SLAYING

OF THE SHREW

1

THE PLAGUE SEASON WAS good time to be out of London, especially since it often meant the closing of the playhouses. And although Smythe much preferred the excitement of the city and working at James Burbage's Theatre to the quiet, uneventful country life he'd left behind, carts passing by outside one's window loaded with stinking corpses rotting in the summer heat had a way of mit-igating London's worldly charms. Nevertheless, when he found out that the Queen's Men were going on the road, he was much less concerned about the plague than the possibility that he might not be asked to come along. He was not, after all, a shareholder in the company or even one of the key supporting players. The boy apprentices who played the female parts were of much more value to the Queen's Men than he was as a mere ostler who only played occasional small roles and helped out with odd jobs around the playhouse. He had no stake in the profits of the company, other than wishing they'd do well, and to date, the only roles that he had played were small and insig-nificant, mere walk-ons of the sort given to ordinary hired men such as himself. Even those, as undemanding as they were, he knew he'd botched, for the most part. If not for his friend, Will Shakespeare, whom the company had learned to value for his versatility, he was convinced they would have let him go by now.

"Nonsense," Shakespeare said, when Smythe confided his worries to his roommate. "There's always a place in the theatre for a handsome lad with a good leg, a stout chest, and a fine, strong pair of shoulders." He spoke without putting down his pen or looking up from his small writing desk, which was pushed up against a bare wall opposite their bed in their lodgings at The Toad and Badger, in St. Helen's parish.

Smythe frowned. The poet's wit often had a biting edge and he could wield it as adroitly as a cutpurse used his bodkin. He was not sure if the remark was meant to chide him. "And just what do you mean by that, pray tell?"

The irritation in his tone caused Shakespeare to look up from his work and sigh, then glance back at him over his shoulder. His large, unusually expressive dark eyes, the poet's dominant feature in a somewhat sallow face that was otherwise not especially remarkable, held a look of exasperated resignation. "I mean, Tuck, that there are other attributes to be valued in a player aside from his ability to act. And 'tis indeed a fortunate thing for you, my friend, for of a cer-tainty, you are no great threat to Ned Alleyn and our colleagues at the Rose."

The company was still smarting from the defection of Edward Alleyn, formerly their featured player, to the Lord Admiral's Men, who played at the Rose Theatre. Together with the recent death of the long-ailing Dick Tarleton, whose comedic talents had been a large factor in their company's success, Alleyn's departure had been a severe blow to the Queen's Men. They still had their enviable name, for there could be no more august patron than Her Royal Majesty, but their fortunes had, of late, been on the decline. Smythe knew that the frustration of seeing a rival company's star in the ascendant while theirs was on the wane was in part responsible for his friend's sarcastic remark. But he also knew the larger fault was his own, not only for interrupting Will while he was trying to work, but for putting him in the awkward position of standing up for an inferior actor simply because that actor happened to be his room-mate and his friend.

"Well, I deserved that, I suppose," Smythe said, glumly.

Shakespeare sighed again and put down his pen. He pulled off his ink-stained, calfskin writing glove, which had no mate for he had made it for himself for this specific purpose, dropped it on the table and then turned around to face him. "Right then," he said, placing his hands upon his knees and regarding him with a steady, direct gaze. "Let's have it. Out with it."

"Out with what?" asked Smythe.

"Whatever matter stalks the labyrinthine mazes of your mind like some perturbed spirit," Shakespeare replied, dryly. "Give vent to it, for 'tis clear that I shall have no peace til you have unburdened yourself."

"Nay, Will, I have distracted you enough already with my own concerns. You must return to yours and work upon your sonnets, for 'tis that work which pays our rent."

"You contribute your fair share," Shakespeare responded. "And in truth, 'tis not as if this sort of work requires great labor, though it does seem laborious, betimes. A poet who sings the praises of some aristocratic popinjay for a few pounds is little better than a trollop who kneels for a few shillings. Yet if fortune must condemn me as a dishonest sonneteer, at least I am an honest strumpet in giving forth to the best of my ability. But now we stray. Of late, my friend, you have been ruled by a most bilious humor. Ever since you learned that the Queen's Men were going on the road, you have been sulking like an errant schoolboy sent indoors to learn his horn-book. This sullen truculence of yours is most unseemly. What ails you, Tuck?"

"I have already given you the cause of my distemper."

"And I have sought to reassure you. Never fear, Tuck, you are coming with us, that I'll warrant. With Ned Alleyn and Dick Tar-leton both departed, one for a more prosperous venue and the other, presumably, for a more virtuous one, the Queen's Men need all the help that they can muster."

"But, Will, I can scarce replace either Dick Tarleton or Ned Alleyn," Smythe replied. "I can neither clown or dance a jig, nor, in truth, can I act with any great ability."

"Well, in truth, you cannot act with any ability at all," said Shakespeare. "As for clowns and jig dancers, they have had their day. The groundlings may still find some amusement in the brainless caperings of that oaf Kemp and his ilk, but it shall not be long ere that sort of thing begins to pall upon them. One can only see so many clownish jigs and pratfalls before the novelty wears off. On the other hand, people never seem to tire of comely lads and lasses, and you, young Symington Smythe, are a fine, handsome figure of a man whom lads and lasses both find comely. What is more, you not only have a way with horses as befits a proper ostler to the gentry and nobility, but are a skilled farrier and smith to boot, and have the strength of a bull, qualities always of great value to any company of players on the road."

"So then, you hold that my only attributes are my strong body and good looks?" asked Smythe.

"Well, for my own part, I find many qualities in you to value as a friend, but so far as the company may be concerned, it does help to have some attractive people on the stage. And aside from one or two apprentices who have the comeliness of youth, the Queen's Men, sad to say, are not a very comely lot." Though he knew that Will meant well, Smythe did not find the poet's words encouraging. Ever since he had seen his first play put on in the courtyard of a village inn by a traveling company of play-ers, the very Queen's Men who now played at the theatre where he was employed, he had nursed a childhood dream of becoming a player himself, but unfortunately, his father had not supported him in that ambition. A man with considerable ambitions of his own, Symington Smythe the elder had been scandalized at the notion that the son who bore his name wanted to become something as disreputable and low class as a player. He had secured his own status as a gentle-man with great expense and much currying of favor and had his eyes set upon a knighthood. Having his only son wishing to become a player was simply unacceptable. Instead, in the belief that some hard work would knock some sense into his head and at least teach him a decent and respectable trade, he had him apprenticed to a smith, his own less fortunate younger brother, Thomas, who had not stood to inherit the estate.

Living with his uncle, a strong, but steady-tempered, patient and amicable man, Smythe had learned the craft of smithing, growing ever stronger as he grew ever more adept. He always had a love for horses and a natural way with them, which had also made him a good farrier. But above all else, he learned something from his uncle that few people could teach and fewer still could master. The art of making blades was Thomas Smythe's true passion. He could work metal with extraordinary skill and had taught his nephew almost everything he knew. His Uncle Tom believed he had a gift for it and a good future in the guild, but though he had picked up his uncle's love for the demanding craft of metalworking, Smythe's dream of acting on a stage had never left him. When at last he learned that his father had bankrupted himself in his vain and injudicious pursuit of a title, he decided there was nothing left to prevent his setting out for London to pursue his dream.

A series of serendipitous events had brought him closer to the realization of that dream than he would have thought possible after so short a time in London. While still en route, at an inn near the outskirts of the city, he had met a fellow traveler named Will Shake-speare, himself on the way to London with hopes of finding work with a company of players. They fell in with each other and decided to share quarters and expenses, since neither of them had much money. Soon afterward, a chance encounter with none other than the flamboyant and controversial poet, Christopher Marlowe, had gained them an introduction to Richard Burbage, whose father owned the theatre where the Queen's Men played. However, though they had found employment at the Burbage Theatre, Smythe's first attempts at acting as a hired man had revealed a shortcoming of which he had not previously been aware. He had, it seemed, virtually no talent as an actor.

"Do you see no hope at all for me as a player, then?" asked Smythe, morosely.

"No hope?" Shakespeare shrugged. "Well, I would not wish to see a man left hopeless, least of all my closest friend. Nor would I wish to lay the burden of false hope upon him, either. Let us say, instead, that I see little hope. But do not despair, Tuck, for by the same token, I see little hope for myself, as well. Methinks I might fare better as a poet than a player, but 'twould seem Chris Marlowe has little more to fear from me than Ned Alleyn has from you. Yet, be that as it may, 'tis grateful we should be, for we have work while many others in these hard times go a'begging."

"True," said Smythe, folding his arms behind his head as he lay upon the bed, staring at the ceiling. Times were hard in England. People were flocking to London from all over the country, desperate to find work. It was difficult enough just finding lodging in a city where small rooms such as their own were often occupied by entire groups of unrelated people, sleeping on the floor and making do as best they could. As if in afterthought, he added, "I should be thank-ful, I suppose." Shakespeare stared at him for a moment and then shook his head. "That is not the end of it, methinks. There is something else that troubles you, quite aside from your apprehensions about your standing with the company. The very air around you is oppressive with your melancholy. What disturbs you, truly?" Smythe grimaced. "Nothing, really. Except. . . well. . . I was thinking of Ned Alleyn." Shakespeare frowned. "Alleyn? Why, Alleyn's gone now. What has he to do with aught?"

"Well. . .'twas more in the way he went."

Shakespeare frowned. "He went because he could not improve his fortunes further here and had an opportunity to do so elsewhere. He was a shareholder in the company, but then he could rise no further. He knew full well that Dick Burbage stands to inherit the Theatre from his father, while Philip Henslowe has no son to take over the Rose, only a daughter who . . . Ahhh! Now I see it! You still have your mind upon that dewy girl, Elizabeth! You think that if Ned Alleyn can succeed in marrying a theatre owner's daughter, why then, perhaps you might do the same with the daughter of a wealthy merchant who owns a part of ours."

