The Slaying Of The Shrew

5

The morning brought a bustle of activity throughout the household as the staff arose well before dawn to begin making the final preparations for the wedding. The kitchen was in full roar well before sunrise, with the cooks bellowing at their helpers like sergeants on the battlefield barking out orders to their troops. The cleaning maids scurried throughout the house with feather dusters, polishing cloths, straw brooms and fresh rushes. The grooms and stable boys fed, curry combed and brushed the horses they were stabling for the guests and shoveled out the stalls for additional arrivals, although it was expected that most of the remaining guests would be arriving by boat, rowed out from the city by the rivermen.

Outside on the fairgrounds, the activity among the merchants seemed more leisurely compared to the frenetic atmosphere inside the house, but they, too, started very early. Most of them arose well before dawn, just like the household staff, and got their cook fires going, then started opening their tents and stalls and laying out their goods for market. By sunrise, the displays were all prepared and the goldsmiths could be heard tapping their hammers in their stalls; the weavers were click-clacking their looms; the tailors had their dummies set out and dressed with the finest doublets in their stock and the potters had their wheels spinning. Even the well-heeled guests who were accustomed to rising late had risen early-if not quite so early as the help-to breakfast in the hall, so that they could go out to the fairgrounds and get first crack at the merchandise, or else simply wander around and enjoy the spectacle.

Godfrey Middleton had certainly done himself proud, Smythe thought. An elaborate, gala wedding celebration for his eldest daughter, complete with a nautical procession worthy of a display for the queen’s own court, and along with that, a private fair open only to his guests, a joust, and the premier of a new play staged especially for the occasion all made for an event that would have everyone in London talking about it for months. All those who had not been in attendance would feel that they had missed something very special and momentous, especially those noble hangers-on who had gone along with the queen’s court on Her Majesty’s progress through the countryside.

The queen herself would be certain to hear of it, and with her well known fondness for masques and jousts, theatricals and balls and entertainments of all sorts, it was almost a foregone conclusion that next time she would include Middleton Manor on her itinerary, instead of Sir William Worley’s Green Oaks. And then once he had played host to the queen for a few weeks, which would be an even more expensive proposition, Godfrey Middleton would be well on his way to the knighthood that he coveted. It was all going to cost him a great deal of money, Smythe thought, but doubtless he considered it money very well spent. Especially since he had it to spend.

The Queen’s Men had their duties already set out for them in their instructions from the steward. They had a light repast with the serving staff in the kitchen, which with all the frenetic and boisterous activity going on around them was rather like eating breakfast in the middle of a battlefield, then changed into their costumes and made their way down to the river gate, where they would await the remainder of the guests and, finally, the wedding party. First, however, they all lined up in their white senatorial robes for inspection by the steward, Humphrey, who walked up and down the line like a general and looked them over with a sort of disdainful resignation, adjusted the fold or drape of a robe here and there, then sniffed and pronounced that they “would do.”

“There goes a man who has missed his true vocation,” John Fleming commented wryly after Humphrey had dismissed them and they began to make their way down to the river. “With that bilious disposition, the man is a born critic if ever I saw one.”

Smythe chuckled, but Will Kemp’s perpetual grumbling and grousing forestalled his response.

“These costumes are ridiculous,” Kemp said. “Roman senators, indeed! We look more like a bunch of cadavers wrapped up in shrouds.”

“In your case, that would be particularly true,” Robert Speed replied.

“At least my talent is alive and well, which is certainly more than I can say for yours,” Kemp riposted, contemptuously.

Speed raised his hand and snapped his fingers, as if ordering up a tankard of ale. “Gentlemen, a shroud for Master Kemp’s talent, if you please?”

“We should have asked for some flasks of wine or perhaps a small keg of ale,” John Hemings said, as if prompted by the gesture. “These flimsy robes are none too warm.”

“Aye, and adding to the morning chill, there is a stiff cold breeze coming in off the river,” Kemp complained as they made their way down the steps to the arched stone river gate. “I can feel the wind blowing straight up through the bottom of this pox-ridden robe.”

