The Slaying Of The Shrew

4

There could only be one reason why Elizabeth would be coming out to the gardens alone at this time of the evening, Smythe thought, and it was not to smell the flowers. She had come to meet someone. Why else make the pretence of going out to see the merchants’ stalls, only to circle round them and make her way clandestinely down to the gardens? As Smythe ran down the steps after her and along the garden pathways leading to the maze, anger and jealousy flared within him.

Was this why she had picked a fight with him at Paul’s? It had made quite a convenient excuse for her not to see him at the wedding of her friend. Now that he thought of it, he recalled that the first thing she had asked him then was if he would be coming with the Queen’s Men to the wedding celebration. And when she found out that he would, indeed, inconveniently be there, she had started an argument with him that gave her an excuse to walk out on him angrily. And after such a heated quarrel, what reason would he have to think that she would bother to find time for him while they were at the Middleton estate?

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath as he reached the entrance to the maze, and in that moment, his initial burst of anger, spent partially in his run down the steps and across the gardens, began to give way to hesitance and indecision. Just what, exactly, was he doing? After all, what right had he to feel jealous or possessive of Elizabeth? She was not his wife nor was she his betrothed. She was not even his lover. The truth of the matter was that they had no formal understandings between them of any sort, nor had they made any promises to one another. As Shakespeare had pointed out to him on more than one occasion, there could be no hope of any match between them. They had never even spoken of it. In truth, they had not spoken of anything that could define any relationship between them, other than simple friendship. So what, after all, was Elizabeth to him or he to Elizabeth?

Nevertheless, since he had helped her out of her predicament with an arranged marriage that she did not desire and that would, as it turned out in the end, have had her wed to an imposter and an enemy of England and thereby imperilled her very life, they had afterward contrived to see each other whenever the opportunity arose. Perhaps, thought Smythe, it was only gratitude or a sense of obligation that made her seek or at the very least tolerate his company, but even if they had spent their time merely strolling together or perusing the book stalls of St. Paul’s while making idle conversation, were those not assignations? Did he tell his friends-well, anyone else save Will-where he was going? Did she tell her friends or her parents? Or were not plausible stories invented on both sides so that they could be with one another? For that matter, Smythe thought, would they have argued as heatedly as they had if there had been no feelings of any sort between them, other than mere friendship?

No, there was something more there. From the first moment they had met, Smythe felt something pass between them, a sort of spark, a momentary incandescence that they had both acknowledged without ever speaking of it openly. They had flirted in a harmless sort of way, but beneath their witty badinage was a subtext of something more significant.

Infatuation, Shakespeare had called it. “Aye, ‘tis infatuation, nothing more,” he’d said. “ Tis much too innocent in its own way to call it lust, although I daresay it may come to that, should the two of you decide to stop acting like a coy pair of besotted children. However foolish it may be, there is an innocent sort of sweetness to it, but the world, I fear, does not long tolerate innocence and sweetness.”

Perhaps Elizabeth could no longer tolerate it, either, Smythe thought. Maybe she had found something that she could believe was not doomed to failure and frustration. And if she had found something… someone with whom she could have a future, then who was he, an impoverished ostler and sometime player, to deny her? He had nothing, nothing whatsoever to offer her.

He stood for several moments, hesitating at the entrance to the maze, looking back over his shoulder and watching the lights coming on inside the house as darkness gathered and the candles were brought out. Tomorrow, there would be a wedding and two people would be beginning a new life together. And what might be happening right here, right now, he thought, was not a beginning, but an ending. He had to know for certain. He stepped into the maze.

It became immediately darker as he stood between two tall rows of hedges, clipped into the form of straight, rectangular walls that rose above his head by several feet. Before him was a solid wall of leafy green shrubbery so thick that he could not see through it. There was no question of pushing his way through to the other side. He could go either to his left or to his right, down a grassy passageway between the hedges wide enough to accommodate two people walking side-by-side. He had no idea which way Elizabeth had gone. When he ran after her, he had closed the distance between them, but in the moment or two that he had hesitated at the entrance, she had moved ahead, intent on her errand and doubtless unaware that she was being followed. But which way had she gone?

