The Slaying Of The Shrew

3

Godfrey Middleton’s stately, turreted stone manor was elegant testimony to his success in business, thought Smythe as their little caravan turned up the winding road leading to the estate. It was dramatic evidence of how the world was changing, when a “new man” like Middleton could, with luck and industry, pull himself up by his own bootstraps and enter the new-and much despised by some-English middle class, though there was nothing at all middling about Middleton’s estate.

Located a few miles to the west of Westminster, Middleton Manor overlooked the Thames, fronting on the river’s north bank. The large river gate gave access to several terraced flights of wide stone steps that led up to the house, and it was this way that most of the wedding party would arrive during the grand nautical progress that was planned. Part of the duties of the Queen’s Men, aside from putting on a play, would be to act as costumed greeters for the wedding guests, so they had been provided with a map drawn up especially for the occasion, showing the general layout of the estate, with instructions as to where their stage should be erected, as well as where the pavillions and the booths for the fair would be set up.

The house was set back a considerable distance from the road, on the crest of a gently sloping hill. The narrow, winding drive that led up to the imposing stone house from the main thoroughfare curved around a copse of good, stout English oaks and shrub thickets that hid a large pond from view from the road. They saw it as they came around the bend, where the road ran below and past the house for a short distance and then doubled back to the top of the hill, leading past lushly planted gardens and an elaborate maze with its tall hedges carefully clipped to perfection. As the road curved around the side of the house, leading towards the front entrance on the river side, it gave way to a cobblestoned plaza large enough for a coach to turn around.

Past the stables and some outbuildings, on the gentle slope to the east of the house, they could see the gayly striped and berib-boned pavillions for the wedding and, just beyond them, in the field, the stalls for the fair were being erected. Already, merchants were arriving and setting up their tables. Most came by boat, disembarking and unloading their goods at the ornately carved stone river gate, but others, eager for an opportunity to sell their wares to some of the wealthiest citizens of London, were braving the road in carts and wagons, taking their chances not only with highwaymen, but with the weather as well, which could easily render the road from the city impassable in the event of rain. The river was by far the preferable and most reliable way for most people to travel in the environs of London, but unfortunately, it would not serve a company of players setting out upon a wide-ranging tour of the surrounding countryside.

“Quite the hurly burly,” Shakespeare said, as he observed all the activity. “That ground will be all churned up into mud by the time this festival is over. I do not envy the groundskeepers all the work that they shall have to do to put it right again.”

“They shall doubtless merely plough it up for planting,” Burbage said. “There shall not be too much damage, as this is only a small, private fair, a social event for the wedding guests alone,” Dick Burbage said. “The merchants are allowed to participate by invitation only.”

Smythe shook his head. “Even so, I should not wish to clean up after all of this. How many stalls and tents are they erecting? It seems I can count at least thirty or so from here. That does not seem like a small fair to me at all.”

Burbage laughed. “You will not say that after you have lived awhile in London, country boy. Bartholomew’s Fair boasts many more stalls and tents than you shall see here by a good measure, and the Stourbridge Fair, near Cambridge, is larger still. You would never see it all properly in just one day. However, I would wager that the goods you shall find for sale here will come a great deal more dearly than the run of what you might find at Bart’s or Stourbridge. These boys will all be charging as much as the traffic will allow, and you may be sure the purses here shall all be rather heavy ones.”

They were riding together at an easy walk, three or four abreast, with a wagon and two carts following behind, giving them the aspect of a small gypsy caravan. On the road, a company of players traveled as lightly as possible, but they still needed to bring all of their costumes and their props, as well as the materials to put up their stage and effect any necessary repairs to their equipment while they were out on tour. Sometimes it was necessary to send a rider or two on ahead to make preparations for their arrival in a town or at some country inn, and so they travelled with several spare mounts in addition to the cart and wagon horses. The wagon was painted with their name in ornate, gilt-edged letters, so that all would know the Queen’s Men were approaching, and they proudly flew their swallowtailed banner, as well.

As they approached the house, it took on even more grandeur up close than it had possessed from a distance, seen from the road. The carved stonework between the vast array of mullioned windows was now clearly visible and the sheer size of the place impressed itself upon them even more.

