The Slaying of the Shrew (20 page)

"Come on, now, Ian, God blind you," Shakespeare urged the coachman, from his seat beside him, "can you not go any faster?"

"Not unless you want that poxed wheel to come off again," Ian replied. "Now sit still, damn you, and stop pestering me!"

"Tis growing dark," said Shakespeare, with concern. "How much farther?"

"God!"
Ian rolled his eyes. "Not far. Only a few miles. Have patience!"

"We wasted too much time back there."

"Well now, whose fault was that, eh?"

"You dissentious scoundrel! You dare suggest 'twas mine? The reins were in
your
hands!"

"Aye, but you distracted me!"

"Odd's blood, you were
born
distracted, you simpleton!"

"Sod off!"

"You bloody well sod off!"

"One more word and God be my judge, 'tis walking back ye'll

be!"

The carriage lurched suddenly and skewed sharply to the left, coming down with a jarring impact and skidding to a halt as the hoses neighed and reared in protest.

"Oh, Hell's spite! The poxed wheel's come off again!" said Ian, throwing down the reins in disgust. "Now it looks like we shall both be walking."

"The devil you say!" Shakespeare replied. "Unhitch the horses."

"What? And leave the carriage? Master Middleton would strip the hide straight off me if I was to abandon it."

"I promise you, he will do much more than that if we are delayed much longer," Shakespeare said. "Now unhitch them, damn you! We must reach Middleton Manor before nightfall!"

It had begun to rain and Smythe cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring along a cloak, as Elizabeth had. Unlike most of the guests at the estate, whose sense of fashion had demanded that they bring enough suits of clothing with them to change at least several times a day, he owned but one cloak, two doublets, two pair of breeches, two shirts, two pair of hose—both threadbare—and but one pair of shoes, which were well worn. On one hand, it made packing fairly simple. On the other, it meant that ruining one suit of clothes left him with only one to wear. There would have been no time to run and get his cloak, for he would have lost track of Elizabeth. Therefore, he was forced to go dressed as he was, which meant getting cold and wet as he pursued Elizabeth outside. However, mindful of what had happened the last time he had followed her, he hesitated only long enough to grab a rapier off the wall in the great hall, where it had been displayed along with its companion and a buckler. He was pleased to note that it was a good Sheffield blade, not ostentatious, but quite servicable.

He gave Elizabeth some leadway, so that she would not suspect that she was being followed. She had been furtive in her movements as she went outside, glancing around several times, as if to make certain no one saw her. Several times Smythe had to duck back out of sight in order to prevent her spotting him, but now she seemed far more intent upon her destination than upon making sure she was not followed. Once more, Smythe thought, she was going out alone at night, in a manner that was most suspicious. If she were not going to meet a man, then what else could she possibly be doing?

He had expected her to circle back around the house and head out towards the maze again, on the other side. Instead, she kept on going straight, away from the house and the fairgrounds, down a path leading towards the river. It struck him that she was taking the same path that the funeral procession had followed to the Middleton family vault.

It started raining harder as Elizabeth disappeared from sight, heading down the slope and towards the woods. Smythe gave her a moment's lead, then ran across the open courtyard on the river side of the house, towards the path leading down into the trees. He could not see Elizabeth as he came running down the slope, following the pathway, but as he reached the trees, he caught a glimpse of her dark cloak, disappearing round a bend, into the woods. He paused to let her get a little more ahead of him, lest the sounds of his running footsteps give him away. He waited for a moment, catching his breath as he leaned back against a tree.

It sounded quiet and peaceful, just the steady, trickling sounds of raindrops pattering down and dripping from the leaves and the calls of a few birds. Then there was a sudden, sharp, whistling sound followed by a soft
thunk
as a crossbow bolt embedded itself deeply in the tree trunk merely an inch away from Smythe's right ear.