“Well, ‘twould not be the first time you had your pox-ridden privates waving in the breeze, now would it?” Speed said.

Kemp gave him a withering glare. “And how would you know, Bobby?”

“Oh! Stabbed to the quick!” Speed cried out, grabbing at his chest and staggering down the steps. “Sweet mercy, I am slain!”

They all burst out laughing as he “died” theatrically on the steps in a series of dramatic thrashings and convulsions. Even Kemp was moved to laugh, despite himself.

“Well worthy of a Caesar’s death!” said Burbage, applauding. “Ned Alleyn himself could never have done better!”

“Aye, and he frequently did much worse,” added Kemp, whose dislike for their late colleague, who had recently quit their company for their chief rivals, the Admiral’s Men, was matched only by the legendary actor’s profound distaste for him.

The mention of Alleyn’s name momentarily broke their mood of levity, for aside from Kemp’s dislike of him, Edward Alleyn was sorely missed. He was widely acknowledged as the finest actor of the day and if Kemp considered both his talent and his ego overblown, Smythe knew it was because his feelings were motivated primarily by jealousy, for Alleyn’s was the name that drew the audiences. They were of different schools, with Alleyn being the realistic dramatist and Kemp the capering clown who played directly to the audience and ad libbed whenever the mood struck him, or whenever he could not recall his lines, which he took little trouble to memorize in any case.

Unfortunately for Kemp, Smythe thought, his brand of broad, physical comedy seemed to be going out of style, just as Shakespeare had predicted, and Kemp seemed unwilling or unable to adapt. For all his grave portentousness and showy manner, Alleyn was now drawing significantly larger audiences at the Rose Theatre, and while the Queen’s Men could still boast Her Royal Majesty as their patron, their reputation as the preeminent players of the day was on the wane. Their repertoire was somewhat shopworn and though Shakespeare had managed to improve several of their plays with rewrites, they badly needed something new to bring their audiences back. They were all too well aware of this, and the mention of Ned Alleyn’s name merely served to underscore it.

“Well, come on now, Speed, bestir yourself,” said Shakespeare, leaning down to give him a hand up. “You shall only soil your costume on these steps, aside from which, methinks I spy some boats drawing near.”

Indeed, some small boats were approaching from the direction of the city, bearing the first arrivals of the day. After some brief discussion concerning the roles they were to play, they all decided simply to welcome the arriving guests as if they were citizens of Rome, coming to attend the wedding of Caesar and Cleopatra. It was decided that it would probably be for the best to avoid any reference to Calpurnia, or Mark Antony, for that matter, and that whatever they decided to call themselves as they improvised their way through their individual performances, the names of Casca, Cassius and Brutus might be a little inappropriate.

The players were not the only ones awaiting the arriving guests at the stone gate. As the boats drew up to the stone steps that came down to the water from the arched river gate, several of the household staff stood by to check their invitations, in order to make certain that no uninvited guests would be admitted. Rather cleverly, Will Kemp took it upon himself to receive the invitations from the men who checked them and then announce the guests as if they were arriving at an imperial court. It allowed him an opportunity to ham it up in front of some of London’s most wealthy and influential citizens, while at the same time it kept him from having to keep going up and down the stairs to the house, as did all the others who escorted the arriving guests.

As the morning wore on and guests continued to arrive, Smythe remained by the gate with Kemp, playing subserviently to his character as if he were some ministerial aide and collecting all the invitations from him while paying particular attention to the noblemen who were arriving together with their grown and eligible sons. To his dismay, there turned out to be over a dozen of them. And then there were other sons of noble birth who arrived together with their fathers and their mothers, though it occurred to Smythe that he should not eliminate them from consideration simply because of that. A man who was bold enough to pose as the son of a nobleman in all this august company would certainly be resourceful enough to find a woman who could play the part of his mother, just as he had planned to have his co-conspirator pose as his wealthy, aristocratic father.