Smythe knelt to examine the grass. What little light remained was fading quickly and while he had grown up in the country and spent his share of time out in the woods, he was no tracker.

It was growing darker, so that he could scarcely see more than several feet ahead of him now. It was impossible to discern any sign of which way Elizabeth may have gone. In a little while, it would be pitch black and he would be reduced to feeling his way along the pathways. It struck him that he might have some difficulty finding his way back out again. What, he wondered, could Elizabeth be thinking? But at the same time, it occurred to him that this was the home of her good friend, and she had almost certainly visited here before. She probably knew her way through the maze. Why else would she have chosen such a place for a discreet rendezvous? He listened intently for any sounds, but now the crickets had begun their song and it was difficult to hear anything else.

He made a few more turns and still there was no sign of her. Here and there, stone benches had been placed throughout the maze and he chose one and sat down, frowning, trying to get his bearings. It had seemed simple and straightforward enough at first. Simply remember the turns that he had made and then, on the way out, reverse them. But by now, he had made so many turns that he was no longer certain of their order. He had no idea how far into the maze he’d gone. Once within it, the maze of hedgerows seemed somehow much larger and more labyrinthine than it had from the outside. He had been certain that he would have caught up to Elizabeth by now, but instead, all he had succeeded in doing was getting lost. He was about to get up and start moving once again when he heard the sound of voices approaching.

At first, he could not make out what was being said, only that it seemed to be two men in quiet conversation. A moment or two later, as they came closer, the dialogue became more clear.

“… and with Catherine gone, my way at last shall be made clear with Blanche, so that with fortune’s blessing, I shall ere long succeed in securing the old man’s consent.”

“Aye, the one impediment shall have been removed, perhaps, but the other yet remains. However shall you circumvent the matter of your more than modest means?”

The first speaker, Smythe surmised, was fairly young, perhaps of an age with him, if not a little older. He spoke with the firm, brash confidence of youth and if it could be said that one could have a cocksure swagger in his voice, then this man had that very quality. The second man sounded somewhat older, with a voice that had something of an aspect of consideration and reflection, though in tone, he seemed to defer to his companion.

“Rest assured that I have thought of that, as well. You did not think I would venture into this without taking all into account? I do not play at being fortune’s child, old sod, I work at it.”

“Aye, that you do, beyond a doubt, and I have seen your efforts bear fruit on more than one occasion. Yet at the same time, I have seen that fruit consumed without your taking any care to plant some of its seed so that still more could sprout.”

“Well, that, my friend, is because I am not a common ploughman. I would much sooner seek to find an orchard ready planted, so that I could make my choice of only the ripest fruit, rather than squander all my time and effort ploughing furrows and planting seed, not all of which may sprout, and of that which sprouts and flourishes, not all of which may bear rich fruit. ‘Tis entirely too much labor for not enough reward.”

They sounded close enough by now that Smythe was surprised that he could not yet see them, even in the darkness. Yet a moment later, he realized why he could not. They were almost exactly abreast with him, strolling at a leisurely pace, but on the opposite side of the hedgerow, and though he was aware of their presence because he could hear them speaking, they seemed completely unaware of his.

Indeed, Smythe thought, there was no reason for them to assume that at this late hour, in the darkness, there might be anyone within the maze except themselves, and yet, apparently unbeknownst to them, there were at least three others-himself, Elizabeth, and the still unknown individual with whom she came to rendezvous. Unless, of course, that very unknown individual happened to be one of these two men.

Curious to find out, Smythe fell in step with them, pacing them on his side of the hedge. The moist grass underfoot and the chirping of the crickets masked any sounds his footsteps might have made, although he still walked softly so as not to give himself away.