It was a sound that he was all too familiar with from the time a hidden archer had attacked him on the road while he had been on his way to London. Smythe knew what it was at once, even before he saw the bolt sticking in the tree, and he ducked down and scuttled back into the brush alongside the path, the rapier held ready in his hand. He knew that a good archer with a longbow could loose several shafts in just the space of a breath, but a crossbow could not be shot as quickly. It would take more time to wind back the powerful steel spring with the handle and then insert another bolt and aim. He peered out through the brush, but could not see very far in such conditions, what with the rain and the failing light. There was no following shot, nor was there any sign of the archer. However, he heard running footsteps in the distance, spashing in the puddles on the pathway. It sounded as if whoever it was had run back towards the house.

There were two possiblities that immediately occurred to him. The first and most obvious explanation was that the archer had been one of the two plotters he had overheard, which would mean, of course, that they knew who he was. He had never seen them leave the maze, which must have meant that they had gotten out before him and had seen him when he came out, then later recognized him at the house. And the second possibility was that whoever Elizabeth was on her way to meet had noticed that she was being followed and had followed him in turn, either to make an attempt upon his life or else to scare him off. In either case, it had been only the narrowest of escapes, and Smythe felt his anger boiling up within him. The time was past for niceties. Whether she liked it or not, he was going to confront Elizabeth right now and find out what she was up to. One mystery on his hands was quite enough. He had no time for two.

Cautiously, he stepped back out onto the path and resumed following Elizabeth, keeping a close watch out for anyone who might come up behind him. He made certain to avoid the open and keep as close to the trees as possible, moving in a weaving sort of pattern so that if the archer happened to return, he could not "lead" him with the bow. He moved quickly, anxious to catch up with Elizabeth. Before long, he reached the clearing where the vault stood.

The iron gate was open. He quickly glanced around, then crossed the clearing at a run and came up to the gate. He saw Elizabeth standing by the door to the crypt… and beside her stood a young man in a dark cloak.

The first thing he did was check to see if the young man was carrying a crossbow, though logic told him there was no way he could have shot that bolt and then run back to circle through the woods and reach the vault ahead of him. There would never have been enough time. Still, he thought, there had been
two
of them… He shook his head. No, it could not be possible. He could not imagine Elizabeth involved with anything like that. Catherine was her friend. And yet, incredibly, Elizabeth was apparently going to have an assignation with a lover in the very crypt where her close friend had only just been laid to rest! The very idea horrified him. He stepped through the gate and confronted them.

"Elizabeth!
What the devil are you doing?"

She turned towards him and gasped with surprise. At the same time, the young man she was with saw the rapier Smythe was holding and at once threw back his cloak and drew his own.

"John,
no
!" Elizabeth cried out, but the young man was already rushing forward with his blade raised.

Smythe met his rush and parried his stroke, then quickly riposted. The young man was surprised by his speed and barely managed a parry of his own, then quickly backed away to get some room. Smythe would not allow it. He kept after him, sensing that this was no experienced swordsman. His attack had been clumsy and his defensive parry had been more luck than skill. Their blades clashed against each other as the young man fought off Smythe's furious attack.

"Stop it, Tuck! Stop it!"
Elizabeth cried out. "For God's sake,
stop!
I beg you!"

Smythe hesitated, allowing the young man some room, but he held his rapier at the ready. "Tell him to throw down his blade!"

"And be run through for my trouble? I think not!" the young man replied. He was trying to sound confident, but his hard swallow and his rapid, shallow breathing betrayed his alarm.

"Stop it, both of you!" Elizabeth said. "Tuck, what in God's name are you doing here?"

"I might well ask you the same thing!" said Smythe. He gestured with his rapier towards the door to the crypt. "In the name of Heaven, is
this
how you show respect to your dear, departed friend? By meeting with your lover
here,
within mere hours of her funeral?"

Elizabeth's eyes grew wide. "My
lover?
Are you mad?"

"Oh, Lord!" the young man said. "I see now what he thinks!"

"Tuck, I
swear
to you that John is
not
my lover." said Elizabeth.

"Well, who in blazes
is
he, then?"

"He is Catherine's lover."

Smythe blinked. "What?"

"John is
Catherine's
lover!" Elizabeth repeated.

The young man shook his head. His shoulders slumped and he sighed. " ‘Tis all over," he said, with resignation. "We are undone."