“Odd’s blood, ‘tis less a house than a small castle,” Shakespeare said. “It seems to lack only the moat and battlements and crenellations. ‘Twould not surprise me to find a ghost or two stalking the halls at midnight. How would you say this place compares to Sir William’s estate, Tuck?”

“Oh, quite favorably, indeed,” replied Smythe, very much impressed. “Only this has the aspect of a much newer construction. And I do believe ‘tis somewhat larger than Green Oaks, unless I miss my guess.”

“Your eyes serve you well,” Burbage said. “From what my father tells me, Middleton Manor was completed only four years ago, by the same architect who had built Green Oaks for Sir William Worley, save that Sir William’s house had been extensively refurbished, while Middleton Manor was newly built in its entirety. My father said the architect had been specifically instructed to surpass what had been done at Green Oaks, with no heed whatever to the cost. And from what I see before me, judging only by the exterior of the house, it would seem that little heed was paid, indeed, if any.”

“Middleton must have spent a goodly fortune on this place,” said Smythe. “I would swear there are more chimneys rising from this roof alone than could be found in my entire village. I will wager that each room has its own fireplace. And just look at all that glass! There are even bay windows in each turret! The morning light within must be quite blinding.”

As they proceeded around the side of the house, the river came into view below them, where the bank fell away sharply from the terraced slope. The sight that greeted them as they made the turn and saw the river made them all pull up short and stare.

Below them, a small flotilla of boats was approaching from the east in what looked like a carefully arranged formation. Most of the boats were being rowed by rivermen, but some of the larger ones were under sail and there were two barges being towed in the midst of the motley looking fleet. Both barges had been modified so that they had the aspect of craft that would convey Egyptian royalty, or at least someone’s idea of what such a vessel might have looked like. A large afterdeck had been erected on each barge, each with a dais and elaborate canopies of purple cloth fringed with gold, and benches had been placed along each deckrail for “slave rowers,” though it seemed that the oars were only for show. They appeared much too short to be very functional, scarcely brushing the surface of the water. And after a moment’s observation, it became evident that they were not functional at all, but nailed in place, for none of them moved at all. In one of the lead boats, a man was standing and shouting commands through a large horn as the boats bobbed in the choppy current, trying to maintain position relative to one another.

“What in God’s name are they doing?” Smythe asked, perplexed.

“We, of all people, should be able to tell that,” Shakespeare replied. “They are rehearsing.”

“Oh, of course,” said Burbage. “They are preparing for the wedding progress. The theme, remember? Queen Cleopatra comes to visit the Emperor Julius Caesar.”

John Fleming shook his head as he rode up beside them to watch the nautical maneuvering. “Methinks Cleopatra could use a better steersman,” he observed, dryly. “Her barge seems to be in the process of ramming her own escorts.”

Several of the boats had indeed suffered collision with the barge as Fleming spoke. The barge had drifted into them, and a number of the others steered quickly out of line to avoid the mess. One of the smaller boats was foundering and the man with the horn seemed to be having fits. He was holding the horn with one hand, shouting into it at the top of his lungs, and waving directions frantically with his free hand.

“I, for one, find that rehearsal with a company of unruly players on a stage poses challenges enough, without having to concern myself with the disposition of a small fleet,” said Burbage, with a chuckle.

“What concerns me more,” said Shakespeare, with a trace of anxiety in his voice, “is how our play shall compare with this elaborate nautical spectacle, to say naught of the distractions of the fair. I fear that we may have no easy task before us, my friends.”

As he spoke, the queen’s barge kept on drifting, sliding sideways in the current and bumping into two other small boats that were not quick enough to get out of the way, no matter how desperately their boatmen rowed. The man in charge of directing the flotilla began leaping up and down in a frenzy, shouting himself hoarse into his horn.

“He is going to upset that boat if he does not watch out,” said Speed.

The little boat was rocking violently and the boatman started shouting at his frantic passenger, who spun around angrily to shout back at the boatman and, in the process, lost his balance and plunged headlong into the river.

“Man overboard!” Will Kemp cried in his ringing stage voice, from his seat beside Speed in the wagon.