Unfortunately, thought Smythe, his background was not such that he would know any of these people. Some of their names might be familiar to him, but a lowly ostler and player such as himself did not move in such exalted circles, and so he therefore lacked the necessary knowledge to make any immediate determinations as to who was who. A good many of these people would naturally know one another, and would thus be better able to identify any strangers in their midst, but he could not simply approach noblemen and ask them to vouch for one another. Dick Burbage, perhaps, as one who had grown up in the city, would be better able to recognize many of these people, but more than anything else, Smythe wished that Sir William were here, so that he could consult with him. As a regular at court and a leader of London society, Sir William would certainly be able to help him narrow down the list of suspects.

However, in all likelihood, Sir William had accompanied the queen on her sojourn in the country, because whenever Her Majesty made her annual progresses through the countryside, her entire court would travel with her. It meant that whichever of her subjects she chose to stay with when she stopped would have to bear the expense of playing host not only to the queen, but to her entire court, as well. It would take a mansion such as Green Oaks or Middleton Manor to house them all and it would take a large retinue of servants to see to their needs. Why anyone would wish to put up with such a monumental inconvenience and expense, much less compete with others for the dubious privilege, was beyond Smythe, but compete for it they did, and this wedding festival at Middleton Manor was planned to serve that very purpose. Smythe understood, in essence, that playing for the queen’s favor was important to those who wished to rise in rank and power, but he still found it difficult to understand why any of that would mean much to Sir William.

The first time they had met, Sir William had tried to rob him. Of course, he had not known it was Sir William at the time. The last thing Smythe would have expected to encounter on a country road while on his way to London was a knight of the realm dressed as a highwayman. It was not until much later that he discovered who the infamous Black Billy really was or why one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in London chose to lead a secret life as a legendary brigand. As master of the Sea Hawks, the privateers who had achieved everlasting fame and glory when, led by Sir Francis Drake, they had defeated and wrecked the Spanish Armada, Sir William had made his fortune as a shipwright. Though not personally a privateer, he liked to think of himself as something of a pirate, and in a sense, Smythe thought, he probably was. Though he had done his buccaneering with his purse strings rather than a cutlass, William Worley had been no less ruthless.

Smythe found it difficult to imagine how a man like Sir William could indulge in the sort of social jousting practiced by men like Godfrey Middleton and most of the queen’s courtiers. It was rather like trying to imagine a hawk strutting with the chickens. It seemed both unlikely and absurd.

However, a friendship between a knight like Worley and a player like himself seemed equally unlikely and absurd, and yet despite that Sir William was his friend, though Smythe was under no illusions that they would possibly ever be equals. Aside from himself, Shakespeare was the only other person who knew that Sir William was Black Billy, at least to Smythe’s knowledge. Sir Francis Walsingham undoubtedly knew, as well, though Smythe could only surmise that. Her Majesty’s chief minister was reputedly a man of many secrets and Black Billy would be one of the best kept.

Without Sir William’s presence, Smythe could only try to think what he would have done if he were here, and how he might have advised him to proceed. It was difficult for him to tell who the players were without a scorecard, but it occurred to him that anyone who was outside the general circle of London’s high society should be immediately suspect. There were a number of foreign aristocrats in attendance, and they would need to be watched closely, as well as those nobles who came from beyond the environs of the city. Still, Smythe felt frustratingly handicapped by not knowing exactly who those people were.

What he needed, he realized, was Elizabeth ’s help. But would Elizabeth even speak to him after their last argument? She would probably be disposed to help safeguard her friend’s sister from unscrupulous men, but how would he explain how he came by his information? He could just imagine her reaction if he told her that he had overheard two strangers plotting against Blanche Middleton because he had followed her out to the maze last night. No, he thought, that would never do.

He could, of course, simply choose to forget about the whole thing. After all, it did not really concern him personally. What was Blanche Middleton to him? He did not know her. He had not met her. He had never even seen her. His only connection to the Middletons was of a most tenuous nature, indeed. Elizabeth was Catherine’s friend, and he cared about Elizabeth, who for all he knew no longer cared about him. He was disturbed at the idea of an innocent woman being duped and taken advantage of, but was it really any of his business? The whole thing was a pointless muddle, and it was giving him a headache, and perhaps he would do well just to forget about it all.