"Well—"

"Well, nothing. I advise you to put that thought straight out of your mind, my friend. You have about as much chance of taking Elizabeth Darcie to wife as I have of gaining immortality."

"But what of Alleyn, Will? Was not his situation much the same as mine in most respects?"

" 'Twas nothing like," said Shakespeare, with a snort. "For one thing, Ned Alleyn, for all of his insufferable pomposity, happens to be the greatest and most celebrated actor of our time. While you, you great buff. . . " Shakespeare stopped, cleared his throat, and then continued. "Well, you are my friend, Tuck, but we have already dispensed with our discussion of your dubious abilities upon the stage. Philip Henslowe knows full well that Alleyn will draw audi-ences to the Rose, much to our disadvantage, and it only stands to his advantage to seal Ned to the Rose through marriage to his daughter. For his part, Ned Alleyn stands to gain, as well. Henslowe's daughter, from what I hear, is a buxom, young and pretty lass with a most amiable disposition, but the main attraction is, of course, the Rose, which Alleyn would then stand to inherit through the marriage."

"Aye," said Smythe, "which was precisely why I thought that a player and the wealthy owner of a playhouse and other diverse ven-tures could, perhaps, despite differences in class—"

"Henslowe is a wealthy man, I'll grant you," Shakespeare inter-rupted, "or at least he seems wealthy to the likes of us, but remember he is not a gentleman and has no real ambitions to rise above his class. He is the owner of a brothel, for God's sake. Henry Darcie, on the other hand, is truly wealthy, one of the most successful mer-chants in the city, and he longs to improve his lot in life with all his heart and soul. Already, he stands well above you, and through his daughter, hopes to rise still higher. Having her become involved with a mere player would work contrary to those hopes, regardless of how skilled or popular that player might become. And in your case . . . well, the less said of that, the better. In any event, Henslowe's interests are not the same as Darcie's. Were you to bring in audiences ten times as large as Ned Alleyn might attract, 'twould still make no difference in the end. Through hard work and dili-gence, and perhaps a minor miracle or two, there may yet be some small hope for you as a player, Tuck, but as a suitor for Liz Darcie, you have none. None whatever. You may as well give it up, my lad. The girl may have graced you with a smile or two, but she is un-attainable, believe me." Smythe was moved to argue, but he checked himself. On the face of it, there was nothing Will had said that he could logically dispute. And yet, despite that, he was certain that Elizabeth had feelings for him. That day when they first met at the theatre, there had been a spark between them, he felt certain of it. And then later, when she had found herself caught up in a web of intrigue, a devilish plot designed to turn even her own family against her, she had come to him in desperation, seeking help, and once more, Smythe had been convinced that something quite significant had passed between them. When he spoke to Will about it, the poet had done his best to dissuade him, arguing that Elizabeth Darcie had felt threatened and so had instinctively resorted to the age-old tricks inherent in her gender, using her seductiveness and vulnerability to gain a strong protector. And, Shakespeare had argued, it had worked.

"She drew you into it, despite your better judgement," he had said, "and before the thing was ended, the entire company was placed at risk and I was very nearly murdered!" Smythe did not need to be reminded of how assassins had at-tacked them in the middle of a production at the theatre. He would not soon forget that! But at the same time, Elizabeth was not to blame. She had been an innocent, a mere pawn in a complex foreign plot with implications that had reached to the very highest levels of the government. The role that they had played in helping to defeat that plot had gained them a powerful friend at court in the person of Sir William Worley, the master of the celebrated Sea Hawks and the right hand man of Sir Francis Walsingham, one of the queen's chief ministers and the head of Her Royal Majesty's most secret service. Smythe knew that Shakespeare did not truly hold Elizabeth to blame for that devilish affair or the attempt upon his life, but he also knew that Will was not without some rancor when it came to the fair sex.

He did not know why, precisely. Shakepeare was rather close-mouthed on the subject, save when he was in his cups, and even then, he revealed very little. Smythe only knew that Will had left a family behind in Stratford when he came to London, a wife and children whom he never visited, but to whom he sent a good por-tion of everything he earned, for which reason, despite a very frugal disposition, he never had any money and was always struggling to earn more. Hence, his "strumpet sonneteering," as he called it, writ-ing verse in praise of various courtiers who collected such fawning scribblings, paid for them, and often had them bound into small volumes which they then passed amongst themselves and exhibited in their homes like treasured trophies taken in some hunt. Smythe found it all quite comical and even childish, yet foolish as it seemed, in such trying times, it could provide some much needed income and, to a fortunate few, even a decent livelihood if their reputations grew and printers sought their work to offer for sale in the book stalls at St. Paul's.

The true prize for an ambitious poet lay in securing the patron-age of an aristocrat, as some of the university men had done. Many noblemen had their own pet poets, as Smythe thought of them, and in return for their support, these well-educated men of letters wrote paens of praise for their well-heeled patrons, likening them in ful-some, cadenced terms to gods or heroes from Greek mythology or ancient history. Smythe had read several such slim volumes that Shakespeare had brought home. He had been amazed that men would pay good money for such drivel and had said so.

"Drivel it may be," Shakespeare had replied, "but if 'twill help to pay our rent and put food into our empty, growling bellies, then to drivel shall I fix my compass and grandly sail forth." And so he did, often working late into the night by candlelight, writing at his desk, a small, crudely made trestle table now covered with candle wax and ink stains. He was often writing when Smythe fell asleep, and sometimes was still to be found writing come the morning. To date, he had not yet managed to find a wealthy patron, but he had sold some sonnets to a few well-born young gentlemen, thanks to an admiring word or two dropped casually by Sir William at court, and his name was beginning to become known as a rising young poet. He was yet a far cry from being a rival to the likes of Robert Greene or Thomas Lodge, but then he was still new in Lon-don and did not have the advantage of a university degree to buttress his ambitions. However, he did not let that deter him, not when it came to writing sonnets, nor when it came to writing plays.

Thus far, he had yet to write a complete play of his own, though he had made extensive notes on various ideas. Shakespeare's first opportunity to show the company what he could do came when Alleyn left them in the midst of a production that had not been working to begin with. It was unclear who was the original author of the play, for companies frequently performed plays that were re-written from earlier versions, which were often rewritten from ear-lier versions still, which in turn often came from other sources. The original author was often impossible to pinpoint, though as Smythe recalled, this particular production had all the stamp of Robert Greene upon it.

Though he could not say that it was Greene for certain, the play had a pomposity and a pretentiousness, a smug condecension in its mocking attitude towards the rising middle class that had all the earmarks of the university men—Greene, in particular—who seemed to despise the very audience for whom they wrote. Or perhaps, as Shakespeare had put it, for whom the companies performed the plays, for Will believed that the university men actually wrote less for the playhouse audiences than for one another. Therein, he in-sisted, lay their true failing.

For the Queen's Men, the problem was, perhaps, less clearly defined, but nevertheless immediate. The play was a disaster and their featured player had summarily quit them for a rival company. Something needed to be done, and quickly. Seeing his opportunity, Will had stepped forth, volunteering to try his hand at doctoring the play. Dick Burbage had decided they had nothing to lose by letting him try. If the young ostler fancied himself a poet, Burbage had told the others, then why not see what he could do? So what if he was not a university-trained man of letters? Who was to say that he might not come up with an amusing verse or two that could add some much needed spirit to improve the play? It certainly could not, Burbage had admitted wryly, be made a great deal worse.

Shakespeare had not only improved the production by deleting a few lines here and adding a few there, rewriting the most trouble-some scenes, but he had continued to rewrite in stages, after each performance, until an almost entirely new and much improved play had emerged. The company was so well pleased with the result that they gave him the opportunity of looking over the other plays in their repertoire, to see if they might be improved, as well.

For Shakespeare, this had brought about a change in fortune that had elevated him from the lowly post of ostler at the Burbage Theatre to book-holder and sometime actor. Both positions carried more prestige within the company and brought with them slightly better pay, but as book-holder especially, Will now had a great deal more responsibility. While not quite as important as the role of stage-manager who assembled the company, assigned all the parts, and saw to it that all the actors received their parts in manuscript sheets of paper pasted together to form rolls upon which were writ-ten each actor's cues and speeches, the book-holder worked closely with the stage-manager, assembling all the properties and keeping them in good order for every performance, as well as acting as a prompter and arranging for all the music, fanfares, alarums, stage thunder and other incidental noises, and keeping track of all the cues and entrances and exits during the performance.

Smythe, meanwhile, remained an ostler, though more and more, he found himself performing menial work around the theatre, sweeping and maintaining the stage, and making sure there were fresh rushes strewn across the yard for each performance. It was not quite the glamorous life he had envisioned for himself when he had embarked for London. Instead of basking in the warmth of audience applause, as he had so many times imagined in his daydreams, he often sweltered in the all too real stench of what they left behind after each performance.

From time to time, there was a small part for him to play, but the company had learned not to depend upon his ability to mem-orize his lines, nor upon his execrable sense of timing. Smythe was at a complete loss to explain these shortcomings. His memory never seemed to fail him save for when he stepped out upon the stage, at which point it inexplicably went blank and he could not recall even the simplest, briefest line. As a result, he was never sent out on stage alone. To make certain he did not miss his cue, Will was usually there to shove him out in the direction he needed to go, and who-ever was already on stage always stood prepared to prompt him if the need arose, as it usually did. For Smythe, it was exasperating, but he seemed completely helpless to overcome the situation.

