The Slaying of the Shrew (21 page)

"The plan was insane," said Mason. "I should never have consented to it."

"You had no choice," Elizabeth replied. "Catherine was going through with it with or without your consent, because she realized that there was no other way."

"So she came to you with this preposterous idea and you took her to see Granny Meg," said Smythe.

"I knew that if anyone could help us, then she would be the one," Elizabeth replied. "We told her what was needed—a potion that would produce the semblance of death, yet without bringing it about. Something that would cause Catherine to fall into a deathlike sleep, and yet awaken without harm after a day or two."

"And Granny Meg actually
agreed
to this mad idea?" said Smythe.

"Not at first. She did not wish to do it. She said it would be very dangerous. There would be risks involved of the sort that no apothecary nor even a skilled cunning woman could predict. But we both pleaded with her. And we also paid her very well."

"I see," said Smythe. "Well, this truly passes all understanding and strains credulity to the very limit. So what you mean to tell me, if I have heard aright, is that Catherine is not really dead, but merely in some sort of deep, enchanted sleep that mimics death, and that when the effects of this potion wear off, she will simply awake as if nothing had happened?"

"That was the plan, in its entirety," Elizabeth said. "And then she and John can have a chance for happiness at last. They can go away together, and with her father believing her dead, no one shall go looking for them. I was to be their go-between, who would help them in the final stages of the plan. Once Catherine had gone to London, I was to carry messages to John."

"Then that was why you had gone out to the maze the other night?"

"So that
was
you shouting! I
thought
the voice sounded familiar! You followed me!"

"Aye, because I thought that you were going to meet another man. When I lost you in the maze, I shouted out to warn you that there were others present who might—"

"You were jealous!"

"Never mind that. 'Tis of no consequence now. What matters most is that there are things that you and Catherine have overlooked, things that have cast this entire, unfortunate situation in a most disastrous light."

"True," she admitted, "it did not all turn out quite as we had intended. We had planned for it to look as if Catherine had simply died. We did not count upon Will finding the flask nor anyone thinking it was poisoned. She was supposed to toss it overboard. I can only guess that the potion must have taken effect far more quickly than she had anticipated."

"And what of the carpenter whose instructions are to make the casket? What do you suppose shall happen when he comes to place Catherine's shrouded corpse within it, only to find her gone?"

"He has been richly bribed," Elizabeth said. "He shall place stones within the coffin and then seal it up, and none shall be the wiser. Then not long thereafter, he shall depart the estate and with what he has earned for aiding us in this deception, he shall be able to set himself up in trade somewhere. Thus, his future depends upon his silence. No one else shall ever know that Catherine is not dead. And all you need do to ensure that, Tuck, is keep silent and tell no one what you have learned tonight. If not for Catherine's sake, then at least for mine. Surely, 'tis not asking for so very much, is it?"

She gazed at him with intense entreaty in her eyes and Smythe was not unsympathetic. He also realized that what Elizabeth had come very close to admitting, without actually saying it in so many words, was that John and Catherine's situation was very much like theirs. They were two people from different social classes, different worlds, who had been drawn together by their love for one another, in spite of all the obstacles that stood between them. It was as close as Elizabeth had ever come to openly acknowledging that there was something more than friendship between them. He felt ashamed for having suspected her of infidelity… as if fidelity were anything she even owed him. Yet, though he felt moved by her plea, he still felt torn.

"Elizabeth… I do not know what to tell you," he said. " Tis not all as simple as you think. For one thing, you have entirely forgotten about Will. He has gone to London on the instructions of Sir William, and he should have returned by now. And unless Granny Meg has chosen to deceive him, which I think most unlikely considering the circumstances, then even as we speak, he may already be at the house, giving out what he has learned. If not, then he shall reveal the truth as soon as he returns."

"Then you must stop him!" said Elizabeth.