They all burst out laughing heartily, but Smythe’s laughter died abruptly in his throat when he saw the stricken expression on his roommate’s face. Shakespeare alone was not laughing. He was watching it all with a look of chagrin and, for a moment, Smythe could not account for it. He gazed at the poet with puzzled concern, and then a moment later, comprehension dawned.

Had he not known Will Shakespeare as he did, Smythe would not have understood, but all at once he realized that his friend was viewing the disaster down below-and especially their laughter at it-as a harbinger of things to come. Shakespeare had no confidence in the play that he had written. He had not wanted it performed. Indeed, he had kept insisting that it was not finished, but his concerns had been dismissed as nothing more than the natural hesitancy of a poet before the first performance of his work. If there were any problems, the Queen’s Men were confident that they could be fixed during rehearsal. After all, they had seen Shakespeare rewrite plays already in their repertoire at a lightning pace, often making extensive changes overnight, or even inbetween performances, and those changes were always for the better. It occurred to Smythe that Burbage and the others all took this ability for granted. The only one who apparently did not was Shakespeare.

It had become evident now that the barge was drifting due to the parting of one of its tow ropes. As they watched it skewing sideways, Smythe understood that Shakespeare was envisioning a similar disaster on the stage and seeing himself in the role of the unfortunate fellow with the horn. The man was being assisted back into the boat as they watched. Somehow, he had managed to retain a grip on his horn, but now, in a fury, he tossed it violently overboard.

“I would not concern myself overmuch with competition from that sort of spectacle, if I were you,” Burbage said to Shakespeare, leaning over in his saddle slightly and reaching across to clap him on the shoulder. “If they manage to pull it off without sinking themselves like Drake sank the Armada, why then at best, it shall be merely a parade of boats and two silly looking barges, one bearing a bride dressed like an Egyptian queen and the other conveying the wedding party. By the time they reach the river gate down there and disembark, all watching will have wearied of the sight. And if they repeat this sorry show, why, they shall merely amuse the audience and prime them for our own merrymaking. Odd’s blood, if the Queen’s Men cannot easily surpass a little water pageant, then we should all start looking for something else to do.”

They were met by the steward of the estate, a gaunt, balding and smugly self-important man who introduced himself as Humphrey. Like many of the wealthy middle class, in imitation of the aristocracy, Godfrey Middleton divided his time between residence at his country estate and a home that he maintained in the city. Even though it was less than a day’s ride to London, with his business concerns keeping him in the city much of the time, it was necessary for Middleton to have a capable steward in charge of his country house. It was a large responsibility, and Humphrey’s manner indicated he was quite aware of that and thought everyone else should be, as well. He was neither rude in his greeting of them nor was he dismissive, but he nevertheless gave the impression that he was a very busy man with many more important things to do, which was doubtless true, thought Smythe, at least under the current circumstances, considering all the preparations that he had to oversee for the wedding and the fair.

Without wasting any time, Humphrey rattled off their instructions. They were to proceed directly to the stables, where their horses and equipment would be put up by the grooms, and then immediately set about their preparations for the staging of their play, which was to take place on the morrow, in the late afternoon, following the wedding. It meant that they would not have much time, if any, to rehearse. If they were quick in setting up, then there might be an opportunity to get in one quick rehearsal in the evening. In the morning, they would all be busy greeting the wedding party as they arrived.

“Costumes shall be provided for you,” Humphrey stated curtly, with a slightly preoccupied look, as if ticking off a mental list. “You shall be receiving them this evening while you are setting up your stage and can then divide them amongst yourselves, accordingly.”

“What sort of costumes?” Burbage asked, with a slight frown. “I was not aware that we would be donning any costumes other than our own. Surely, there cannot be any time for fittings?”

“Fittings shall not be necessary,” Humphrey replied. “The costumes are merely simple white robes that drape over the body. You shall be Roman senators, welcoming our distinguished guests as they arrive and helping them disembark, then escorting them up to the house, where my staff shall take over their charge.”

“Ah, of course,” said Kemp. “As everyone knows, the august members of the Roman Senate always took the part of porters at the docks whenever important guests arrived to visit Caesar.”