"Stage fright," Dick Burbage called it. " ‘Tis a thing to which most players fall victim at one time or another. To some, it means merely an unsettled stomach and a slight trembling of the hands or knees, a sort of giddy, momentary weakness overcome the moment they step out onto the stage and plunge into the role. For others, it is a nearly unbearable, oppressive pressure in the chest, the heart beating like a wild thing trying to claw its way free of the flesh, violent shaking and cold sweats, a paralyzing fear that becomes com-pletely all consuming. And yet, for all that, it often goes away once they step out onto the stage and become caught up in the play. Most players get over it in time. Still, with a few. . . . it never truly goes away."

"What do such people do?" Smythe asked him.

"Well, if they wish to remain actors, then they must act as if it does not bother them," Burbage had replied.

"And if they cannot?"

Burbage shrugged. "Then it must inevitably become evident to them that they might well become good ostlers, or perhaps masons, or smiths or carpenters or coopers, or else merchants, ironmongers, jewelers, butchers, saddle-makers, rivermen or scribes, but sadly, they never can be players. Lack of talent may be compensated for to some degree with industry and diligence, but nothing in the world may compensate for lack of courage. Mind you now, having courage does not mean having a lack of fear. It means having the ability to persevere in spite of it. The principle is the same, you see, whether one stands upon the stage or upon the field of battle. The soldier who faces enemy troops and quails before them is, in some respects, no different from the player who faces an audience and is struck with fear. The singular difference between them is that in the sol-dier's case, the fear might well cost him his life. And thus far, Tuck, I have never heard of an audience so hostile that they have actually killed a player. Still, there is always a first time, I suppose. . . ."

"Look, Tuck," Shakespeare said, interrupting his thoughts, "I have written enough for one night. I need a respite. Let us go down-stairs and have some ale. You need to stop this lying about and moping. Most of the others will be down there still, discussing their preparations for the journey. At least, the ones who have not yet drunk themselves insensible. You need to get your mind on other things. There will be other girls in other towns, doubtless a few pretty enough to make you forget all about Elizabeth Darcie. And they will doubtless be much more accessible."

"Perhaps, but they shall not be Elizabeth," Smythe said. " ‘Twould never be the same."

"Blow out the candles, then," Shakespeare replied, wryly. "All cats are gray in the dark, my friend. Come on, let us go and have ourselves a drink or two or three."

They made their way downstairs to the alehouse of the Toad and Badger, where they found most of the members of the Queen's Men still enjoying one another's company after their last perfor-mance and their ordinary supper of meat pies, ale and cheese. Beer, the poor man's drink, was filling the small hours as they smoked their pipes and eagerly discussed their forthcoming departure.

"Ah, Will, Tuck, come join us!" called John Fleming, waving them over to the table where they sat.

"Dick has just been telling us about our new engagement at the commencement of our tour!"

"What new engagement?" Shakespeare asked, as he signalled the tavern maid for a drink.

"We are to be performing at a wedding," said George Bryan, a recently hired member of the company who had come to them from another troop of players that had been disbanded. There were fewer acting companies now that licensure was being more strictly en-forced, especially in London, and only those companies with aris-tocratic patrons were licensed to perform.

Smythe sat down next to Bryan and at once found a tankard of beer placed before him. He reached for it, thinking that he never used to drink anything but milk, water or his special infusion of herbs until he came to London, where no one seemed to drink anything but wine or beer or ale. Here, water was only used for cooking or else washing up. No one ever thought to drink it. Wine and ale, however, flowed as freely as the Thames and drunkenness was so common in the city as to be completely unremarkable. It was not unusual to see men lying passed out on the streets, utterly in-sensible with drink and vulnerable to any pickpocket who came along to lift their purses. Most citizens generally gave these supine souls a wide berth, however, especially at this time of the year, for it was by no means certain from outward appearances, unless one made a risky close inspection, whether it was a drunkard fallen into stupor or else a victim of the dreaded plague.

Each year, when summer came, the plague took a heavy toll among the citizenry. There were so many new graves in St. Paul's Churchyard now that the minister complained about the stench of all the decomposing bodies. Smythe grimaced at the thought and took a drink, enjoying the feeling of the rich and heavy brew sliding down his throat. He had developed a taste for it, but reminded himself to be sure to visit Granny Meg so that he could obtain a fresh supply of dried herbs for his infusion, a recipe taught him by another cunning woman from back home. He had been strong and healthy when he came to London and he intended to do everything he could to stay that way, even if it made everyone think he was peculiar for imbibing a hot beverage brewed from weeds. However, the ursine Courtney Stackpole would not countenance such a curi-ous concoction in his tavern, and so Smythe drank beer as he listened to Fleming and the others, anxious for more news about their tour.

"There is to be a wedding celebration held at the estate of one Godfrey Middleton, a wealthy merchant and projector," said Rich-ard Burbage, "who is a good friend of Henry Darcie, well known to us all as my father's partner and thereby part owner of our illus-trious theater. ‘Tis through the good offices of Henry Darcie that this special engagement has been arranged for us."

"So then we are to be performing at some fat merchant's wed-ding?" Shakespeare said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. " ‘Tis to be a private performance for the guests, held in some dim, stuffy, and ill-suited hall?"

"Nay, 'twill be the wedding of his eldest daughter, Catherine," said Dick Burbage. "And the performance will be held out of doors!"

"A grand pavillion and a stage shall be built especially for the occasion on the grounds of the estate," said Robert Speed, another member of the company, who had the singular ability of speaking lucidly and clearly no matter how drunk he became. His bleary-eyed gaze was the only indication of his inebriated state as he raised his tankard in a toast to the efforts that would be made to ensure a fine performance and a memorable wedding. "Separate pavillions shall also be erected as banqueting houses and galleries to house the au-dience," he added in stentorian tones, "all of whom will come barg-ing down the river in a grand progress like Drake's own bloomin' fleet after the defeat of the Armada! 'Ere's to 'em all, God bless 'em!" He emptied his tankard and belched profoundly.

"There are to be three hundred guests or more, most of whom shall be participating in the progress," explained Burbage. 'There shall be work aplenty for the rivermen, what with boats and barges all assembled in a flotilla to bear the wedding guests. And the theme for this grand celebration shall be that of Queen Cleopatra greeting Julius Caesar."

"Oh, what rot!" said Shakespeare, rolling his eyes.

"Indeed," said Kemp. "One would think that it was some elab-orate court masque held in honor of the queen, herself!"

"Very nearly so," said Burbage. "Godfrey Middleton seems in-tent on putting on a lavish spectacle in honor of his daughter, who is marrying into the nobility, thereby doubtless improving his own prospects for an eventual knighthood."

"Ah, just what we need, more knights," Will Kemp said, puffing on his long clay pipe. "At the rate that knighthoods are being handed out these days, they shall soon be stacking them up like cordwood in the church."

"Oh, and speaking of knights, there is to be a joust, as well," said Burbage.

"A wedding joust?" said Shakespeare. "Well, why not? Tis an apt metaphor for the combative state of holy matrimony. Has a decision yet been made about which play shall be performed? Per-haps the groom, as Caesar, could be stabbed to death on stage while the bride, as Cleopatra, made a complete asp of herself in front of all the wedding guests."

"I vote for that one," Speed said gravely, raising his tankard once again and quaffing it in a single swallow.

"We have been asked to submit a number of suggestions for plays that would be appropriate to the occasion." Burbage said.

Fleming added, "Master Godfrey, in his anxiety that everything should be just so, has apparantly appointed himself our personal Master of the Revels for this particular occasion."

"We could perform The Unconstant Woman," Shakespeare said, with a straight face. Will Kemp snorted. "That should prove a popular choice with Master Middleton." The others chuckled.

"You think perhaps The Holy State would be appropriate?" asked Bryan, seriously.

"With Nashe's long, windy soliloquies and moralistic pedantry?" said Shakespeare. "Do you wish to entertain the wedding guests or stupify them all into a slumber?"

"Well, then, what would you suggest, Will, as our aspiring res-ident poet?" Fleming asked, wryly.

"Which play from among our vast repertoire do you suppose would be the best for such an oc-casion?" Fleming might have meant the remark somewhat in jest, thought Smythe, but at the same time, he marked the fact that no one laughed. It was the first time that anyone had suggested, seri-ously or not, that Will might one day hold such a position in their company and that no one laughed at the idea was evidence of just how much Shakespeare had risen in their general esteem. He felt pleased for his friend, but at the same time, he felt a little envious.

"Well, to be serious for a moment—but only for a moment—I am not certain it is needful that our choice of play reflect on the occasion," Shakespeare replied. "That sort of choice would not be without its risks, you know. After all, what gentleman would wish to see a group of motley players make comment, through their sport, upon his daughter's marriage? Were we to play something comedic concerning the general state of matrimony, then Middleton might feel that we were poking fun at his own family. On the other hand, if we chose something like Nashe's play to perform, for all its fine, moralistic sentiments and tone, then he might perceive his daughter and her husband were being preached to by their inferiors. Namely, ourselves."

"Aye, he makes an excellent point," said Burbage, nodding. "While this shall not be a court performance, there shall nevertheless be a great many powerful and wealthy people in attendance. We want to make this occasion a memorable one, to all of them as well as Master Middleton, and not for all the wrong reasons."

"Well, why not a comedy?" asked Kemp. "We could play some-thing spirited and amusing that has naught to do with marriage, and yet would still entertain the better sort of people with its subject matter. The Honorable Prentice would be an excellent choice, me-thinks." In other words, something that would play more to his talents as the company's clown and jig-dancer, Smythe thought. It was a predictable response from Kemp, who liked anything that would showcase his abilities, but at the same time, it was not without merit. An idea suddenly struck him.

"What about that new play you have been working on, Will?" he said, turning to Shakespeare. "You know the one, you have read me portions of it."

"What new play?" asked Burbage, immediately interested. "You have been working on another adaptation?"

Shakespeare glanced at Smythe with irritation. "Well, no . . . not quite. ‘Tis something new, entirely of my own composition. . . ." His voice trailed off and he looked a bit uncomfortable.