There was, however, the rather unsettling fact that they had tried to kill him, and might well do so again, if they discovered who he was. For that matter, it occurred to him that they might already know who he was. It was certainly possible that they could have come out of the maze before he did. If so, then they could easily have concealed themselves in the garden near the entrance to the maze and waited for him to come out, so they could mark him. After that, it would have been a simple enough matter to find out who he was. And even if he decided to avoid becoming involved, there was no way they would know that. The only way they could make certain that he could never give them away would be to kill him. It was not a reassuring thought.

He knew that he could count on Will to help him, but that would not be enough. Shakespeare had no more knowledge about London ’s upper crust than he did. Neither of them had been in the city very long. Without Sir William present, the only one who was in a position to help him was Elizabeth. And that brought him right back to the irksome problem of how he was to tell her what he knew and how he knew it. There seemed to be only one solution.

He would have to lie.

He recalled Sir William saying once that the best lies were those that kept closest to the truth, because they required the least embellishment and it was thereby easier to avoid making a slip. Therefore, he would stick to the truth as much as possible. He would say that he had overheard the two strangers plotting to take advantage of Blanche Middleton and her father. But then he would have to explain how it happened that he had heard them, but had never seen them. Once again, the simple truth would provide an easy and credible explanation, but what he wanted to avoid, if possible, was telling Elizabeth that he had overheard those men because he had followed her. And if he told her that it had happened last night, then even if he did not admit he followed her, she would realize that he had gone out to the maze at about the same time she did and she would doubtless guess the rest. So… the lie had to be concocted there.

It could not have happened any earlier than yesterday, he thought, for everybody knew when the players had arrived. But it could easily have happened several hours earlier, in the afternoon. There were several hours during which the Queen’s Men had been settling in, getting their equipment put away, and preparing the stage for their performance. He would need no more pretext to say why he had gone out to the garden than to tell her that he had gone along with Shakespeare, to help him work out some last minute changes in the play.

With most of the visitors to the estate either in the house itself or at the fairgrounds, the garden, and in particular the maze, would seem like the perfect place to go to have some privacy and quiet in which to work. He would need only to tell Shakespeare of his plan, so that Will would know to say that he had been there with him. And because he had already discussed last night’s events with him in detail, Will would not require any further briefing. He already knew as much as if he had been there himself.

Smythe nodded to himself with satisfaction. The plan at least seemed workable and he could see no flaw in it. It was also close enough to the truth to make it eminently practical. He would now have to try to find Elizabeth as soon as possible and tell her what he knew. In the face of this threat to the future of her friend’s sister, surely, her earlier quarrel with him would be forgotten. That was almost worth an attempt upon his life.

An abrupt change in the manner of the two servants at his side alerted Smythe to pay closer attention to the next boat that was drawing up to the gate. It was a larger boat, better appointed, with a small mast and gaff-rigged sail. Even Kemp, who was not the most observant of individuals, noticed that the manner of the servants had changed somewhat. Their backs had stiffened noticeably and they began to check their costumes, brushing at them and making small adjustments.

“Look smartly now,” said one of them. “Yonder boat bears Master Middleton and his younger daughter, with Sir Percival. Their arrival means that the wedding flotilla shall not be far behind.”

Kemp drew himself up to his full height, which because he was not much taller than five feet had the comical effect of making him look like a bantam rooster trying to stretch itself into a game cock. The importance of making a good impression on their host, one of the richest men in London, was not lost on him, for Kemp had ambitions of his own that were no less lofty than Ned Alleyn’s.

As the boat pulled up to the steps, Smythe marked Godfrey Middleton as he prepared to disembark. Smythe realized that he had seen this man before, when he had attended to his elaborate, black lacquered coach at the Theatre, though he had not known who he was. Now, he recognized him as Middleton stepped off the boat, assisted by his servants.