Humphrey arched a disdainful eyebrow at Kemp’s sarcasm and then more than matched it with his own. “If you prefer, we could make you a Nubian slave, strip you to your waist, darken your skin with coal dust, and have you walk behind the guests, carrying an ostrich feather fan.”

“Methinks I would just as soon serve in the Senate,” Kemp replied, with a sour grimace, as the others chuckled.

“The schedule of events does not leave us much time to rehearse,” said Burbage.

The steward’s expressive eyebrow elevated once again. “Well? You are the Queen’s Men, are you not, the self-proclaimed masters of tragedy and comedy? I was informed you were the best players in the land.”

“Aye, we are proud, indeed, to have that reputation,” Burbage replied, puffing himself up. “Nevertheless-”

“Well then,” Humphrey interrupted, “Master Middleton has paid for the best, and so he expects the best, and nothing less. Tis in your own interest, therefore, to live up to your stellar reputation. Look to it.”

“That had almost the aspect of a threat,” Shakespeare said to Smythe as they left Humphrey and proceeded toward the stables. “Do you suppose they might set the dogs on us if our performance is found wanting?”

“I doubt that Master Middleton would waste his sports upon the likes of us,” said Smythe, with a straight face. “I think it more likely he would dispatch a phalanx of footmen armed with cudgels to urge us on our way.”

“Well you may jest,” said Shakespeare, “but these moneyed sorts would do just that sort of thing and not think twice of it. I do not trust that Humphrey fellow. He has a lean and hungry look. I much prefer a well-fed man. Corpulence has a tendency to make one indolent and indolent men are much less likely to be moved to violent action.”

“Like our late King Henry, you mean?” said Burbage. “Now there was a sweet, pacific soul for you. Anne Boleyn found him rather corporal in his corpulence, as I recall.”

“Aye, imagine what his humor might have been if he were thin,” said Smythe, grinning.

“ ‘Twould have been much worse, I have no doubt of it,” Shakespeare replied. “Had he been a leaner and more spirited man, like Richard Lionheart, then instead of merely breaking with the Church of Rome, he might have launched his own crusade against it.”

“Now you know, there might be a good idea for a play in that,” said Smythe.

“God’s wounds!” said Burbage. “We do not have enough trouble with the Master of the Revels? Do us all a kindness, Will. Should you by any chance decide to pen a play about an English king, then try to choose one whose immediate descendants do not at present sit upon the throne, else we might all end up with our heads on London Bridge.”

“Sound counsel, Dick,” Shakespeare said. “I shall endeavor to keep it in mind.”

“And you, Smythe,” Burbage added, “leave the playwriting to Shakespeare and stick to what you do best.”

“Aye, whatever that may be,” said Kemp, getting down from his seat up in the wagon as they reached the stables and dismounted. “Lifting heavy objects, was it not?”

“Indeed, I do believe that you have struck upon it, Kemp,” said Smythe, turning towards him. “And since there is nothing heavier than your own weighty opinion of yourself, I think I shall indulge in a bit of practice at my skill.” With that, he seized Kemp and hoisted him high into the air, holding him at arm’s length overhead.

Startled, Kemp yelped, then started blustering. “Put me down, you great misbegotten oaf!”

“As you wish,” replied Smythe, and tossed him straight into the manure bin.

Kemp landed in the odiferous mixture of soggy straw and horse droppings to the accompaniment of uproarious laughter from his fellow players. He arose like a specter from the swamp, bits of soiled straw and dung clinging to his hair and clothing. Outrage and embarrassment mingled with anger and disgust, overwhelming him to the point of speechlessness.

“I have had my fill, Kemp, of your snide barbs and venomous aspersions,” Smythe said. “That you are more talented than I is something I shall not dispute. The least talented member of this company is a better player by far than I, much as it saddens me to say so. I am quite aware of my shortcomings. Be that as it may, I carry my weight and I work as hard as you do, if not harder, and I challenge any member of this company to say that I do not. I am not, by nature, hot-tempered, but neither will I suffer myself to be abused. The next time you provoke me, I shall put you through a window, and the landing may not be as soft. Find another target for your caustic wit, for I have had enough of it.”