"Indeed?" said Fleming, raising his eyebrows. "What is the mat-ter of it?" Shakespeare cleared his throat and took a sip of wine. He did not seem anxious to discuss it. Nevertheless, he answered Fleming's question. "It concerns a matter of identity," he said, "something I have been playing about with in a sort of desultory fashion."

"Go on," said Burbage. "Tell us more. How does it begin?" Shakespeare paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. "Well. . . it begins with an itinerant young tinker, an impoverished wastrel by the name of Christopher Sly, who is thrown out of an alehouse by his hostess for drunkenness and loutish behavior and for refusing to pay his bill. . ."

"A sly wastrel named Christopher?" said Fleming, smiling. "A bit of a dig at young Marlowe, perhaps?"

Speed belched ponderously. "Sod Marlowe."

"Bestill yourself, Robby," Burbage said. "Thus far, it seems a good beginning. Go on, Will. What happens next?"

Shakespeare took another drink and cleared his throat once more. "Well, Sly staggers about and rails at her in a roaring, drunken speech in which he foolishly claims noble descent from the Norman con-querors and so forth, taking umbrage at her treatment of him. . . ."

"One could have some fun with that," interjected Kemp, clearly imagining himself in the role.

" . . . and then he falls into a drunken slumber in the road." Shakespeare continued, "whereon a lord and his hunting party arrive upon the scene. Finding him thus disposed—or indisposed, as the case may be—this lord, for want of some amusement, decides to play a trick upon the drunken tinker and instructs his retinue ac-cordingly. They shall remove the tinker to this lord's estate, where they shall strip him of his clothing and place him in the lord's own bedchamber. All within the household are carefully instructed, when the tinker wakes, to treat him as if he were the lord himself who, having fallen into some madness for a time, had forgot himself and was now miraculously and mercifully restored to his wits . . . and to his loyal servants. And so, when the tinker comes to his senses, he is at first confused by all that happens, but soon comes to believe he truly is a lord, because all around him assure him it is so, even the lord himself, who plays the part of a servant."

"Oh, I like it!" Burbage said. "It has great possibilities for witty banter and tomfoolery. I think we should submit this play to Master Middleton as our first choice! What say you, lads?"

"Aye, 'tis a lighthearted and amusing sort of thing," said Bryan. "I can see how it would be received. I like it, too."

Shakespeare looked dismayed. "But. . . but, my friends . . . the play is not yet finished!"

"Well, we need not submit the entire book to Middleton for his approval," Burbage said. "I do not think that he would have the time or even the inclination to read it, in any event, what with all the preparations he must see to for the wedding celebration. A brief summary of the story should suffice."

"Aye, a man of Master Middleton's position would not be both-ered with trifling details," Fleming agreed. "There is quite enough there from what Will has already described to satisfy him, I should think, and if there should be anything in the final book he may find disagreeable, why, we could always change it in rehearsal, as we often do."

"Indeed, it sounds like a fine idea to me," said Kemp, nodding with approval. "Put in a few songs, then add a jig or two, and it should prove just the thing to entertain the distinguished wedding party." Seeing the stricken expression on his roommate's face, Smythe suddenly realized that for all his good intentions, he had made a serious mistake, though he did not quite understand just what it was. Yet it seemed quite clear that what he had thought would be a welcome opportunity for his friend to have one of his own plays acted by the Queen's Men, and in front of an influential audience, at that, was instead regarded by him as a horrible disaster. And when he turned towards Smythe amidst the general

discussion of how they might present his play, Smythe saw in his face a look that struck him to the quick. It was an expression of great alarm . . . and of betrayal.

2

THE CATHEDRAL OF ST. PAUL, KNOWN simply as "Paul's" to the native Londoner, did not present the sort of quietly spir-itual surroundings that Smythe had learned to associate with church during his boyhood in the country. Like the city over which it loomed magnificently, Paul's was a curious amalgamation not only of architectural styles, but of the spiritual and the temporal as well, the exhalted simultaneously sharing space with the debased.

Surrounded by a stone wall, the churchyard of St. Paul's was a bustling place of business, full of crowded market and book stalls past which Smythe wound his way as he entered through one of the six gates leading into the enclosure. Within the courtyard, to the northeast, stood Paul's Cross, which always made him think of a miniature tower with its Norman-styled wooden cross atop a conical lead roof over an open pulpit built atop stone steps. Here, outdoor services were held at noon on Sundays, and important proclamations were read out to the citizenry. In the northwest corner of the yard stood the Bishop's Palace, near the college of canons and several small chapels. Here, too, could be found Paul's School, and the bell tower and the chapter house, incongruously elegant and solid com-pared to the hodgepodge of crudely fashioned merchant stalls thrown up all around the noisy churchyard. The interior of St. Paul's, much to Smythe's surprise the first time he had seen it, was no less a bustling place of business than the cacophonous outer churchyard. The middle aisle of the Norman nave was known popularly as "Paul's Walk," and merchants as well as other, less desirable sorts routinely plied their trades there, even while services were being conducted, so that the choir frequently had to compete with the shouts of sellers hawking their various wares, like the Biblical moneylenders in the temple, whose spiritual if not lineal descendants also could be found doing a brisk business in Paul's Walk, counting out their coins upon the fonts.

Each supporting column in the cathedral was known for a type of business that could be transacted there. Various handwritten or printed bills were posted on the columns, people looking for work or else advertising one service or another. Smythe passed one col-umn around which several lawyers were meeting with their clients or else negotiating with roisterers and layabouts who sold their honor for a shilling or two to bear false witness against someone in a case. Nearby, an ale seller had set up several small casks beside another column and was offering hardened leather drinking horns to passersby to taste his wares. Beside him, at another column, loaves of fresh baked bread were being sold, and the next column over was a place for buying books and broadsheets. Nearby, small portraits of the city's aristocracy were being sold, including, of course, all the fashionable courtiers and Her Royal Majesty, Elizabeth the Virgin Queen.

Smythe passed several small tables made of wooden planks placed atop empty wine casks where tailors sold their wares, and further on, men and boys looking for work vied for the attention of prospective employers, who in turn were being distracted by the prostitutes parading up and down the aisle of the cathedral, meeting every strolling gallant's eye with a bold gaze, a bawdy comment, a hipshot and a wink.

Over the echoing din, Smythe heard the sharp, staccato sounds of hoofbeats on the cathedral floor and quickly moved aside as a cloaked rider in a rakish hat went trotting past him down the center of the aisle, sword swinging at his side. Out for a casual morning canter through the house of God to look over the whores, thought Smythe. While he was certainly no papist, nor especially religious one way or another, Smythe could not help but think that the Dis-solution over which the queen's father, King Henry VIII, had pre-sided had become truly dissolute, indeed. He did not think that he would ever grow fully accustomed to the way that things were done in London.

"Tuck! Over here!"

He turned towards the familiar voice, smiling when he saw Eliz-abeth waving to him. She was dressed in a long, voluminous, hooded cloak of green velvet that stood out from her body where her whalebone farthingale held her skirts out from her waist, making her seem to glide across the floor as she approached, and she held before her face on a slim rod a fashionable mask of green brocade and feathers, as many ladies did when they went out in public, es-pecially if unescorted. But mask or no mask, Smythe would know her anywhere. Each time he saw her, he was reminded of the first time they had met, and how she had struck him nearly speechless with her beauty. It had been at the Theatre, shortly after he had started working there with Will, and she had arrived in Sir Anthony Gresham's coach. Smythe had not known whose coach it was, only that it bore the same crest upon its doors as the coach that nearly ran them down on a country road while he and Will were on their way to London. In the heat of his anger, Smythe had forgotten himself completely as he ran up to the coach and threw open its door, fully intent on dragging out its occupant and thrashing him, gentleman or not, only to be brought up short at the sight of Elizabeth sitting there alone. She had taken his breath away, and Smythe found that familiarity had not diminished in the least the effect she had upon him. She was nineteen, the same age as he, with pale blond hair, fair skin, and eyes so blue they almost seemed to glow. She was easily the most beautiful woman Smythe had ever seen, and he could scarcely believe that she was still unmarried, despite all her father's efforts to secure a husband for her. She was stunningly attractive, with a prominent, wealthy merchant for a father, and it seemed as if there would have been no shortage of eager suitors wanting to take her for a wife. However, anxious as he may have been to get his daughter married off, Henry Darcie would not accept just any suitor. In order to be suitable, a suitor for Elizabeth's hand in mar-riage had to be a gentleman, and preferably a titled one who could serve Darcie's desire for advancement. That alone narrowed down the field considerably, but Elizabeth herself narrowed it down still further.

For one thing, she was tall for a woman, though not as tall as Smythe, who stood over six feet, and most gentlemen who were conscious of appearances—and what gentleman was not?—would not wish to have a wife who towered over them. For another, she was rather willful and independent—some would say spoiled, though Smythe did not find her so—qualities generally far less de-sirable in a gentleman's wife than compliance and amiability. And then there was the matter of her age, which could give a prospective suitor pause.

With most young women being betrothed at eleven or twelve and married at fourteen or fifteen, unmarried women of seventeen or eighteen were often considered to be approaching spinsterhood, especially if they came from a good family. And for prospective suit-ors, aside from the obvious desirability of a more youthful maiden, there was also the lingering question of why Elizabeth was still un-married at nineteen. A man of position had to wonder what could be wrong with her that she was still unmarried, despite her dowry and her beauty. Immediately suspect would be her disposition. No gentleman of means and social prominence wanted to be married to a shrew. For her part, Elizabeth did not hesitate to exploit such masculine concerns, for the truth was, as Smythe knew, she had no great desire to be married, unless it were for love. Even then, she had her res-ervations, especially after the near disaster of her betrothal to Sir Anthony Gresham, which at least for the present had cured Henry Darcie of his desire to see his daughter quickly married off. But if he had become more cautious concerning potential suitors for his daughter, Henry Darcie had become no less so concerning Smythe's involvement with her.