He was not a young man, by any means, though he was stout and barrel-chested, with thick legs that seemed a bit too short for his torso, so that he seemed to waddle slightly when he walked. His wide and round-cheeked face was ruddy and his prominent, bulbous nose was red, though whether from the chill upon the river or overindulgence in fine wines, Smythe could not tell, though he could easily hazard a guess.

Godfrey Middleton had the appearance of a man who enjoyed all of the finer things in life and could easily afford them. His clothing was obviously expensive and exquisitely tailored. He wore a saffron ruff and his chestnut colored doublet was of the finest three-piled velvet, tailored in the French style, richly embroidered with gold and silver thread and sewn with jewels, puffed at the shoulders and slashed deeply at the sleeves, revealing bright glimpses of a marigold satin shirt beneath that must have been imported from Paris and probably cost more than Smythe could hope to make in a year. Middleton’s galligaskins were deep scarlet and gartered with marigold silk ribbons that matched the silk rosettes upon his gold-buckled shoes. The striking ensemble was topped off with a long cloak in dark, chestnut-brown brocade with a matching floppy bonnet set off with marigold silk ribbons.

“There’s a bright beplumaged bird,” said Smythe.

“Softly, simpleton, else he shall hear you!” whispered Kemp, glancing at him sharply.

“I doubt it,” Smythe replied, although he did lower his voice. “And methinks he would care little if he did. Look at him. He is positively green.”

Indeed, Godfrey Middleton looked decidedly ill as he stepped unsteadily out of the boat, assisted by his servants. He appeared genuinely grateful to be on dry land once again. Even though it had been only a relatively short boat trip on the Thames, Middleton acted as if he had just barely survived an arduous transatlantic crossing.

“Zounds, what beastly weather!” he exclaimed to his companions as they disembarked. “That wretched wind! ‘Twas a frightful chop out there, I tell you! I damn well nearly gave up breakfast!”

His voice was high-pitched and rather nasal and complemented his waddle perfectly. To Smythe, he sounded like a large, affronted goose, squawking with pompous indignation. The “frightful chop” that he referred to was, to Smythe’s eyes, no more than a slight display of whitecaps on the water’s surface, hardly what anyone would call rough sailing. It might be a bit of a rock in a small rowboat, perhaps, but it was only the Thames River, after all, not the English Channel. The breeze was brisk and cool, but it was a long way from being a “wretched wind.” And Smythe thought that the only reasonable excuse that anyone would have for giving up their breakfast out there would be if they were pregnant.

“Well, ‘twas a bit of an unpleasant journey, I’ll agree, but ‘tis over now and our feet are once again upon dry land,” said one of Middleton’s companions. “From now on, ‘twill all be smooth sailing.” The man chuckled at his own remark. “Eh? What? Smooth sailing? I say, that’s jolly good, what?”

This gentleman turned out to be the groom. Sir Percival Pennington-Pugh was at least the same age as the bride’s father, if not older, but there any similarity ended. Where Middleton was portly, thick-chested and short-legged, Sir Percival was thin as a hay-rake and practically all legs and elbows. And if Middleton brought to mind a puffed up goose, then Sir Percival looked like a spindly water fly, albeit one decked out in a costume so garish as to make Middleton’s clothing look positively subdued.

For the occasion of his wedding, Sir Percival had donned a white ruff and a doublet of robin’s egg blue silk with double rows of silver buttons set so close together that they touched. His sleeves were “pinked,” or slashed to show a silk shirt in a newly fashionable color named “dead Spaniard,” in honor of the sinking of the Armada. To Smythe, who did not have much of an eye for distinguishing fashionable subtleties of color, it simply looked dark purple. The groom’s fashionable if rather impractical shoes were made of light blue silk, to match his doublet, and they were likewise pinked to show off his morbid Spanish hose. His baggy gaskins were made of velvet in a violet hue and he wore so many jeweled rings that merely lifting his long-fingered, bony hands seemed to take an effort. He wore a wide-linked silver chain, enameled as was currently the fashion in shades of black and purple, to match his high-crowned hat, and in keeping with the latest court fashion of matching one’s tonsorial hues to one’s haberdashery, he had dyed his hair and pointy beard a purple shade, as well. The servants approached him and helped him don a long, purple fringed robe over his ensemble and then exchanged his hat for an elaborate, Romanesque laurel wreath made of hammered gold. Smythe thought that the unlikely combination of the pleated ruff together with the Roman robe made him look rather like an ambulatory tablecloth surmounted by the head of John the Baptist sitting on a platter.