"It may already be too late. And if not, then there is still Sir William to consider. He has taken a personal interest in this and there are few men in England with more influence or power. Aside from that, I owe him a great deal, as, indeed, do you. The problem is that everyone believes that Catherine has been murdered. The hunt for her killer shall not cease if Will and I choose to keep silent. What if it befalls that someone innocent is blamed? Should Will and I and Granny Meg and the carpenter and even you and John and

Catherine keep silent while someone innocent of guilt is hanged for a crime that never was committed?"

"But that is all mere supposition!" cried Elizabeth. "No one has been blamed for Catherine's death because no one has killed her! So what if they shall seek a murderer? They shall never find him, because he does not exist! How can someone who has done no wrong be found guilty of a crime that has never been committed?"

Smythe sighed. "Oh, Elizabeth, how little you know of the inequities of life! There are men who are thrown into prison every day for offenses no greater than stealing a mere loaf of bread. When the daughter of a rich man with powerful friends is killed—or falsely believed to have been lolled—then they shall never stop looking for a killer til they find one."

"He is right, Elizabeth," said Mason, who had listened to their conversation with a look of utter helplessness. "When no murderer is found, then they will find instead some hapless wretch and beat a confession out of him rather than admit that they have failed. ‘Twould not be the first time a man was hanged for a crime that he did not commit. The plan had risks enough when it entailed merely the pretense that Catherine had died. Now that they believe it to be murder, how could we ever live in peace, knowing that our happiness may have been bought at the price of an innocent man's life?" He shook his head emphatically. "Even the possibility of that would be enough to ruin any chance of happiness that we could ever have. ‘Twould destroy us in the end."

Elizabeth looked desperate. "So what would you have us do instead, John? Confess the fraud and have all the pains that we have gone to be for naught? And do you suppose that there would be no consequences for what we have done?"

"Your part in it need never be revealed," John replied. "No purpose would be served in that. I cannot believe that Catherine's father would be too severe with her. After all, a daughter he thought dead would be suddenly restored. Surely, 'twould be welcome news that would mitigate his anger. For my own part, I would endeavor to bear whatever consequences should be meted out with manly fortitude."

"A brave speech and well spoken," Smythe said. "And I can find no flaw in your character for it save a slight lack of practical consideration. For a certainty, you shall be made the scapegoat for this entire melancholy situation, and to use your own words, no purpose would be served in that, either."

"What would you have me do, run off like some craven coward?"

"You have already proven that you are no coward," Smythe said. "You know that, and now I know it, Elizabeth knows it, and I am certain Catherine knew it from the start. Others may not, but does their opinion truly matter?"

"And what of my family?" Mason asked. "Would you have me run away and leave them in disgrace?"

Smythe sighed. "I see your point, and have no counter to it. But there must be some other solution to this unfortunate dilemma. Perhaps if I spoke with Sir William—"

"Wait," Elizabeth said, suddenly. "What if it turned out that Catherine had killed herself?"

"What?"
said Mason.

"Hear me out," Elizabeth said, intently. "I have just had an idea that could provide us with the solution that we seek! What if Catherine had obtained the so-called poison knowingly, and drank it so that she might end her life rather than condemn herself to living with a man she did not love?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Elizabeth!" said Mason. "Why would anyone believe that?"

"Why would they
not
believe it, if a note were found, written in Catherine's own hand, explaining all? She could write it herself, as soon as she awoke!"

"Again, you have forgotten about Will," said Smythe. "He shall return from London with a very different tale."

"But if you were to intercept him afore he spoke to anyone,"

Elizabeth persisted, "and told him to say it
had
been poison, then could it not still work?"

Smythe frowned. "What of the flask?"

"What of it? He could say that the contents had to be poured out and subjected to some sort of arcane, alchemical procedure to determine the ingredients. We could make something up. Or else we could simply say that no exact determination could be made, though it was proven to be deadly…"

"And what of Granny Meg?" asked Smythe.

"What reason would anyone have to question her about the matter?" said Elizabeth. "Will would already have brought back her report!"

"Another mad notion born of desperation!" Mason said.

"Perhaps," said Smythe, frowning as he looked for flaws in the idea. "But on the face of it, at least, it does sound plausible."