While he was grateful for the service Smythe had performed in saving his daughter from a terrible fate and himself from playing an unwitting part in a devilish foreign plot against the realm, which could easily have destroyed all hope of his advancement, Darcie was nevertheless not so grateful as to lose all sight of propriety, so Smythe and Elizabeth had to arrange to see each other on the sly.

"Elizabeth!" Smythe said, taking her hand in his and raising it gently to his lips.

"I have missed you," she said in that forthright manner that he found so absolutely charming, lowering her mask so he could see her lovely face.

"And I you," he replied. "I was so glad to get your message. I trust that nothing is amiss? Your family is well?"

"All is well at home," she said. " 'Twas kind of you to ask about them, as they do not inquire about you." She smiled, mischievously. "You have heard about the wedding of Godfrey Middleton's eldest daughter, Catherine?"

He nodded. "I have. The Queen's Men have an engagement to entertain the wedding party with the performance of a play."

She gazed at him anxiously. "I know. So then . . . you are going to be there?"

"Yes, I shall." He frowned. "Why? Are you not coming?"

"Of course I will be there," Elizabeth replied. She took his arm and they started walking slowly down the aisle, past the busy market stalls. "I am to be the maid of honor to the bride. Catherine Mid-dleton is my very good friend. But the last time that you and I spoke, Tuck, you seemed uncertain about your standing with the company and I did not know if things had changed for you since then."

"Well, they have not dismissed me from their service yet, if that is what you mean," Smythe said. "For all of my appalling lack of talent, it appears I am still useful to them, albeit mostly in roles that do not require my presence on the stage."

She rolled her eyes. "You know, I do not think that you are nearly so inept as you portray yourself."

"There is an entire company of players who would give you a good argument upon that score," said Smythe, with a self-deprecating grin. "And as my Uncle Thomas used to say, ' 'Tis a wise man who knows his limitations.' I am well aware of mine, Elizabeth, for better or for worse."

"Then why do you persist in your desire to be a player? You told me once that you had learned the craft of smithing from your uncle, and that he had also taught you how to forge fine blades. Both pursuits are honorable trades. Why, a good armorer could, with the right patronage, achieve a reputation and advance himself into the gentry. That would not be out of your reach, you know. My father is already indebted to you, as is Sir William. Both men, I am quite certain, would be more than willing to assist you if you wanted to set up in trade. And if you were to become a gentleman, why then, Father could have no possible objection to our seeing one another."

"Elizabeth," said Smythe, squeezing her arm gently, "your father has objected to more than one gentleman already. And aside from that, becoming a gentleman does not always solve one's problems. My father is a gentleman, with his own escutcheon, for all the good that it has done him." She stood and stared at him, startled. "What! But you have never told me this!" He merely shrugged. "I saw no reason to make mention of it."

"No reason! No reason, indeed! You mean to tell me that you come from a good family? That your father is a gentleman, a country squire, and you came to London to become an ostler?" She stared at him with disbelief.

"I came to London to become a player."

"Well, you were an ostler when we met and, in any event, a player is not much better than an ostler in my father's eyes. But do not try to change the subject! Why did you not tell me?"

"Because I do not see what difference it could possibly have made," said Smythe.

"To me, none," Elizabeth replied, "but 'twould have made a world of difference to my father!"

"Methinks not," said Smythe. " ‘Twould only have made matters worse, if your father knew the truth of it."

"Whatever do you mean? What truth?"

"My father is a very vain and foolish man," said Smythe, without any trace of bitterness or rancor. "I know 'tis disrespectful to speak so of one's parent, but if it makes me a bad son to speak the truth, so be it, then. The truth is that my father wanted so to be a gentle-man, to have an escutcheon of his own that he could blazon upon the windows and the mantle and the entryway, embroider upon the blue coats of his servants and gild upon his coach, that he spent a goodly portion of his inheritance in currying favor and paying bribes and buying influence. In time, and at no little cost, he was able to achieve his goal and was eventually granted his escutcheon by the heralds, which he then proceeded to affix to everything you could imagine, from his pewter cups to his gauntlets and his handkerchiefs of Flemish lawn and sarcenet. Meanwhile, my Uncle Thomas, to whom I had been sent for rearing, had no such lofty ambitions or pretensions. Even if he had, he could ill afford them, for 'twas my father as the eldest who had been favored in the will."

"And you mean to say he never helped your uncle?" asked Eliz-abeth.

"That matter was never formally discussed with me, but I am as certain that my uncle never asked as I am that my father never of-fered," Smythe replied. "Who is to say but that had my father raised me, instead of Uncle Thomas, then perhaps I might have turned out more like him, so I am grateful that my uncle was much more of a father to me than the man whose name I bear."

"But it nevertheless is the name of a gentleman," Elizabeth said.

"Aye, a gentleman who was not satisfied with having achieved the rank that he had bought so dearly and instead newly set his sights upon a knighthood. To which end, he spent himself very nearly into debtors' prison. He is now little better than a pauper, and the truth is I rather doubt your father would find very much about him of which he could approve."

"For all that they seem to have so much in common," Elizabeth said, wryly, referring to her father's own considerable social ambi-tions. "Oh, but Tuck, why did you never tell me this?"

"As I have said, I saw no reason for it. My father is my father, for better or for worse, as I am myself. I have no part of his accom-plishments or failures. I prefer to be judged on my own merits, or the lack of them, whichever the case may be. And 'twas never my desire to be like my father, or my Uncle Thomas, for that matter, for all of the respect and love I bear him. Toiling at a forge is hard and honest work, good work, and I believe I am an able craftsman, but the truth is that it has never been my passion. Ever since I saw my first play acted out upon a tavern stage, I have wanted to become a player. 'Tis all I ever wanted. Nothing more."

"And your father did not approve, of course," Elizabeth said, nodding with understanding.

"Aye, he did not. He stormed and thundered, threatened to disown me, but I would not give up my dream, and in the end, when he had squandered what was left of his inheritance—and mine—I realized at last that there was nothing left to hold me, and so I left home and came to London to pursue my dream. Perhaps I am as vain and foolish in that as my father was in his pursuit of social position and a knighthood, so who am I to judge him?"

Elizabeth smiled and placed her hand upon his as he held her arm. "I would not call you a bad son," she said, softy. "I think you are a far better one than he deserves."

"Well, that is neither here nor there," said Smythe, a bit uncom-fortably, though it felt wonderful to hear that from her. "The point is, whatever I am to make of myself, I must do it by myself."

"I understand how you must feel," she said, after a moment's pause, "but I do not think I can agree."

"Indeed? And why is that?"

"Because I can see no particular virtue in refusing help when it is offered, or in refusing to take advantage of social connections. We live, after all, in a society where such connections are pursued with vigor and people are often rewarded not for merit, but for the re-lationships that they have cultivated. Why, even the queen bestows rewards upon her favorites, who vie with one another for position. I have seen my father thrive in such a fashion, which is how he has built his business and his fortune."

"And I have seen my father bring himself to ruin doing just the same," said Smythe.

"Because he did not do it wisely," said Elizabeth. "You said yourself that he had tried to buy his way into a knighthood. I was not trying to suggest that you should attempt to purchase favor, as he did, merely that you should not scorn the favor you have already earned. Consider your friend, Will."

"What has Will to do with any of this?"

"He serves well to illustrate my point. The part he played in helping me resulted from his desire to help you, because you are his friend. In turn, by assisting you in helping me, he has also helped Sir William, though that merely came about by happenstance. And despite the fact that Will Shakespeare did not set out specifically to help Sir William, Sir William was nevertheless appreciative, and he, in turn, has helped Will Shakespeare by mentioning his name at court and praising him as a poet, which has already begun to bring him some commissions and earn him something of a reputation. Sir William would be no less willing to help you, for your help to him was even greater than your friend Will Shakespeare's. There is no dishonor in any of this, Tuck, no injury to pride. No one has tried to purchase favor, and no bribes have been offered or accepted. Tis merely a matter of people helping one another. Just as you helped me when I came to you because I had nowhere else to turn."

"Well, to be completely honest," Smythe said, "I cannot claim that I was moved to help you entirely out of the goodness of my heart. 'Twould be base of me if I were to deny that, at least in part, I did have somewhat baser motives."

She smiled. "And what makes you think that I did not, as well?" She chuckled at the surprised expression on his face. 'You look as if I have just sprouted horns. Why do men always presume that only they can think and feel such things?"

"I am not sure that we do presume so," he replied, recovering. "It is just that we are unaccustomed to hear women speak of them. Especially with such frankness."

"And why should a woman not speak as frankly as a man?"

"Well, because 'tis not very womanly, I suppose," he replied, with a smile.

"Now you sound just like my father," she said, with a grimace. "The queen speaks frankly, from everything I hear, and yet no one thinks her any less womanly for it."

"Well, that is different; she is the queen," Smythe said.

Elizabeth looked up at the cathedral ceiling as if seeking deliv-erance and shook her head in exasperation. "Again, that is just what my father would have said. 'Tis a most unsatisfactory and unreason-able reply. It does not even address the question. You say 'tis un-womanly for a woman to speak frankly. I tell you that the queen speaks frankly and yet she is a woman, and you respond by saying that it is different because she is the queen. Where is the sense in that? How is it different?"

"I should think the sense in my reply should be self evident," Smythe said. "The queen is not like ordinary women."

"Indeed. Does being the queen make her any less a woman?"

"Certainly not. Quite the contrary, I should say."

"So then if being the queen makes her more of a woman, then does speaking frankly make her any less the queen?"