“God blind me!” he said softly, as the groom and the father of the bride began to climb the steps toward them. “Pity poor Catherine Middleton. With such a Caesar, would for her sake these were the Ides of March and not his wedding day!”

“Shhh!” hissed Kemp, elbowing him in the ribs. “Mock this Caesar at your peril, fool,” he whispered. “They will club you down, stuff you in a weighted sack, and toss you in the river!”

Smythe fell silent, but not so much as a result of his companion’s admonition as from the sight that greeted him as the next passenger lightly stepped off the boat and pulled back the hood of her long, dark blue velvet cloak with a languid, graceful gesture.

Blanche Middleton was all of sixteen, tall for her age, raven-haired, buxom and small-waisted, with grayish-blue eyes that looked like cracked diamonds. She wore a crimson velvet gown over a cartwheel farthingale, which could not have been very comfortable for sitting in a boat, and her puff-sleeved, black velvet bodice was heavily embroidered in gold and stiffened with a pointed stomacher that accentuated a very ample bosom that was displayed even more boldly than the current fashion dictated. She looked around and her gaze settled upon Smythe with such a frank, smouldering directness that it made him look around, thinking that she must have been looking at someone else behind him on the steps, someone quite familiar to her. But when he turned, he saw that there was no one there. When he looked back, her gaze met his once again and she smiled with a sultry, mocking sort of amusement. It struck Smythe that, unquestionably, she was looking straight at him, and he looked back with a frank, appraising stare to see if she would drop her gaze. But she did not.

She came straight up the steps towards him, her eyes never leaving his, save for one moment when they flicked briefly up and down, taking his measure with a boldness that Smythe had never before encountered in a girl.

“My, my,” she said in a low and throaty voice, as she drew even with him. “You are a big one.”

Feeling flustered and not quite knowing how else to respond, Smythe bowed slightly and said, “Your servant, ma’am.”

“Indeed?” she replied, archly. “How lovely. I trust that you shall serve me well then.”

“Come on, then, Blanche, stop dawdling!” her father called to her, from further up the steps. “We must hurry up and take our places. The flotilla is approaching!”

“Coming, Father!” she called, without taking her eyes off Smythe. And then she cleared her throat slightly, took a deep breath, enhancing her already ample cleavage, lowered her eyelids, and pursed her lips before continuing on her way up the steps with a lingering backward glance over her shoulder.

It took Smythe a moment to find his voice, and when he did, all he could say was, “Good God!”

“Neither God nor goodness has anything to do with that, my dear boy,” said Kemp, dryly.

“Was I imagining things?” asked Smythe. “Kemp, did you hear? Did you see?”

“I have ears and I have eyes,” Will Kemp replied. “And I have a very great concern for the integrity and preservation of my bones, which faculty I would most heartily commend to you, my lad. Yon saucy baggage is even more trouble than that Darcie wench. If that fire she has just ignited in your loins needs cooling, then may I suggest you jump into the river now and quench the flame post haste, before it burns you and all the rest of us, besides.”

A crowd had gathered at the top of the steps behind them, drawn by the arrival of their host and their anticipation of the wedding flotilla bearing the bride. Many of the men were also doubtless drawn by the arrival of Blanche Middleton, who was certainly worth looking at and who seemed to delight in the effect she had on any male within viewing distance. Smythe noticed that all of the young aristocrats he had marked earlier were there, vying for her attention and trying to elbow one another out of the way. If this sort of thing kept up, he thought, there could well be trouble brewing before the day was through.

What concerned him more, however, was that he had as yet seen no sign of Elizabeth. Where could she be? Catherine was due to arrive at any moment. It puzzled Smythe that while Catherine Middleton had spent the night in London, at the residence her father maintained there, Elizabeth had been here, at Middleton Manor. Why? One would think that the logical place for her to have been was at her friend’s side as she got ready for the wedding. And why was Elizabeth not part of the wedding party that was arriving on the barge?