"It
could
work, could it not?" Elizabeth asked, hopefully.

They all stood there in the rain, which was thankfully starting to let up, but they were still dripping wet. Smythe could feel the cold chilling him through as he considered Elizabeth's idea. They looked more like three drowned cats than desperate plotters, but the situation seemed to call for desperate measures. Smythe wondered how he had become caught up in it. It was Elizabeth, of course. Once more, Elizabeth had found herself squarely in the midst of an intrigue, and she had been drawn into it because she cared about her friend. Now he had become involved because he cared about Elizabeth and it seemed that Will would be pulled into it as well… assuming he agreed to do it out of friendship for him.

However, he could scarcely blame Will if he were to refuse. From any reasonable standpoint, refusing to go along with such a byzantine deception seemed the only rational thing to do. Shakespeare had nothing at all to gain by going along with it and everything to lose. His career in the theatre was only just beginning and he had already made a very promising start. He also had a family back in Stratford to consider. He did not seem to care much for his wife, but he took his obligations seriously.

"I do not know," Smythe said. "It all seems to depend on Will. ‘Tis getting late, and if he has not returned by now, then doubtless he has chosen to remain in the city rather than risk the road at night, which means that he shall surely start out first thing in the morning. If I can get to him and convince him to go along with this before he speaks to anyone, then 'tis possible it just might work."

"Why should your friend wish to help us?" Mason asked.

"I do not know that he shall," replied Smythe. " ‘Tis asking a great deal. But if he does, then he shall do it for friendship's sake."

"As you do it for Elizabeth's sake," said Mason, as if echoing Smythe's earlier thoughts. "Already, too many people are involved in this. Too many share the risk. It has gone beyond the pale."

"Yet now there is no stopping it," Elizabeth said. "Win or lose, we must be strong and see it through, John. We must do it for Catherine."

"Aye," said Mason, "I have had no peace these past two nights, thinking of her in London with that witch's potion, mustering up the courage to drink it down and dance with death. I have been at my wit's end with worry. God, Elizabeth, what if she does not awake? I could not live with that!"

"She
shall
awake," Elizabeth insisted. "I have complete faith in Granny Meg."

"Would that I shared your confidence," said Mason. The strain was obviously telling on him. His last reserves of energy seemed to be draining out of him even as he spoke. "I must know how she fares. You promised that she was to awake tonight."

"Granny Meg said that there
was no
way of determining the time for certain. She had measured everything with great exactitude, but she warned us there were risks."

"We must get inside," said Mason, moving towards the door. "I
must
see her! I cannot bear the uncertainty. I shall not stray from her side til she awakes!"

"Wait," said Smythe.

"Wait?
I am done with waiting! ‘Tis a simple thing for you to say-"

"Be still!" Smythe said, turning around.
"Someone is coming!"

Elizabeth stiffened, turned, and froze, like a startled deer, eyes wide and peering into the night. Over the faint pattering of raindrops, they heard the unmistakable sounds of voices in the distance. And a moment later, they could see the bobbing light of torches coming towards them.

"God's body! Death and damnation to them all!" cried John, and he threw his shoulder against the door with all his might.

Chapter 9

SHAKESPEARE HAD GROWN UP IN the country and knew how
to
ride bareback, but then he had not done so since he was a boy. Nor, he quickly realized, was he even remotely nostalgic for the experience. He had always liked horses and counted himself a decent rider, but he had been spoiled by saddles. Riding bareback at the gallop, which he had done so often in his childhood, was now a punishing experience.

The coachman had not wanted to abandon the expensive carriage and had argued that they should try to get the wheel back on once more. Shakespeare had insisted that they had no time to lose and the horses had to be unhitched and ridden bareback. They had argued and Shakespeare said that he would take one of the horses and ride back no matter what, come Hell or high water. They had nearly come to blows over it, and the argument was settled finally when they noticed that the wheel had cracked and the axle had been damaged. There was nothing for it but to abandon the carriage in the road and ride the horses home.