There was complete silence as everyone waited for Kemp to respond. It was a side of Smythe they had not seen before, and it took them all aback a bit.

“Well…” began Kemp, awkwardly, “ ‘twas never my intention to do you any injury. I never meant to give any offense, you know. ‘Tis just my way… to chide people a bit, good-natured like. I never knew that it discomfitted you. You should have said something.” He tried to meet Smythe’s gaze, but his eyes kept sliding away. He looked, Smythe thought, rather like a guilty dog that had been caught stealing a meat pie.

“I have said something, just now,” Smythe replied. “And I trust that there shall be no need for me to say it once again.”

Later, when they were brought to their quarters in the servants’ wing on the ground floor of the mansion, Shakespeare and Smythe found themselves sharing once again a small room, little larger than a closet. There were always some spare rooms in the servants’ quarters of the larger homes for visitors who travelled with liveried footmen or tirewomen or the like. The accomodations were hardly luxurious, but they were still a sight more comfortable than what most working-class people in the city could afford, many of whom had to crowd together into tiny rented rooms and share sleeping space upon the floors.

“I was wondering when you would finally have your fill of Kemp and clout him one,” said Shakespeare.

“Now I never clouted him,” protested Smythe.

“No, what you did was much worse. Or much better, depending on one’s point of view. You humiliated him. Plucked him up as if he were a daisy and threw him straight into a pile of shit. ‘Twas quite lovely, really. Wish I had thought of it myself, save that I would have lacked the strength to hoist him up like that.”

Smythe grimaced. “I probably should not have done it. But I was sick of him constantly picking away at me.”

“Well, rest assured, he shall not do it anymore, but you have made an enemy for life.”

“You think?”

“Oh, aye. You can best a man and he will like as not forgive you for it, but humiliate him and ‘tis a sure thing that he will hate you til he dies. And I suppose that one can say the same for women, when it comes to that. Man or woman, either way, hate shall not discriminate.”

Smythe nodded. “I cannot disagree. But I do believe that Kemp had hated me right from the very start, or at the very least, disliked me a great deal. I could not have made things that much worse. I had held my temper with him in the past, but that only seemed to encourage him. At least now, I might save myself having to listen to his noise. Nevertheless… perhaps I should not have done it.”

“No, ‘twas the right thing you did,” said Shakespeare, thoughtfully, as he stretched out on the straw mattress and put his arms up behind his head. “You are a strapping lad, Tuck, powerfully strong, but that strength shall only be respected when there is a threat that it might be employed. If a man like Kemp perceives that he can bait you with impunity, why then you might be twice his size and it shall not discourage him. He was always pricking you with his nasty wit, we could all see that. If you had not thrown him in the shitpile, or else clouted him a good one, ‘twould have only gotten worse.”

“I think so, too,” said Smythe. “Though, in truth,” he added, somewhat sheepishly, “I cannot claim to have thought the matter through that way before I acted.”

“Betimes a man may think too much,” said Shakespeare. “Clarity is often better found in action than in thought. Hmm, that’s a good line. Let me set it down ‘ere I forget.”

He got up from the bed and rummaged in his bag. As Shakespeare searched for his papers and his pens and ink, Smythe took his place and stretched out on the straw bed. “In truth, Kemp was only a small part of my distemper. I keep thinking that Elizabeth is here somewhere and but for our foolish argument, I might have found an opportunity to spend a bit of time with her before we went on tour.”

“So what prevents you?” Shakespeare asked. “Go and search her out. Or else send word to her by one of the household servants.” “You forget,” said Smythe, “we argued.” “About what?”

Smythe frowned. “For the life of me, I cannot now recall.” He snorted. “Foolish.”

“Most quarrels between men and women are over foolish things,” said Shakespeare. “Especially if they are lovers.”

“But we are not lovers,” Smythe protested. “We have never… Well, we have never.”

“Then that is even more foolish,” Shakespeare said, impatiently. “I have told you afore this to get that girl out of your head, because she is too far above you, but if you intend to be stubborn about it, then you might as well tup her and have done with it. If you can manage to avoid having your ears and other parts of your anatomy sliced off by Henry Darcie, it might get her out of your system.”