The specter of suspicion rose up in his mind once more. There was no reason in the world that Smythe could think of why Elizabeth should not have been in London with Catherine, so that she could arrive with her on the “royal barge,” unless of course, coming out early to Middleton Manor would have given her an opportunity to meet with someone. And that someone could only be another man. Nothing else made any sense. And as his thoughts returned to that once more, it again struck him how convenient it was that they had quarrelled the last time they had seen each other.

So… where, was Elizabeth? He knew where she had been last night. Where was she now? Why was she not here, with everybody else?

Someone called out that the wedding flotilla was approaching, and in moments, everyone was pointing and shouting excitedly. Indeed, the wedding party was approaching in a fleet of boats accompanying the royal barge, just as he had seen them rehearsing the previous day. This time, however, it all seemed to be going smoothly, and despite the “wretched wind” and “frightful chop” that Godfrey Middelton had complained of, the flotilla was approaching in perfect formation, albeit spaced out a bit more widely than before, no doubt in order to avoid the sort of collision that had occurred yesterday.

Smythe had to admit that it certainly looked impressive. The rivermen were an independent and often surly lot, but somehow Middleton’s man had succeeded in getting them to work together and take direction in this waterborne pageant. The smaller boats stayed more or less in line and relatively equidistant from one another, forming an escort for the wedding barge that was being drawn by the larger boats in the center of the formation.

The crowd oohed and ahhed as the flotilla drew near and the details of the barge could now be seen. The elaborate, fringed purple canopy waved in the breeze, luffing and cracking like a sail as the “slave rowers” manned their oars, which were really more ornamental than functional. Some of them were actually dipping into the water, and perhaps providing some small amount of motive force, but most of the oars were simply waving in the air. On the flat deck of the barge, Egyptian maidens and high priests waved at the onlookers and tossed flower petals into the water from baskets. On the “upper deck,” which was really no more than a wooden platform erected on the barge, Cleopatra sat regally upon her massive throne.

The rest of the Queen’s Men now came back down the stairs so that they could finish playing their senatorial roles by greeting the queen of Egypt as she arrived.

“Well, at least they have not smashed into one another this time,” Fleming said as the boats drew near.

“Pity,” Speed replied. “ ‘Twas much more fun to watch, what with people shouting and falling overboard and such.”

One of the servants overheard and gave him an irate look, which brought the irrepressible Speed an elbow in the ribs from Burbage.

As the barge came closer, they could see the details of the throne, which had been constructed especially for the occasion. It was made of wood, carved and painted to resemble gold and set with bits of colored glass to reflect the sunlight and make it look as if it were covered in jewels. The backrest was positively huge and resembled the prow of a ship. It was carved into the shape of a snake’s head, meant to mimic the imperial Egyptian headdress that Catherine Middleton wore.

As the barge drew up to the river gate and the smaller boats held back, waiting for the bride and her party to disembark before they came up to discharge their passengers, all eyes were on the bride as she sat impressively upon her throne. She was dressed in a glittering white robe festooned with jewels and heavily embroidered with gold and silver. Her hair was covered by the imperial headdress, which was striped in black and white and held in place by a circlet of hammered gold, with a snake’s head rising from it just over the forehead.

“I do not believe the queen herself ever made a grander entrance,” Shakespeare said, as he came up to stand beside Smythe. “And I do not mean Cleopatra.”

Indeed, Smythe thought, it was truly one of the grandest spectacles that he had ever seen and every bit worthy of a pageant put on for the queen. That was, of course, precisely what Godfrey Middleton had intended. It was so impressive that Smythe wondered whether the queen, when she heard accounts of it, might even feel resentful that she had missed the celebration. He wondered if perhaps Godfrey Middleton had not overplayed his hand by putting on such an elaborate celebration when the queen was out of town and could not possibly attend. On the other hand, perhaps not. Even if she felt piqued that she had missed it, Her Royal Majesty’s appetite would certainly be whetted to see what sort of entertainment Middleton could stage for her if she gave him the opportunity. And after hearing about this, how could she not?