“I have a plan,” the first man continued, “that by its very boldness should succeed and leave no room for suspicion.”

“But in time, the truth will out,” the second man replied. “What then?”

“Why, by that time, it shall no longer matter,” the younger man said, with a chuckle. “For by the time the truth can be discovered, I shall be long gone with Blanche, and with her dowry. The old man can raise a hue and cry, for all the good that it shall do him, for by then I shall be well beyond his reach or the reach of any authority that he might try to bring to bear against me.”

“And what of the girl?”

“What of her?”

“Well, what should she think when she learns the truth?”

“What matters that to me? Faith, by the time she learns the truth of things, she shall be my wife. As such, she is my goods, my chattels, and my house, my household stuff, my field, my barn, my horse, my ox, my ass, my anything. What should she think of the truth? Why, sink me, only what I tell her she should think and there’s an end to it!”

Now there’s a charming fellow, Smythe thought, with a grimace of distaste. And something of a scoundrel, from the sound of things. But whoever he was, at least he had answered one of Smythe’s unspoken questions. It seemed clear that he had not come here to meet Elizabeth after all, for it was somebody named Blanche on whom he had apparently set his sights. And from what Smythe had overheard, this Blanche was in some way a relative of Catherine’s, perhaps a sister or a cousin, but undoubtedly the reference was to the very same Catherine Middleton whose wedding they had all come to attend. And the next exchange he overheard confirmed it.

“Well, you seem confident enough of bringing her to heel,” the second man replied, “but afore that can be done, you must first bring her to the altar, and I daresay you will have a deal of competition there. Blanche Middleton is as well known for all the suitors trailing after her as she is for her beauty. How will you be able to assure that above all those who clamor for her hand ‘twill be yourself who shall find her father’s favor and win out?”

“As I have told you, I do not leave such things to chance,” the first man answered him. “I have a plan. Now whom do you suppose a rich merchant with aspirations to improve himself would favor most as a suitor for his youngest daughter’s hand, some young, ambitious roaring boy looking for a leg up on his station as well as on the wench, or some corpulent, newly wealthy tradesman with a grossness of class exceeded only by the grossness of his girth or, perhaps, the dashingly handsome and courtly mannered son of an aristocrat?”

“What,you?“

“I and none other.”

“But, Odd’s blood, your father, rest his soul, was no aristocrat! He was a ruffler and a cozener who was drawn and quartered and had his head displayed on London Bridge!”

“I know not of whom you speak. My father stands before me.”

“Merciful God preserve us! Where?”

The reply was mocking laughter. “Cast not about in search of ghostly spirits, my friend. ‘Twas you I meant.”

“Me!”

“Aye, my father stands before me in your person.”

“Good God! Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“On the contrary, what I propose is emminently sensible. If one is going to brew up a bit of cozenage, then there is little to be served in making it small beer. A fine and heady ale is called for. What I intend to do is — “

The statement never was completed, because Smythe had grown so fascinated in listening to the intriguing conversation that he had neglected to observe what, in the darkness, he might easily have missed in any case… some clippings from the hedge, dead branches taken off earlier that afternoon and raked together into a small pile on the path preparatory to being gathered in a wheelbarrow and removed. Whether by chance or by design, they had been left there, and as Smythe kept pace with the two men on his side of the hedge, he stepped straight into the clippings, and the dry branches underfoot made a sharp, crackling sound that was easily audible over the chirping of the crickets.

For a moment, there was utter silence. Even the crickets had seemed startled by the sound. And then, as Smythe glanced down and stepped back quickly, there came an angry oath from the other side of the hedge and, almost at the same time, a blade came plunging through. That single step back was what had saved him. Smythe felt the sharp steel of the rapier graze his stomach, close enough to slice through his leather doublet and draw a little blood.