Smythe simply stood there, bewildered, the rain dripping off him, his hair matted to his forehead, his rapier lowered til the point nearly touched the ground. He stared at them both with complete incomprehension.

"Did you say
Catherine's
lover?" he said, not certain that he had heard correctly.

"You misjudge the lady, sir," the young man said. "I assure you, 'twas not Elizabeth I came to meet, but Catherine."

"Have you both lost your senses? Or do you take me for an utter fool?" Smythe said. "Catherine Middleton is dead, for God's sake!" He gestured toward the vault with his rapier. "We have just been to her funeral! That is her corpse that rests within!"

"No," Elizabeth said. "She is
not
dead. She merely sleeps."

"What addle-pated prattle is this? Elizabeth, 'twas
I
who lifted her up and carried her from the barge up to the house and then laid her down upon her bed before her grieving father. And I tell you that her sleep is eternal, one from which she shall nevermore awake. Catherine Middleton is
dead.'"

"No, Tuck," Elizabeth insisted. " Tis but the clever counterfeit of death, brought on by a potion she had taken in her wine."

"A potion? 'Twas poison in the flask we found," said Smythe. "Will has taken it to London, to Granny Meg, in the hope that she may tell us what sort of vile concoction it may be."

"Then he shall bear out my tale when he returns," Elizabeth replied, "for 'twas Granny Meg herself who had prepared it."

Smythe stared at her with astonishment. "What?
Granny Meg
prepared the poison?"

"The. potion,
not the poison, you fool!"

"Tell him all of it," the young man said. "It makes no difference now. The game is up. We are undone. 'Twas all for nothing."

"No, John," Elizabeth said, " 'twas not for nothing. Tuck is my friend. My very dear friend. He shall not betray us."

Smythe felt hopelessly confused. He glanced from one to the other, staring at them as if they were speaking in tongues. "What are you saying? What is there to betray? I understand none of this! Tis madness!"

"Then 'tis a madness that you, Tuck, of all men, should comprehend," Elizabeth told him. "By arrangement, Catherine was to wed Sir Percival, as you know. But Catherine did not
want
the marriage. She did not love him. Nor could she ever come to love him. How could she? You saw him; he is an imbecile, a foolish, prattling old man whose only care in life is for the cut of his silk doublets. But when Catherine protested that she did not wish to marry, her father would not hear it. The match was made, and Catherine was to do as she was told. She was to do her duty, as a daughter should. Does that sound familiar to you?"

Smythe nodded. It had been exactly so with Elizabeth, when her father had tried to force her to marry against her will. It was not uncommon for parents to arrange their children's marriages for mutual advantage, unless they were poor, of course, in which case their children had the luxury of being free to marry for love. It was, perhaps, one of the very few advantages of being poor. He could see why Elizabeth had felt so sympathetic to Catherine's situation.

"Well, Catherine has always been a strong-willed and clever girl," Elizabeth continued, "and she had absolutely no intention of marrying Sir Percy, since she was already in love… with John Mason, here. Only there was no chance of her father's approving of anyone like John, for John is not a gentleman, you see. In truth, John's station in life is very much like yours, Tuck. He is a groom at Green Oaks."

"Do you mean
Sir William's
estate?" said Smythe.

John Mason nodded. "I have served Sir William since I was a mere boy," he said. "My father serves him, too, as groundskeeper." He grimaced and shook his head. "There was no question of my ever asking for Catherine's hand in marriage. ‘Twould have been outrageous, presumptuous, and ridiculous. And yet, we were in love. We had met while out riding in the countryside. Catherine loves to ride, and 'tis among my regular duties to exercise Sir William's horses. Thus we encountered one another, and from the very first, we fell in love. We both knew it was hopeless, but there was no helping it, you see. Neither of us could conceive of life without the other. And so, we planned to run away."

"Only Catherine knew that her father would spare no expense to track them down and bring her back," Elizabeth said. "She was afraid for John, as well, of what would happen to him if they ran away together and were caught. On the other hand, if she were
dead…"