They made the turn on the Walk and started heading back arm-in-arm the way they came. Smythe could not help but notice how men turned to stare openly at Elizabeth as they went by. "Of course not," Smythe replied, feeling distracted and somewhat irritated. "As queen, 'tis her royal perogative to speak in whatever manner she should choose."

"Why then would she choose to speak in a manner that makes a woman seem less womanly, rather than more?"

Smythe frowned. "Because she is the queen, and cannot be judged by the same standards as ordinary people like ourselves. In-deed, 'tis not for us to judge her in any way at all, for she rules by the divine grace of God."

"And yet, strange as it may seem, God made her a woman," Elizabeth replied.

"Do you presume to question God?" he asked, raising his eye-brows.

"Why is it that whenever a woman presumes to question men, they act as if she has presumed to question God?" Elizabeth replied. " 'Tis most vexing and exasperating. I truly thought you would be different, Tuck, but I see now that my friend Catherine was right."

"Catherine?" Smythe said, frowning. He could not understand why their conversation had taken this peculiar turn, or how it had turned into an argument, but it seemed as if Catherine Middleton was somehow behind it all. Until the previous day, when he had learned that the Queen's Men would be playing at her wedding, he had never even heard of her. Now, suddenly, she was Elizabeth's "very good friend." He could not recall Elizabeth ever even men-tioning her name.

"She said that men are all alike in that aspect," Elizabeth con-tinued.

"And what aspect is that?" he asked, confused.

"That if a man spoke frankly and asserted himself, then he would be regarded as bold, intelligent, and forthright. Yet if a woman were to do the very same, she would be branded a truculent scold and a shrew. And to think I disagreed with her and insisted you were different! Oh, you should have heard her laugh!" "She laughed at me?"

"No, at me! Why must you think 'tis always about you) ' Twas my innocence that so amused her. She told me that at my age, one would think I would know better!"

"And what is Catherine's age, if one may be so boorish as to ask?"

"She is seventeen years old."

"Two years younger?" Smythe said, mildly surprised. "Why, from the way she spoke to you, I would have thought she was much older."

"She makes me feel as if she is," Elizabeth replied. "For all that she is younger, she is much more clever and spirited than I."

"She sounds rather arrogant to me," said Smythe. "And rather graceless and ill-mannered, too."

"You see)'" Elizabeth said, breaking away from him. "You have just given the very proof of her perception!"

"I see nothing of the sort," he replied, angrily, feeling the color rising to his face. "What I see is that this girl has been filling your head with all sorts of arrant nonsense. I have never met Catherine Middleton, nor has she even laid eyes upon me, and yet despite this, she apparently deems herself fit to sit in judgement over my char-acter, and not only mine, which is presumptuous enough, but all men in general. Would that I had such wisdom at the age of seven-teen! Odd's blood! With such sagacity, by now I could have been not only a gentleman in my own right, but a privy counselor and doubtless a peer of the realm! Indeed, perhaps we should recom-mend your friend Catherine to Sir William, so that he, in turn, can recommend her to the queen, for 'tis clear that she should be advis-ing her along with Walsingham and Cecil as one of her chief min-isters."

"Oh, now who is spouting arrant nonsense?" Elizabeth retorted. 'You are speaking like a simple, addle-pated fool!"-"Well, you might recall that 'twas this 'simple, addle-pated fool' to whom you turned for help when you were in your desperate hour," Smythe replied, stung by her words. "And when all else seemed convinced that you were taking leave of your senses and would soon be bound for Bedlam, 'twas this

'simple, addle-pated fool' alone who listened to you and believed in you and helped you. Well, fool I may be, milady, but I shall tell you who is the greater fool, and that would be the man whose supreme folly shall be to say 'I do' to Catherine Middleton, for in his 'do-ing' shall come his undoing, mark my words."

"He shall be marrying a shrew, is that your meaning, then?" asked Elizabeth, archly.

" 'Twas you who said it and not I!"

She shook her head. "You sorely disappoint me, Tuck. I ex-pected rather more from you. But then

'tis I who am to blame for having expectations. Women who have expectations of men are of-ten doomed to disappointment."

"And did your clever friend Catherine say that, too?" asked Smythe.

"As a matter of fact, she did," Elizabeth replied. "I disagreed with her in that, as well, and told her that you lived up to all my expectations. 'You will see,' was all she said. And so I have. Would that I had not. Good day to you, sir."

She abruptly turned and walked away with a firm, purposeful stride.

Smythe was so taken aback, he simply stood there motionless, staring after her, caught in the grip of indecision and conflicting emotions. A part of him wanted to go after her, but he was not sure if it was to apologize or else continue the argument until he could make her see his side of it. Yet another part stubbornly resisted, telling him to let her go and let the devil take her. He felt very angry, but at the same time, he was filled with regret and self-reproach. And he did not understand what had just happened. They had never argued like this before. Elizabeth had never be-haved like that before. It was a side of her that he had never before seen. Granted, she was willful and possessed of strong opinions, but he had never known her to be so utterly unreasonable, so stubbornly obstinate, so . . . shrewish. The corners of his mouth turned down in distaste as he thought of Catherine Middleton, a young woman whom he did not even know, but whom he already disliked intensely. She appeared to be trying to poison Elizabeth's mind against him. And apparently, she was succeeding.

"Oh, you were so right, Catherine!" Elizabeth said. "He behaved just as you predicted!"

"Well, that is because men are so utterly predictable," Catherine Middleton said dryly, as the tailor and his apprentices busied them-selves with the fitting of her wedding gown. " Ow! Have a care, you clumsy oaf. You stuck me again!"

"Forgive me, mistress," said the young apprentice, around a mouthful of pins, as he draped cloth over her farthingale. "I shall try to be more careful."

"That is what you said the last two times," replied Catherine, noting that he did not sound especially contrite. "I am not here to be your pin cushion, you fumble-fingered rogue." She turned to the tailor. "If you cannot find any male apprentices who are less ham-handed, then perhaps you should seek to employ women, so they can perform the job properly!" The cloth slipped from the farthin-gale as she turned, causing the apprentice to step back, throw up his hands and roll his eyes at his master in exasperation.

"The seamstresses who work for me do the job very properly, indeed, milady," said the tailor, in a haughty tone, as he stood back with his arms folded, surveying the scene with a critical eye. "How-ever, the fitting must perforce be done properly for them to do their job the way they should. And that requires a certain degree of co-operation from the wearer of the dress, you see."

"The wearer of the dress shall not survive to wear it if she is bled to death by your incompetent apprentices," Catherine replied, dryly. " Ow! Now you did that on purpose, you miserable cur!" She shoved the offending apprentice away and he lost his balance, falling hard on his rump, venom in his angry gaze.

"I must insist that you desist from abusing my apprentices, mi-lady," the tailor said.

"Then kindly instruct them to keep their oafish hands to them-selves!" Catherine replied, jerking away from another young appren-tice as he fumbled at her extremely low-cut bodice. "You think I do not know what they are about, the knaves?"

"Here, here, what's all this row?" demanded Godfrey Middleton sternly as he entered the room.

"Catherine, I could hear you railing clearly all the way from the bottom of the stairs!"

"Well then, Father, I am pleased that you shall hear more clearly still now that you are here," Catherine replied.

Elizabeth had to bite down on her knuckle to keep from chuck-ling. She knew her own father thought that she was spoiled and willful, but she would never have had the courage to speak to him as Catherine did to her father. Not that Catherine was truly rude or disrespectful. She managed somehow to be defiant without openly appearing to defy. It was, however, a fine line that she walked, and Catherine sometimes seemed balanced quite precariously.

"I have heard clearly enough already," Middleton said, with a sniff. "There is no excuse for this cantankerous behavior, Catherine. These men are merely trying to do their job."

"Trying is truly what they are," said Catherine. "They are trying my patience sorely with their pricking pins and groping fingers. I find this entire process vexing and outrageous beyond measure."

"Milord, upon my oath, I can assure you that my apprentices and I have exercised the utmost care and taken absolutely no un-toward liberties," the tailor said, in a gravely offended tone. "Indeed, if any injury has been sustained here, it has been to young Gregory, yonder, who was just assaulted in a most unseemly manner by your daughter."

"Aye, 'twas most unseemly," echoed Gregory, looking like a lit-tle dog that had been kicked.

"I'll give you unseemly, you lying little guttersnipe!" said Cath-erine, raising her hand at him. Gregory cowered, as if in fear for his very life.

"That will be quite enough, Kate!" her father said.

"I hate it when you call me Kate," she replied, through gritted teeth. "My name is Catherine!"

"I should think I ought to know your name, girl, I bloody well gave it to you."

"Father!"

"Be silent! God's Wounds, I shall be eternally grateful when at last you have become your husband's baggage and not mine. These seventeen long years I have put up with your sharp tongue and it has exhausted all my patience."

"Really, Father, it cannot have been that long, surely. For the first three or four of those seventeen years, I could scarcely even speak."

"You learned soon enough and well enough to suit me," Mid-dleton replied, dryly.

"I have always sought to please you, Father," Catherine said. " Tis a source of great discomfort to me that I have always failed to do so. Would that I had been a son and not a daughter, then doubtless I would have found it much less of a hardship to find favor in your eyes."

"Would indeed that you had been a son and not a daughter," said her father. "Then I would not have had to pay nearly a king's ransom to get you married off."

Gregory, the young apprentice, chuckled at that, but Catherine ignored him. The only evidence she gave that she had heard him was a tightening of her upper lip. Elizabeth thought it was insuffer-able that her father should speak to her that way in front of Strang-ers. She felt awkward being in the same room with them herself.

"And yet you are paying merely in coin and a vested interest in your business," Catherine said, "while I am paying with my body and my soul and all my worldly goods. If the shoe were on the other foot, and

'twas I who paid the dowry to have you married off, then which of us, I wonder, would you think was paying the greater price?"