As quickly as it came stabbing through, the blade was drawn back again through the hedge and Smythe danced back out of the way as another lunge came at him through the shrubbery. The thickness of the hedge impeded the assault, but it was no less deadly if the blade happened to strike a vital spot. Unarmed save for the dagger that he always carried with him, Smythe was under no illusions as to its efficacy against a sword, much less a pair of swords, for it seemed now that there were two blades stabbing at him through the hedge, not one. Smythe decided that the only prudent thing to do was run for it. The only problem was, he was not really sure where he was going.

He would have found it difficult enough to retrace his steps without two assassins in pursuit of him. Running in the darkness only made things worse. However, if racing headlong through the dark corridors of the grassy maze confused him, then it also served to confuse those who pursued him, for it struck him that as visitors to the estate, they were probably no more familiar with the maze than he was. What at first must have seemed to them an ideal place to discuss their plans in secret now became a maddening impediment to their need to eliminate an eavesdropper. Smythe heard them furiously cursing behind him as they apparently missed a turn and ran blindly straight into a hedge. A moment later, he did almost exactly the same thing as he missed a turn and stopped only at the last instant, narrowly avoiding running straight into a wall of thick shrubbery.

He could no longer hear his pursuers, but logically surmised that it was not so much because he had outdistanced them as for their sudden stealth in movement. It must have occurred to them that the less noise they made in their pursuit, the better they could hear whatever sounds he made in his flight and thereby locate him in the maze. They had made it abundantly clear that they were in deadly earnest. If they caught him, he knew that they would do their very best to kill him… and anyone else who happened to get into their way.

The realization that Elizabeth was in grave danger if she were still within the maze filled Smythe with a concern bordering on panic. Alarmed, he almost called out a warning to her, but caught himself just in the nick of time. Calling out her name would not only serve to reveal his position to the two men who pursued him, it would also alert them to her presence in the maze.

Smythe took a deep breath in an attempt to steady his nerves, his thoughts racing in an effort to decide upon the best course of action. For all he knew, during the time that he was blundering about inside the maze, Elizabeth might already have accomplished her purpose and gone back to the house. If so, then she was safe and the two men trying to kill him would never suspect that she had also been in the maze with them tonight. On the other hand, if Elizabeth was still there and they encountered her, then they might easily assume that it was she who had overheard their plans and whom they had been chasing. And there was only one thing Smythe could think of to prevent that.

He took a deep breath and shouted out, as loudly as he could, “Help! Help! Robbers! Assassins!”

In calling out, he knew that he had given away his position, and if his pursuers were close by, then they might find him within moments and fall upon him. But the important thing was that they had heard a male voice calling out, and so would not suspect a female, even if they happened to catch sight of Elizabeth in or near the maze. At the same time, if Elizabeth was within earshot of his voice, his crying out would serve as a warning to her, one that he desperately hoped she would hear and heed.

“Help!” he called out again. “Brigands! Thieves! Murderers!”

In the distance, he heard answering shouts from the direction of the fairgrounds. If he had been heard back there, then surely Elizabeth must have heard him if she was still inside the maze. He could only hope that by now she had already gone back up to the house, but he had no way of knowing. He could not take that chance. He called out once more, as loudly as he could, and then stood very silent and absolutely still, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet, listening intently. Almost at once, he heard a rustling behind him and spun around, jumping to one side as he did so, and just as he expected, a rapier blade came plunging through the hedge, stabbing at the place where he had stood an instant earlier. This time, however, he was prepared with a riposte.

He had drawn his dagger, the only weapon he had with him, and as soon as he saw the glint of steel in the moonlight, he plunged his arm through the hedge up to his shoulder, using the rapier’s blade as his guide. They struck almost simultaneously. He felt the resistance of the narrow, thickly growing branches as he pushed his knife blade through the brush, but was rewarded by a yelp of pain and a furious oath from the other side. He pulled back his knife and saw, with grim satisfaction, a dark smear of blood upon the blade.

“Take that, you craven bastard,” he said.