Part of the wedding party had disembarked and the high priests were now proceeding in line up the stone steps, carrying wooden staves with the heads of Egyptian gods upon them while two of the bridal maidens followed in their wake, strewing flowers as they went. The enthusiastic audience at the top of the steps applauded as they eagerly awaited the bride. But Queen Cleopatra had not moved. Catherine Middleton still remained seated on her throne.

“ ‘Tis what one might call royally milking an entrance,” Kemp said with a smirk as they all waited for her to come down off her throne.

“Perhaps she is waiting for someone to help her down,” said Burbage, with a slight frown. “That costume looks to be a bit cumbersome. Do you suppose that we were meant to go on board and welcome her, escort her? I cannot recall. Our directions did not seem very clear upon that point. I would hate to think that we have missed our cue!”

“She may only be experiencing the natural hesitation of a blushing bride,” said Fleming, with a smile. “You know, having herself a bout of stage fright, as it were.”

“When it comes to being married, fright is more often the natural condition of the groom,” said Shakespeare. “Perhaps she is unwell. Do you think we should go and see if-”

At that moment, someone screamed. It was one of the bridesmaids still aboard the barge, and in moments, her scream was taken up by others. This, clearly, was not part of the script.

Except for a couple of servants, the players standing on the steps by the river gate were the closest to the barge. Smythe led the way as he ran down the remaining couple of steps and jumped onto the barge, where chaos and confusion now reigned. With Shakespeare and several of the others right behind him, he shouldered his way past the rowers, who had stood up from their benches and were now milling about in confusion. Several of the women were screaming hysterically up on the platform which formed the upper deck and one of the unfortunate girls either fell or else was accidentally knocked overboard into the river.

She started screaming that she could not swim and within moments, the weight of her soaked garments pulled her under. A couple of the rivermen jumped in to save her and fortunately managed to grab hold of her and pull her in towards shore, thus saving her life, but it seemed the bride was not so lucky. When Smythe reached her, one of the hysterical bridesmaids was sobbing and crying out, “She is dead! She is dead! Oh, God have mercy, she is dead!”

Indeed, Smythe found that Catherine Middleton felt cold to the touch, and did not seem to be breathing. Her eyes were closed and she looked quite peaceful, as if she had simply drifted off to sleep.

“Oh, heaven!” Burbage said, as Smythe bent over her. “Dead! Can it be true?”

Smythe put his ear to Catherine’s chest. “I cannot hear her heart,” he said.

“Oh, woeful day!” said Burbage.

“Injurious world!” said Fleming. “Poor girl! To die so young, and on her wedding day! Could anything ever be more tragic?”

“Perhaps it could,” Shakespeare said.

They looked towards him. “What do you mean?” said Fleming. “What have you there?”

“A drinking flask,” said Shakespeare, as he sniffed it contents.

“Lord, hand it here,” said Kemp. “Methinks now we could all do with a drink!”

“I would be loath to have any of you drink from this,” said Shakespeare. “This potation might be of a potency not to your liking.”

“What is it, Will?” Smythe asked.

“ ‘Tis known as brand,” said Shakespeare. “Burnt wine, to some. A spiritous distillation from grape wine. Not a very common beverage, leastwise for the likes of us common folk. Our late, lamented Cleopatra had this flask lying right here at her feet.”

“To keep her warm against the river chill, no doubt,” said Burbage. “But what of it?”

“It does not smell right to me,” said Shakespeare. “And mine, gentlemen, is a most educated nose. There has been something added to this flask that did not come from the vine.”

“God shield us!” Burbage said. “Do you mean she has been poisoned?”

“Poisoned!” Kemp exclaimed.

The cry was taken up at once by everyone around them.

“I cannot say for certain,” Shakespeare said, “but there is something rotten in Egypt. History repeats itself, for unless I miss my guess, Cleopatra has once more fallen to a deadly venom.”