"The greatest price, I fear, shall be paid by poor Sir Percival, who shall be marrying naught but trouble and strife," said Middle-ton. "My conscience is clear, however, for none can say that I made any misrepresentations at all in that regard. Indeed, I made a point of it to acquaint Sir Percival in full with the nature of your dispu-tatious disposition, so that no claim could afterward be made that I was not forthright in all respects concerning this betrothal and this union, and so that no rancor ever could be borne."

"And that is very well, for I would not wish you to bear Sir Percy's rancor, Father," Catherine said.

"Better by far that a husband should bear rancor towards his bride than towards his father-in-law. 'Tis well that you have so fully acquainted him with the nature of my disposition, as you say, for now at least one of us shall know something of the one with whom we are to say our vows." Her father harrumphed and frowned, looking as if he were about to make a sharp rejoinder, but instead chose to direct his comments towards the tailor. "Are you finished yet with all this bother? God's Wounds, one would think that you were costuming the queen herself!"

"A moment more, milord," the tailor said, fussing about and hovering around Catherine like some great predatory bird. He made a few final adjustments, stepped back to admire his handiwork, nod-ded to himself with satisfaction and then clapped his hands, signal-ling his apprentices to finish and pack everything away.

"At last!" said Catherine, with a heavy sigh. "I was beginning to feel like some bedraggled scarecrow in the field."

"Would that your dress were no more expensive than a scare-crow's," said her father. "With what this fellow charges for his work, I could attire at least half the court."

"Milord, I have attired at least half the court," the tailor re-sponded stiffly, "and upon occasion, even Her Majesty herself, as you must surely know, for you had inquired about my work before you ever came to me. If a gentleman wishes to have nothing but the very best, then he must be prepared to pay for nothing but the very best. I can assure you that once the work is done, and your daughter in her wedding dress would make the goddess Aphrodite blush for the meanness of her own apparel, I am confident that you will con-sider the money to have been well spent, indeed."

"Spent is just how I shall feel when all of this is over," Middleton replied. "No sooner shall I have recovered from the ordeal of mar-rying off" my eldest daughter than I shall have to contend with marrying off" my youngest, who already has suitors flocked about her like hounds baying at the moon. A day does not go by, it seems, when some young rascal does not come pleading for her hand."

"Well, be of good cheer then, Father," Catherine said, "for at least you have never been beleaguered so on my account."

"Had you a sweeter and more amiable disposition, like your sister, you might have been married sooner, Kate," her father re-plied.

"Never fear, dear Father," Catherine said pleasantly, with only the barest trace of sarcasm in her voice, "I shall be married soon enough, and sweet and amiable Blanche will surely follow hard upon, for all the panting swains who trip over themselves to find her favor. Then, when you are at long last rid of both your daugh-ters, doubtless you shall find the peace and carefree solace you have always longed for."

"Indeed, the day cannot come soon enough for me," he said, stepping aside to let the tailor and his apprentices out the door. He wrinkled his nose as they passed and raised a small pomander on a gold link chain to his nose. The little golden ball was perforated, so that the scent within could escape and help mask offending odors. "Good evening, Elizabeth."

"Good evening, sir," she said, lowering her head, though not so much out of respect as to conceal her smile and barely-suppressed giggle at Catherine's face, which was perfectly mimicking her father's expression of distaste behind his back.

"I could just scream," said Catherine, after he had left and shut the door behind him. She rolled her eyes. "The way he goes on over this wedding, one would think he was out at the elbows."

" 'Tis a most elaborate and costly affair, though, you must ad-mit," Elizabeth said. "Her Majesty's own tailor makes your wedding gown, a grand, costumed progress on the Thames is being planned, to say nothing of the players and the fair being held to commem-orate the occasion . . . indeed, your father spares no expense."

"But do you think any of it is truly for me?" asked Catherine, as her tire woman helped her out of her large hooped, canvas and whalebone farthingale, which she had worn over a simple homespun long tunic for the fitting. "He does it all only for himself, so that all of London shall talk of nothing but the wedding of Godfrey Middleton's daughter. Such a spectacle! So grand! So fabulous! And to think what it must have cost him! That, my dear Lizzie, is the true object of this entire exercise."

"But everyone knows full well how rich your father is," Eliza-beth replied, with a slight frown. "How does he profit by reminding them?"

" 'Tis not everyone he wishes to remind," said Catherine, as she removed her long tunic and was assisted into a simple kirtled skirt of marigold velvet accented with gold and silver embroidery. "Mind you, he wishes everyone to speak of this Olympian wedding festival for months on end, but only so that an important few may hear."

"But why?" Elizabeth asked.

"Well, you know, of course, that each year at about this time, the queen sets out upon her annual progress through the country-side," Catherine replied. "She takes a different route each time, one year moving with her entire court from Whitehall to Suffolk, then to Norfolk and from there, on to Cambridgeshire, perhaps. Another year, she will travel from Westminster to Sussex to Kent, or else to Northamptonshire, and then on to Warwickshire and Stafford-shire . . . but each and every year, with never an exception, she be-gins her progress the same way. Her first stop is always at Green Oaks, where Sir William Worley entertains her lavishly. And each and every year, Elizabeth, at about this very time, my father nearly wears his teeth down to the gums for gnashing them because the queen has chosen to sleep beneath Sir William's roof instead of ours. He would do anything to have her stay at Harrow Hall, instead, even if 'twas only once, for once is all that it would take to vault him into the vaunted ranks of the queen's favorites. And once he can number himself amongst that exclusive company, he will have attained influence at court, prestige, and power, which is what he desires above all else. Meanwhile, what his daughter may desire con-cerns him least of all."

"I know only too well how you must feel," Elizabeth said, sym-pathetically. "Your father and mine have much in common, which is doubtless why they are good friends. They understand one an-other."

"As do we, dear Lizzie," said Catherine. " Tis a pity they do not understand us as well. But then, they do not truly wish to under-stand. Men never do."

And thinking of her argument with Smythe, Elizabeth sighed and said, "No, it seems that they do not." 3

GODFREY MIDDLETON'S STATELY, TURRETED STONE manor was elegant testimony to his success in business, thought Smythe as their little caravan turned up the winding road leading to the estate. It was dramatic evidence of how the world was changing, when a "new man" like Middleton could, with luck and industry, pull himself up by his own bootstraps and enter the new—and much despised by some—English middle class, though there was nothing at all middling about Middleton's estate.

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

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

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

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

"They shall doubtless merely plough it up for planting," Burbage said. "There shall not be too much damage, as this is only a small, private fair, a social event for the wedding guests alone," Dick Bur-bage said. "The merchants are allowed to participate by invitation only." Smythe shook his head. "Even so, I should not wish to clean up after all of this. How many stalls and tents are they erecting? It seems I can count at least thirty or so from here. That does not seem like a small fair to me at all."

Burbage laughed. "You will not say that after you have lived awhile in London, country boy. Bartholomew's Fair boasts many more stalls and tents than you shall see here by a good measure, and the Stourbridge Fair, near Cambridge, is larger still. You would never see it all properly in just one day. However, I would wager that the goods you shall find for sale here will come a great deal more dearly than the run of what you might find at Bart's or Stour-bridge. These boys will all be charging as much as the traffic will allow, and you may be sure the purses here shall all be rather heavy ones." They were riding together at an easy walk, three or four abreast, with a wagon and two carts following behind, giving them the aspect of a small gypsy caravan. On the road, a company of players traveled as lightly as possible, but they still needed to bring all of their costumes and their props, as well as the materials to put up their stage and effect any necessary repairs to their equipment while they were out on tour. Sometimes it was necessary to send a rider or two on ahead to make preparations for their arrival in a town or at some country inn, and so they travelled with several spare mounts in addition to the cart and wagon horses. The wagon was painted with their name in ornate, gilt-edged letters, so that all would know the Queen's Men were approaching, and they proudly flew their swallowtailed banner, as well.

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

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

"Oh, quite favorably, indeed," replied Smythe, very much im-pressed. "Only this has the aspect of a much newer construction. And I do believe 'tis somewhat larger than Green Oaks, unless I miss my guess."

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

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

The morning light within must be quite blinding."

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

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

"What in God's name are they doing?" Smythe asked, perplexed.

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

"Oh, of course," said Burbage. "They are preparing for the wed-ding progress. The theme, remember? Queen Cleopatra comes to visit the Emperor Julius Caesar." John Fleming shook his head as he rode up beside them to watch the nautical maneuvering. "Methinks Cleopatra could use a better steersman," he observed, dryly. "Her barge seems to be in the process of ramming her own escorts."

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

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

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

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

"He is going to upset that boat if he does not watch out," said Speed. The little boat was rocking violently and the boatman started shouting at his frantic passenger, who spun around angrily to shout back at the boatman and, in the process, lost his balance and plunged headlong into the river.

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

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

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

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

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

They were met by the steward of the estate, a gaunt, balding and smugly self-important man who introduced himself as Hum-phrey. Like many of the wealthy middle class, in imitation of the aristocracy, Godfrey Middleton divided his time between residence at his country estate and a home that he maintained in the city. Even though it was less than a day's ride to London, with his business concerns keeping him in the city much of the time, it was necessary for Middleton to have a capable steward in charge of his country house. It was a large responsibility, and Humphrey's manner indi-cated he was quite aware of that and thought everyone else should be, as well. He was neither rude in his greeting of them nor was he dismissive, but he nevertheless gave the impression that he was a very busy man with many more important things to do, which was doubtless true, thought Smythe, at least under the current circum-stances, considering all the preparations that he had to oversee for the wedding and the fair. Without wasting any time, Humphrey rattled off their instruc-tions. They were to proceed directly to the stables, where their horses and equipment would be put up by the grooms, and then immediately set about their preparations for the staging of their play, which was to take place on the morrow, in the late afternoon, fol-lowing the wedding. It meant that they would not have much time, if any, to rehearse. If they were quick in setting up, then there might be an opportunity to get in one quick rehearsal in the evening. In the morning, they would all be busy greeting the wedding party as they arrived.