He backed off a pace, making sure that he was well out of reach in case they struck again, then started moving to his left, listening intently and glancing all around. By now, his vision had grown somewhat accustomed to the darkness and the moonlight helped, though it was still difficult to see inside the tall walls of the maze. He had lost all sense of direction. He tried to gauge where his opponents might be on the other side of the hedge, but wherever they were, assuming they were still together, the two men were now taking care to move as quietly as he did. For all he knew, they had split up in an effort to converge upon him. It would have been the logical thing for them to do.

He heard more shouting coming from the direction of the fairgrounds, only now it sounded closer and it allowed him to reorientate himself. It seemed that someone back there had determined the approximate direction from which his shouts had come and they had started searching. It would not be long before they thought to look within the maze. There was nothing that would so quickly galvanize a group of merchants into action as a cry of “Thieves!”

Smythe could feel his heart pounding inside his chest, as if it were some wild thing trying to beat its way out through his ribcage. His breathing was coming in short gasps and he tried to steady it and keep it quiet, lest the sound of it should give his position away. It sounded unnaturally loud to him. At the same time, he tried to listen for any sounds his antagonists might make as they stalked him. He moved lightly on the balls of his feet, prepared to spring instantly to either one side or the other to avoid a deadly thrust coming through the hedge, while at the same time watching for the openings in the hedgerows that gave access to another corridor.

He had to find his way out of the maze as quickly as he could. Help would be arriving shortly, but at the moment, that was not foremost in his mind. He knew his only chance to learn who his pursuers were lay in his finding his way out of the maze before they did, so that he could watch for them as they came out. And of course, he realized, the same thing must have occurred to them, as well.

It struck him that if those two men found their way out of the maze before he did, then there was nothing to prevent them from joining with the searchers from the fairgrounds when they arrived and pretend to have responded to his shouts along with them. He would then be found, and they would be among those who would find him, at which point they could easily turn the tables on him, claiming that it was one of them who had called out for help and that he was the assailant. At night, and from a distance, one shout sounded much like any other. He would be able to prove nothing. He knew that he had managed to blood one of them, but that in itself would constitute no proof that they had attacked him. They could just as easily claim that he had struck first.

On the other hand, he thought, they did not really have to do anything. If they got out of the maze before he did, there was nothing to prevent them from blending in with the searchers when they arrived and then simply wait for him to be found. The one he had blooded might not have his wound in some easily visible location, or else he might leave to have it tended to while his companion stayed behind to mark him and find out who he was, so that they could pick their time and dispose of him at a more opportune moment. Either way, he thought, it made no difference. If they got out of the maze first, the odds became entirely in their favor.

He called out several more times, despite the risk, then used the answering shouts to help him find his way. It was all too easy, especially under the circumstances, to make several turns through the maze and then lose track of direction. That was the idea, after all. These arboreal mazes were all the rage among the idle rich, and so of course Godfrey Middleton absolutely had to have one that was larger and more intricate than anyone else’s, for which Smythe roundly cursed him as he kept turning through the corridors, trying to keep his mind on which side of the hedge walls lay towards the exterior and which were towards the center. He tried not to think about Elizabeth, difficult as that was. He could only pray that she was safely gone by now.

Then, suddenly, he was out. It took him by surprise when he stepped through a break in the hedgerows and abruptly realized he had come out. For an alarming moment, he felt exposed and vulnerable. He crouched, instinctively, holding his dagger out before him, glancing quickly to his left and to his right, but there was no sign of anyone. Then he heard shouting and saw figures in silhouette against the light coming from the house as they moved towards the steps leading down to the gardens.

Quickly, he moved away from the entrance to the maze, keeping it in sight to see who might come out behind him. He went a short way down the garden path, keeping to the shadows, still in a position to see anyone who came out of the maze, but he could see no movement there. He hesitated to go any further, because as it was, he would not see anyone come out of the maze until they came away from the entrance and moved out onto the garden path. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to get a good look at anyone in the darkness.