“Mmm, I see. Was that how it worked for you in Stratford?”

“Swine. Do I toss your poor past judgement in your face?”

“Aye, all the time.”

“Lout. Aha! Here we are!” He brought forth his papers and a small box containing his inkwell and his pens. “Now… what was that line I wanted to set down?”

Smythe shrugged. “I dunno.”

“God’s wounds! You have forgotten?”

“You said you wanted to set it down; I recall that much. You did not say you wanted me to remember it for you.”

“Argh! I can see that you are not going to be of any use to me at all until you set your mind straight about that girl. Folly. Tis all folly, if you ask me. Go, find her. Find her and make it up to her. Abase yourself before her and tell her what a mighty goose you have been and how you should have known better, but were utterly blinded by your vanity and foolishness. A woman loves to hear a man admit to being a fool; it confirms her own opinion and lends credence to her judgement. Go and find her and plead for her forgiveness.”

“But… I had done nothing truly wrong,” said Smythe.

“Did you speak?”

“Well, aye, but-”

“Then you undoubtedly did wrong. Either way, it matters not. You shall not mend fences by stubbornly standing on your pride. Go on, get out. Leave me in peace. I must try to somehow make a play out of this dross that I have penned and must now see performed, thanks to your kind offices.”

“I never meant to cause you trouble, Will. I was only thinking that it might be an opportunity for you,” said Smythe.

Shakespeare sighed. “I know, Tuck, I know. And that is why I cannot be angry with you for it. I know that you meant well. As I, too, mean well when I tell you to go and tell Elizabeth that you are sorry for your quarrel. I still think that no good can come of this infatuation, but then I am like as not the last who should advise anybody on such matters.”

Smythe took a deep breath. “I do not know, Will… I am not even certain where to go and look for her.”

“Well, considering that they are setting up a fair outside,” said Shakespeare, “might not a young woman wish to be among the first to do a bit of shopping?”

It was drawing on towards evening, but the fairgrounds were still abustle as late-arriving merchants hurried to set up their stalls. Others, whose goods had already been displayed, were making last minute adjustments to their tables or else dickering with guests who had already arrived and were taking advantage of the warm and pleasant evening to peruse the tented and beribboned booths. Unlike other fairs that were open to the public, there was no official opening time. The invited merchants were free to begin selling as soon as they set up their stalls, so long as they refrained from remaining open during the wedding ceremony scheduled for the following day. It was a small enough concession, Smythe thought, considering the wealthy customers to whom the merchants would be given access and they were all doing their best to make the most of the opportunity by arriving early and setting up their stalls as soon as possible. And other than the singular oddity of this fair being held on the grounds of a private estate and restricted only to invited guests, it reminded Smythe of the one held at his village, or at least it did until he got a closer look at some of the goods being offered and heard the asking prices.

All fairs, large or small, had certain things in common, such as the sale of foodstuffs. Already, Smythe could smell the savory aromas of fresh fruit pies baked earlier in the day and carefully packed up for the journey to the fair. He could smell roast chicken and game birds cooking over braziers, as well as venison pastie. And much like the fair at home, there were merchants here selling bolts of cloth and ribbons, as well as finished goods, but only the very finest kinds.

There were bolts of three-piled velvet and Italian silk, as well as Flemish damasks and French lace, much finer than anything Smythe had ever seen at the country fairs back home. Expensive pewter bowls and plates and drinking goblets were for sale at one booth, fancy embroidered doublets at the next, and jewelry at the one past that. There were heavy gold rings and enamelled chains and bracelets and brooches all set with precious stones, the work of the city’s finest artisans. There was even an armorer’s stall where Smythe stopped to stare at the highly polished and extravagantly engraved armor of the queen’s own champion on display. Nearby, a booth with weapons laid out on the cloth covered tables and hung up on pegs affixed to slanted display boards drew his attention. He gazed with interest at the great double-handed swords and Scottish basket-hilted claymores, war axes, spiked morning stars and triangulated maces, all of which, in these times of peace, were far more likely to be purchased for display upon some wall rather than for potential use in battle. He paid closer attention to the more practical swords and daggers suitable for daily wear, such as the gleaming Toledo blades and Italian stilettos, their hilts wrapped with fine gold and silver wire; slim and graceful ladies’ bodkins with hilts of bone or ivory and precious jewels set into their pommels and crossguards; purposeful looking swords and knives from the best artisans of Sheffield, as well as elaborately-wrought cup and basket-hilted French poignards and rapiers and main gauches. Save for a venison pastie, perhaps, or a roast goose drumstick, Smythe saw absolutely nothing that he could afford on his meager player’s pay.