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

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

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

"Ah, of course," said Kemp. "As everyone knows, the august members of the Roman Senate always took the part of porters at the docks whenever important guests arrived to visit Caesar." Humphrey arched a disdainful eyebrow at Kemp's sarcasm and then more than matched it with his own. "If you prefer, we could make you a Nubian slave, strip you to your waist, darken your skin with coal dust, and have you walk behind the guests, carrying an ostrich feather fan."

"Methinks I would just as soon serve in the Senate," Kemp re-plied, with a sour grimace, as the others chuckled.

"The schedule of events does not leave us much time to re-hearse," said Burbage. The steward's expressive eyebrow elevated once again. "Well? You are the Queen's Men, are you not, the self-proclaimed masters of tragedy and comedy? I was informed you were the best players in the land."

"Aye, we are proud, indeed, to have that reputation," Burbage replied, puffing himself up.

"Nevertheless—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As you wish," replied Smythe, and tossed him straight into the manure bin. Kemp landed in the odiferous mixture of soggy straw and horse droppings to the accompaniment of uproarious laughter from his fellow players. He arose like a specter from the swamp, bits of soiled straw and dung clinging to his hair and clothing. Outrage and em-barrassment mingled with anger and disgust, overwhelming him to the point of speechlessness.

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

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

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

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

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

"Now I never clouted him," protested Smythe.

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

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

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

"You think?"

"Oh, aye. You can best a man and he will like as not forgive you for it, but humiliate him and 'tis a sure thing that he will hate you til he dies. And I suppose that one can say the same for women, when it comes to that. Man or woman, either way, hate shall not discriminate." Smythe nodded. "I cannot disagree. But I do believe that Kemp had hated me right from the very start, or at the very least, disliked me a great deal. I could not have made things that much worse. I had held my temper with him in the past, but that only seemed to encourage him. At least now, I might save myself having to listen to his noise. Nevertheless . . . perhaps I should not have done it."

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

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

"Betimes a man may think too much," said Shakespeare. "Clarity is often better found in action than in thought. Hmm, that's a good line. Let me set it down 'ere I forget." He got up from the bed and rummaged in his bag. As Shake-speare searched for his papers and his pens and ink, Smythe took his place and stretched out on the straw bed. "In truth, Kemp was only a small part of my distemper. I keep thinking that Elizabeth is here somewhere and but for our foolish argument, I might have found an opportunity to spend a bit of time with her before we went on tour."

"So what prevents you?" Shakespeare asked. "Go and search her out. Or else send word to her by one of the household servants." "You forget," said Smythe, "we argued." "About what?" Smythe frowned. "For the life of me, I cannot now recall." He snorted. "Foolish."

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

"But we are not lovers," Smythe protested. "We have never . . . Well, we have never."

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

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

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

"Aye, all the time."

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

Smythe shrugged. "I dunno."

"God's wounds! You have forgotten?"

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

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

"But... I had done nothing truly wrong," said Smythe.

"Did you speak?"

"Well, aye, but-"

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

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

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

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

"Well, considering that they are setting up a fair outside," said Shakespeare, "might not a young woman wish to be among the first to do a bit of shopping?" It was drawing on towards evening, but the fairgrounds were still abustle as late-arriving merchants hurried to set up their stalls. Oth-ers, whose goods had already been displayed, were making last min-ute adjustments to their tables or else dickering with guests who had already arrived and were taking advantage of the warm and pleasant evening to peruse the tented and beribboned booths. Unlike other fairs that were open to the public, there was no official opening time. The invited merchants were free to begin selling as soon as they set up their stalls, so long as they refrained from remaining open during the wedding ceremony scheduled for the following day. It was a small enough concession, Smythe thought, considering the wealthy customers to whom the merchants would be given access and they were all doing their best to make the most of the opportunity by arriving early and setting up their stalls as soon as possible. And other than the singular oddity of this fair being held on the grounds of a private estate and restricted only to invited guests, it reminded Smythe of the one held at his village, or at least it did until he got a closer look at some of the goods being offered and heard the asking prices. All fairs, large or small, had certain things in common, such as the sale of foodstuffs. Already, Smythe could smell the savory aro-mas of fresh fruit pies baked earlier in the day and carefully packed up for the journey to the fair. He could smell roast chicken and game birds cooking over braziers, as well as venison pastie. And much like the fair at home, there were merchants here selling bolts of cloth and ribbons, as well as finished goods, but only the very finest kinds.

There were bolts of three-piled velvet and Italian silk, as well as Flemish damasks and French lace, much finer than anything Smythe had ever seen at the country fairs back home. Expensive pewter bowls and plates and drinking goblets were for sale at one booth, fancy embroidered doublets at the next, and jewelry at the one past that. There were heavy gold rings and enamelled chains and bracelets and brooches all set with precious stones, the work of the city's finest artisans. There was even an armorer's stall where Smythe stopped to stare at the highly polished and extravagantly engraved armor of the queen's own champion on display. Nearby, a booth with weapons laid out on the cloth covered tables and hung up on pegs affixed to slanted display boards drew his attention. He gazed with interest at the great double-handed swords and Scottish basket-hilted clay-mores, war axes, spiked morning stars and triangulated maces, all of which, in these times of peace, were far more likely to be purchased for display upon some wall rather than for potential use in battle. He paid closer attention to the more practical swords and daggers suitable for daily wear, such as the gleaming Toledo blades and Ital-ian stilettos, their hilts wrapped with fine gold and silver wire; slim and graceful ladies' bodkins with hilts of bone or ivory and precious jewels set into their pommels and crossguards; purposeful looking swords and knives from the best artisans of Sheffield, as well as elaborately-wrought cup and basket-hilted French poignards and ra-piers and main gauches. Save for a venison pastie, perhaps, or a roast goose drumstick, Smythe saw absolutely nothing that he could af-ford on his meager player's pay. As he wandered among the stalls, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a familiar-looking hooded cloak of green velvet. It was the same one Elizabeth had worn when they had last seen one another at St. Paul's. The day that they had quarrelled, Smythe thought, ruefully. She had often worn that cloak; it was her favorite. He was about to call out her name, but then thought better of it and caught himself in time. This was not the yard of St. Paul's, he reminded himself. This was a private celebration at the estate of Godfrey Middleton, one of the richest men in London, and all about him, aside from the mer-chants and their apprentices, were some of the most wealthy and influential people in all of England. It was not a place where Eliz-abeth would wish to call attention to her friendship with a lowly ostler and a sometime player, assuming, of course, that their rela-tionship had not been irreparably damaged by their foolish quarrel.

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

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

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

"Damn your eyes, you ruffian!" the man called after him, an-grily. "Look what you've done! Come back here! Come back here at once, I said! Somebody stop that man!" Smythe quickly put as much distance as possible between them, ducking between the stalls and tents. The last thing he needed now was to be taken for a thief, especially amongst this company! He could still hear the man blustering behind him, but he seemed to have made good his escape. Except that now, once again, he had lost sight of Elizabeth. He seemed to have come almost full circle around the fairground. He now found himself standing on the pe-rimeter of the tents and stalls, among some carts and wagons. To his left, some thirty or forty yards away, were the wedding pavillions and the house. To his right, the field continued to slope away to-wards the pond and the road leading up to the house from the main thoroughfare. Behind him was the fairground, and further on, the river. And to his front ran the road, and beyond it, just below the house, were the gardens and the maze. And as the shadows of dusk lengthened, Smythe caught a glimpse of Elizabeth's green cloak bil-lowing in the evening breeze, just before she disappeared from sight on the stone steps leading down to the gardens and the maze. Once again, he felt tempted to call out to her, and once again, he hesitated. Where was she going?

And what was she doing, going down to the gardens all alone at this hour? He frowned and started after

her.

The sun was going down, and the merchants would soon be closing down their stalls until the morning, camping out with their goods or in their wagons. Already, he could see a few lanterns and torches being lit in the fairground behind him. It would not be long before it would grow dark. Smythe started to run. He reached the top of the terraced steps from which he could look out over the garden below. As with his elegant manor home, Middleton had clearly spared no expense with his gardens. Even in the fading light, Smythe could see that a great deal of time and attention had been lavished on them. There were several garden plots spread out below in a circular pattern, each exquisitely laid out and painstakingly maintained. There were stone benches and ivy-covered bowers placed along gently curving flagstoned pathways. And just beyond the gardens, disappearing into the entrance to the tall and perfectly clipped hedges of the maze, was the billowing swirl of a cloak.

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 wed-ding 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 posses-sive 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 rela-tionship 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 com-pany, but even if they had spent their time merely strolling together or perusing the book stalls of St. Paul's while making idle conver-sation, 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 some-thing 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 com-ing 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 hap-pening 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 pas-sageway between the hedges wide enough to accommodate two peo-ple 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 en-trance, 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 Eliz-abeth 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 plough-man. 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 as-sume 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 bold-ness 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 chat-tels, 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 un-spoken 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 over-heard, this Blanche was in some way a relative of Catherine's, per-haps 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 under-foot 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 plung-ing 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 thick-ness 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 illu-sions 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 im-pediment 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 sud-den 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 mo-ments 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 op-ponents 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 fair-grounds, only now it sounded closer and it allowed him to reorien-tate 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 noth-ing 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 mo-ment. 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, es-pecially 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 vul-nerable. 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 posi-tion 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 oc-curred 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 excite-ment 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 Mid-dleton 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 ser-vants' quarters. It was illuminated only by one candle stuck into a small, saucer-shaped brass sconce. The other members of the com-pany 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 impro-vised 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 them-selves accordingly to any changes he might make in the stage direc-tions. 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," Shake-speare 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?"