There were several people running down the steps now, entering the garden.

“ ‘Allo! Allo! Allo! Who called for help? Allo! Are you there? Allo?”

There was still no sign of anyone coming out of the maze. Smythe swore under his breath. Could he possibly have missed them? Or had they managed to get out ahead of him?

“ ‘Allo! Where are you?”

Smythe was about to call out in reply when something else occurred to him. If those men had managed to get out of the maze before him, then for all he knew, they could be the ones who were calling out to him right now. He would reply, and they would come running up to him, and he would think that they were coming to the rescue, when in fact…

“Allo! Allo!”

Smythe bit his lower lip. He had no time left to deliberate. He could hear running footsteps approaching. Quickly, he stepped back off the flagstoned path and concealed himself among the shrubbery just as several dark figures came running around the bend. He had a tense moment, wondering if they had seen him, but they ran right past his hiding place, heading towards the maze. He could hear them calling out to one another, asking if anyone had seen anything, and they kept calling out to him, as well. However, he would give no answering shouts this time, for he did not know for certain who they were.

He headed towards the steps, ducking back out of the way at least twice more to avoid being seen, then made his way back to the servants’ wing of the house without further incident, for which he was profoundly grateful. He had experienced quite enough excitement for one night.

“God’s breath!” Shakespeare exclaimed, when Smythe had finished telling him what happened. “ ‘Tis a wondrous miracle you were not slain! What manner of deviltry have you stumbled into this time?”

Smythe shook his head. “I know not the whole of it, but I know something of their plan, enough at least to warn our host what they intend. And by God, I shall do that, you may be sure of it! I am of a mind to go at once to Master Middleton and tell him all I heard. Will you come with me?”

“Well, soft now,” Shakespeare replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “let us pause a bit to consider these events before we rush to raise any alarums. There is nothing to be served by undue haste, and methinks nothing that shall not keep til morning. To be sure, with his daughter being married on the morrow, Master Middleton should not receive us very cordially if we were to call upon him at this late hour.”

They sat together in a tiny room on the first floor, in the servants’ quarters. It was illuminated only by one candle stuck into a small, saucer-shaped brass sconce. The other members of the company were all abed by now, distributed throughout several rooms within the servants’ wing. Some of them had been put up four or five to a room, because as players they did not rank above servants and, in truth, generally ranked well below them. Nor did any of them complain, for the accomodations that they had received were in fact better than those they often got, and in this case, certainly better than the merchants, who slept either in their tents or in their wagons, where they could keep close to their goods. Shakespeare and Smythe had a bedroom to themselves, though that was only because, as Shakespeare had earlier observed, calling it a room at all would be allowing it pretensions of grandeur. It was actually little more than a small closet, with two beds close together upon the floor. There was room for little else save for a small nightstand, a washbasin and a candle. That candle was now burning very low, for it was well past midnight.

When Smythe returned, Shakespeare was still up, hunched over some papers. Squinting in the insufficient light from the candle on the little nightstand, he sat cross-legged on the bed, having improvised a writing desk with a wooden trencher he had borrowed from the kitchen. He was, even at this last moment, still working on the play they were to perform the following day. Since this was to be a private performance, taking place outside the city of London, there had been no need to submit a fair copy of the play to the Master of the Revels, as would have been necessary for a performance at their theatre, but at the same time, the more changes he would make at this late stage, the more burden would be placed upon the players, who would quickly have to memorize new lines and adapt themselves accordingly to any changes he might make in the stage directions. Shakespeare knew all this, of course, but still, he was not happy with the play. He was more than happy, however, to have an excuse to put it aside for awhile and discuss Smythe’s fascinating situation.

“I do see what you mean,” Smythe said. “The last thing the father of the bride would need on the night before the wedding was a hue and cry raised about an overheard conversation in a garden. Still, it has a most intimate bearing on his family, and were it my own daughter who was being so intrigued against, I would most certainly wish to know!”