As he wandered among the stalls, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a familiar-looking hooded cloak of green velvet. It was the same one Elizabeth had worn when they had last seen one another at St. Paul ’s. The day that they had quarrelled, Smythe thought, ruefully. She had often worn that cloak; it was her favorite. He was about to call out her name, but then thought better of it and caught himself in time.

This was not the yard of St. Paul ’s, he reminded himself. This was a private celebration at the estate of Godfrey Middleton, one of the richest men in London, and all about him, aside from the merchants and their apprentices, were some of the most wealthy and influential people in all of England. It was not a place where Elizabeth would wish to call attention to her friendship with a lowly ostler and a sometime player, assuming, of course, that their relationship had not been irreparably damaged by their foolish quarrel.

The thought gave Smythe a sharp pang of anxiety. Friendship was probably the most that he could ever hope for with Elizabeth, although he longed with all his heart and soul for something more than that. But Shakespeare was right, she was too far above him. And if their relationship continued, she doubtless stood to lose far more than he did. The smart thing, the best thing, perhaps, would be for him to simply put her out of his mind, but what was simply said was not so simply done. Perhaps Shakespeare was right, he thought, and nothing good would come of it, but good or bad, either way, nothing would come of it at all if he did not go to her and beg for her forgiveness.

He hurried after her. A moment later, he lost sight of her among the stalls and tents, but then he caught a glimpse of green and spotted her again. She was moving quickly, purposefully it seemed, and he trotted after her. In his haste, he collided with someone and the man fell sprawling to the ground, landing flat on his back in a puddle of mud and horse manure that made a mess of his fine clothes.

“Your pardon,” Smythe said over his shoulder as he hurried to catch up with Elizabeth.

“Damn your eyes, you ruffian!” the man called after him, angrily. “Look what you’ve done! Come back here! Come back here at once, I said! Somebody stop that man!”

Smythe quickly put as much distance as possible between them, ducking between the stalls and tents. The last thing he needed now was to be taken for a thief, especially amongst this company! He could still hear the man blustering behind him, but he seemed to have made good his escape. Except that now, once again, he had lost sight of Elizabeth. He seemed to have come almost full circle around the fairground. He now found himself standing on the perimeter of the tents and stalls, among some carts and wagons. To his left, some thirty or forty yards away, were the wedding pavillions and the house. To his right, the field continued to slope away towards the pond and the road leading up to the house from the main thoroughfare. Behind him was the fairground, and further on, the river. And to his front ran the road, and beyond it, just below the house, were the gardens and the maze. And as the shadows of dusk lengthened, Smythe caught a glimpse of Elizabeth ’s green cloak billowing in the evening breeze, just before she disappeared from sight on the stone steps leading down to the gardens and the maze.

Once again, he felt tempted to call out to her, and once again, he hesitated. Where was she going? And what was she doing, going down to the gardens all alone at this hour? He frowned and started after her.

The sun was going down, and the merchants would soon be closing down their stalls until the morning, camping out with their goods or in their wagons. Already, he could see a few lanterns and torches being lit in the fairground behind him. It would not be long before it would grow dark. Smythe started to run.

He reached the top of the terraced steps from which he could look out over the garden below. As with his elegant manor home, Middleton had clearly spared no expense with his gardens. Even in the fading light, Smythe could see that a great deal of time and attention had been lavished on them. There were several garden plots spread out below in a circular pattern, each exquisitely laid out and painstakingly maintained. There were stone benches and ivy-covered bowers placed along gently curving flagstoned pathways. And just beyond the gardens, disappearing into the entrance to the tall and perfectly clipped hedges of the maze, was the billowing swirl of a cloak.