose. They shall want me for murder just the same, seeing as how they saw me kill that fool I had for a partner. He would have spilled everything he knew about me. Couldn’t have that. Anyway, do as you wish. Meanwhile, I would love to stay and chat, but there are a lot of people in pursuit of me right now and I really must run and steal a horse.”

He raised the crossbow, aiming it at Smythe. “Now do stand still and allow me to go by, like a good fellow. And if you could find it in your heart to delay them just a bit, I truly would appreciate it. You might consider it evening the score, eh? Au revoir. Perhaps we shall meet again someday.”

He grinned, gave Smythe a jaunty salute, then turned and ran towards the door. Smythe simply stood there, staring after him with disbelief, then he glanced down at Middleton’s lifeless body. Another instant, and the man would have run him through. He felt a bit unsteady. He leaned back against the wall and took several deep breaths to steady his nerves.

A few moments later, he heard the sounds of running footsteps and men shouting. He stood and waited for them. They all came bursting into the great hall, led by Sir William, with Shakespeare right behind him.

“Tuck!” cried Shakespeare. “Thank Heaven! The Frenchman! Dubois! Have you seen him?”

“Aye, I have.”

“Quickly, man, which way did he go?” asked Worley, and then his eyes widened as he saw Middleton’s body lying on the floor. “Oh, good God! He has slain poor Godfrey!”

“Aye,” said Smythe. “And in so doing, he has saved my life.”

“Dubois?” said Shakespeare.

“Aye, for Godfrey Middleton was about to slay me,” Smythe said. He pointed at Middleton’s body as the hall became crowded with Dubois’s pursuers. “He killed Catherine, for disgracing him with a stable boy, just as he had killed his wife for some like offense, whether real or imagined. He confessed it all to me. I fear that he has also murdered Blanche. That is doubtless her blood on his sword there. He was going to kill me, and then blame me for the deed.”

“What?” said Worley, with astonishment.

“After we spoke in the library, and I told her about Daniel Holland’s murder, Blanche was quite understandably distressed,” Smythe explained. “I had escorted her back to her room, and when Middleton saw me leaving, he thought the worst of it. He followed me back downstairs and accused me of despoiling his daughter. He was enraged. He said… he said vile things that are best not repeated. There was a madness upon him. He told me how he had gone back to the tomb and saw Catherine awake as the effects of the potion wore off. He thought she was a demon or a spirit risen from the dead and so he fell upon his knees and confessed her mother’s murder to her. She was horrified, and screamed at him, and in a rage told him how she had planned to stage her death and run off with young Mason. He struck her and then she produced the dagger Mason left there for her. He got it away from her and killed her with it. And he was about to kill me when Dubois came upon the scene and shot him down.”

There was the sound of galloping hoofbeats outside on the cobbles and someone shouted out, “Stop him! He is getting away!” “After him!” shouted someone else.

“Nay, let him go!” commanded Worley. “I’ll not have men breaking their necks out there in the darkness, chasing after phantoms. ‘Tis not worth the risk. I, for one, have seen quite enough corpses for one day. We shall deal with him another time… whoever he may be.” He glanced at Smythe. “I do not suppose he told you that, did he?”

“No, Sir William, he did not,” Smythe said, shaking his head. “ ‘Tis a mystery. But whoever he was, he was most certainly not French. He spoke to me with a most definite Irish accent.”

“Irish!” Shakespeare said. “He was an Irishman?”

“Aye,” said Smythe. “And he murdered Holland, I’m afraid.”

“He arranged for Camden ’s murder, too,” said Worley, “then shot down the man who did it, so that he could not reveal his name or bear witness against him. So while he may have saved your life, there are at least three murders for which we cannot forgive him.”

“Indeed,” said Smythe, dryly, “and there is one thing more which I cannot forgive him.”

“But I thought you said the Irishman had saved your life?” said Shakespeare.

“Aye, he did at that,” said Smythe, with a grimace. “But in the end, he turned out to be a much better actor than I could ever hope to be!”