“Indeed,” Shakespeare agreed. “However, let us first examine what you do know.”

Smythe frowned once more. “But… what do you mean? Did I not just tell you?”

“You told me that you had overheard a conversation,” Shakespeare replied, “but between whom?”

“Why, the two men in the maze!”

“What were their names? What did they look like?”

“Why, how in the world should I know? I do not think that either of them used the other’s name. And as for what they looked like, I never even caught a glimpse of them!”

“Precisely,” Shakespeare said, with a wry grimace. “You have overheard a conversation which may lead you, justifiably, to make an accusation, but against whom?” He shrugged. “There are many visitors here. This is the largest wedding the society of London has seen since… well, certainly since we have been in London. And what have you to go by to identify these men save for the sounds of their voices? For that matter, unless a voice should have some marked characteristic that renders it uncommon, one voice often sounds much like another. Can you be certain, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that you could pick these two voices out from all the rest? Or from one that may sound similar?”

“ ‘Sdeath! You have me there. I should think that I would know them if I heard them once again, but to say they are the ones beyond any shadow of a doubt… but wait… there is one thing! I know that they plan to pose as a nobleman and his son! That should enable us to identify them!”

“Indeed?” said Shakespeare. “And how many noblemen do you suppose will be in attendance at this wedding, hmm? Considering, of course, that this celebration is to be the single most significant social event of the season. And how many of them, do you suppose, shall bring their sons along, as well, especially considering that the extremely, one might even say obscenely wealthy Master Middleton still has an emminently marriageable and, by all accounts, extremely beautiful younger daughter?”

“Ah,” said Smythe, weakly.

“Ah, indeed.”

“So then… what are we to do?”

“Well, ‘twould seem to me that you have a number of things to consider before we can answer that question,” Shakespeare replied. “For one thing, you seem to have neglected, at least for the moment, the matter of what brought you out to the garden maze last night in the first place.”

“ Elizabeth!”

“Precisely. Now, can you be certain that she is not somehow involved in this?”

“ Elizabeth? I could never believe that of her!” Smythe replied. “Not after what she went through herself! Zounds, does anyone get betrothed in London without all manner of plots and counterplots?”

“One might say that marriage is a plot in and of itself, but that is neither here nor there,” said Shakespeare, wryly. “If you are going to be reporting what you heard tonight to Master Middleton, or to anyone else, for that matter, then quite aside from being questioned closely about what you had heard, you will doubtless be questioned about why you were out there in the first place, especially at such an hour. Now, would you be comfortable saying that you were there because you had seen Elizabeth entering the maze alone and therefore followed her? For if you were to say that, then chances are it would cast suspicion upon her, and she would be summoned to explain why she went out there all alone, with darkness falling.”

“I would like to hear that explanation, myself,” said Smythe.

“Ah, but are you entitled to it?” Shakespeare countered. “And even if you were, which is certainly open to argument, then how do you suppose Elizabeth would feel about that?”

“She would probably be furious with me,” Smythe said, glumly. “She does have quite the temper.”

“Mmm, don’t they all?” said Shakespeare.

“What are we to do then?”

“We?” The poet raised his eyebrows. “I thought ‘twas your problem that we were discussing. How does it happen, Tuck, that I always manage somehow to be pulled into your intrigues?”

“Because you are my friend,” said Smythe.

“Aye, worse luck.”

“And because you cannot resist it. You are as curious as a cat, Will.”

“True, and worse luck, still,” said Shakespeare, with a grimace. “So then, where does that leave us?”

Shakespeare sighed. “Well… it leaves us with not one, but two puzzles, it would seem. The first, and the most immediate, since it nearly resulted in your getting skewered tonight, is the matter of these two mysterious and rather unpleasant gentlemen and their plot involving Blanche Middleton. The second is the question of what Elizabeth was doing out in the maze tonight, and whether or not her business there had aught to do with these two gentlemen. I know that you do not believe it, but we cannot dismiss the possibility. We must keep our heads about us and not allow our feelings to influence our better judgement. You say that you neither saw nor heard her after you had entered the maze yourself?”

Smythe shook his head. “No. It seemed to me that she must have known her way around in there, for I lost track of her and became confused myself.”

“You became what you had already become, else you would not have gone out there in the first place,” Shakespeare said, dryly.

“Are you going to help me or criticize me?”

“I criticize you only to help you, my lad,” the poet replied. He took a deep breath. “That girl is going to be the ruin of you yet. But… you are my very best friend, Tuck, for better or for worse, and so, as I am a loyal friend, your ruin shall be our ruin, and we shall both go down magnificently.”

Tuck rolled his eyes. “You are being melodramatic.”

“Of course, I am being melodramatic, you ninny. I am a poet.”

“And a player.”

“Aye, and thus stand doubly damned. Well then, what shall we do about this curious predicament?” He stroked his beard and thought for a moment. Then he nodded to himself. “ Twould seem to me that saying anything to Master Middleton at this point would serve no useful purpose. We do not know enough to tell him anything of substance. That someone might plot to take advantage of him and his daughter, to marry her for money, well, that is something that any man in his position would readily surmise and take steps to prepare for. And who are we, after all, to be pointing accusatory fingers at any of his guests? We are but two lowly players, whose own motives might easily be suspect. We need much more than just the few remarks you overheard tonight before we can go to Master Middleton.”

“But we are only here for one more day,” said Smythe. “Or two, at most, if we depart the day after our performance.”

“Which argues well for doing nothing,” Shakespeare replied. “This is truly none of our affair.”

“When someone tries to run me through with a rapier, I consider that very much my affair!”

“Oh, very well, then. If you insist. We shall have to see if we can discover anything about who Blanche Middleton’s suitors might be, and who, among them, is an aristocrat-or pretends to be one- and who, among those, may be here together with his father-or a man who pretends to be his father. Then you must listen to them speak and see if you can recognize their voices. And ‘twill be interesting to see if they can recognize yours, as well, for if so, then that may suit our purpose admirably.”

“And just how would it do that?” asked Smythe, frowning.

Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, they have already tried to kill you once. They would doubtless try it once again to ensure that you did not give them away. And doing so, they might well give themselves away. And that would suit our purpose, you see?”

“ ‘Twould not suit my purpose very well if I were killed!”

“Quite. Therefore, we shall endeavor to keep you alive as long as possible. Long enough, at least, to get to the bottom of this nefarious intrigue and find out if Master Middleton is grateful enough to offer some reward.”

“I see. So I should therefore place my life at risk so that you might collect a reward from Master Middleton?”

“Well, I would share it with you, of course. Assuming you survived, that is.”

“How good of you.”

“Think nothing of it. What are friends for?”

“For getting other friends killed, it would seem.”

“Look, did I ask you to go out to the maze tonight on the trail of some pouty girl? Or did you, in fact, come to me to help you out with this?”

Smythe made a sour face. “I came to you,” he admitted.

“Indeed. Tis not too late to change your mind, however. We could still choose to act as if none of this had ever happened and blithely go about minding our own business as if we were naught but mere players hired to perform a foolish little play for the amusement of the wedding guests, then take our bows, and pack our things, and continue on our merry way to new adventures and amusements. And I, for one, would have no trouble whatsoever if we were to do precisely that. So then… what shall it be?”

Smythe sighed. “You know, Will, you can be a very irritating person.”

“I know. My wife used to say exactly the same thing, which is why she lives in Stratford and I live in London, where I can no longer irritate her.”

Smythe shook his head. “The devil take it all. I started this, I may as well see it through. Although I have a feeling we may both regret this.”

“Anything worth doing is often worth regretting,” Shakespeare said. “And we can start tomorrow.”