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

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

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

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

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

"Mmm, don't they all?" said Shakespeare.

"What are we to do then?"

"We?" The poet raised his eyebrows. "I thought 'twas your prob-lem that we were discussing. How does it happen, Tuck, that I always manage somehow to be pulled into your intrigues?"

"Because you are my friend," said Smythe.

"Aye, worse luck."

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

"True, and worse luck, still," said Shakespeare, with a grimace. "So then, where does that leave us?" Shakespeare sighed. "Well... it leaves us with not one, but two puzzles, it would seem. The first, and the most immediate, since it nearly resulted in your getting skewered tonight, is the matter of these two mysterious and rather unpleasant gentlemen and their plot involving Blanche Middleton. The second is the question of what Elizabeth was doing out in the maze tonight, and whether or not her business there had aught to do with these two gentlemen. I know that you do not believe it, but we cannot dismiss the possi-bility. We must keep our heads about us and not allow our feelings to influence our better judgement. You say that you neither saw nor heard her after you had entered the maze yourself?" Smythe shook his head. "No. It seemed to me that she must have known her way around in there, for I lost track of her and became confused myself."

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

"Are you going to help me or criticize me?"

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

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

"And a player."

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

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

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

"When someone tries to run me through with a rapier, I con-sider that very much my affair!"

"Oh, very well, then. If you insist. We shall have to see if we can discover anything about who Blanche Middleton's suitors might be, and who, among them, is an aristocrat—or pretends to be one—

and who, among those, may be here together with his father—or a man who pretends to be his father. Then you must listen to them speak and see if you can recognize their voices. And 'twill be inter-esting to see if they can recognize yours, as well, for if so, then that may suit our purpose admirably."

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, I would share it with you, of course. Assuming you sur-vived, that is."

"How good of you."

"Think nothing of it. What are friends for?"

"For getting other friends killed, it would seem."

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

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

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

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

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

"Anything worth doing is often worth regretting," Shakespeare said. "And we can start tomorrow." 5

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

Outside on the fairgrounds, the activity among the merchants seemed more leisurely compared to the frenetic atmosphere inside the house, but they, too, started very early. Most of them arose well before dawn, just like the household staff, and got their cook fires going, then started opening their tents and stalls and laying out their goods for market. By sunrise, the displays were all prepared and the goldsmiths could be heard tapping their hammers in their stalls; the weavers were click-clacking their looms; the tailors had their dummies set out and dressed with the finest doublets in their stock and the potters had their wheels spinning. Even the well-heeled guests who were accustomed to rising late had risen early—if not quite so early as the help—to breakfast in the hall, so that they could go out to the fairgrounds and get first crack at the merchandise, or else simply wander around and enjoy the spectacle. Godfrey Middleton had certainly done himself proud, Smythe thought. An elaborate, gala wedding celebration for his eldest daughter, complete with a nautical procession worthy of a display for the queen's own court, and along with that, a private fair open only to his guests, a joust, and the premier of a new play staged especially for the occasion all made for an event that would have everyone in London talking about it for months. All those who had not been in attendance would feel that they had missed something very special and momentous, especially those noble hangers-on who had gone along with the queen's court on Her Majesty's progress through the countryside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh! Stabbed to the quick!" Speed cried out, grabbing at his chest and staggering down the steps.

"Sweet mercy, I am slain!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, come on now, Speed, bestir yourself," said Shakespeare, leaning down to give him a hand up.

"You shall only soil your costume on these steps, aside from which, methinks I spy some boats drawing near."

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

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

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

Unfortunately, thought Smythe, his background was not such that he would know any of these people. Some of their names might be familiar to him, but a lowly ostler and player such as himself did not move in such exalted circles, and so he therefore lacked the necessary knowledge to make any immediate determinations as to who was who. A good many of these people would naturally know one another, and would thus be better able to identify any strangers in their midst, but he could not simply approach noblemen and ask them to vouch for one another. Dick Burbage, perhaps, as one who had grown up in the city, would be better able to recognize many of these people, but more than anything else, Smythe wished that Sir William were here, so that he could consult with him. As a regular at court and a leader of London society, Sir William would certainly be able to help him narrow down the list of suspects. However, in all likelihood, Sir William had accompanied the queen on her sojourn in the country, because whenever Her Majesty made her annual progresses through the countryside, her entire court would travel with her. It meant that whichever of her subjects she chose to stay with when she stopped would have to bear the expense of playing host not only to the queen, but to her entire court, as well. It would take a mansion such as Green Oaks or Mid-dleton Manor to house them all and it would take a large retinue of servants to see to their needs. Why anyone would wish to put up with such a monumental inconvenience and expense, much less com-pete with others for the dubious privilege, was beyond Smythe, but compete for it they did, and this wedding festival at Middleton Manor was planned to serve that very purpose. Smythe understood, in essence, that playing for the queen's favor was important to those who wished to rise in rank and power, but he still found it difficult to understand why any of that would mean much to Sir William.

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

Smythe found it difficult to imagine how a man like Sir William could indulge in the sort of social jousting practiced by men like Godfrey Middleton and most of the queen's courtiers. It was rather like trying to imagine a hawk strutting with the chickens. It seemed both unlikely and absurd. However, a friendship between a knight like Worley and a player like himself seemed equally unlikely and absurd, and yet despite that Sir William was his friend, though Smythe was under no illusions that they would possibly ever be equals. Aside from himself, Shake-speare was the only other person who knew that Sir William was Black Billy, at least to Smythe's knowledge. Sir Francis Walsingham undoubtedly knew, as well, though Smythe could only surmise that. Her Majesty's chief minister was reputedly a man of many secrets and Black Billy would be one of the best kept. Without Sir William's presence, Smythe could only try to think what he would have done if he were here, and how he might have advised him to proceed. It was difficult for him to tell who the players were without a scorecard, but it occurred to him that anyone who was outside the general circle of London's high society should be immediately suspect. There were a number of foreign aristocrats in attendance, and they would need to be watched closely, as well as those nobles who came from beyond the environs of the city. Still, Smythe felt frustratingly handicapped by not knowing exactly who those people were. What he needed, he realized, was Elizabeth's help. But would Elizabeth even speak to him after their last argument? She would probably be disposed to help safeguard her friend's sister from un-scrupulous men, but how would he explain how he came by his information? He could just imagine her reaction if he told her that he had overheard two strangers plotting against Blanche Middleton because he had followed her out to the maze last night. No, he thought, that would never do.

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

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

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

He would have to lie.

He recalled Sir William saying once that the best lies were those that kept closest to the truth, because they required the least em-bellishment and it was thereby easier to avoid making a slip. Therefore, he would stick to the truth as much as possible. He would say that he had overheard the two strangers plotting to take advantage of Blanche Middleton and her father. But then he would have to explain how it happened that he had heard them, but had never seen them. Once again, the simple truth would provide an easy and credible explanation, but what he wanted to avoid, if pos-sible, was telling Elizabeth that he had overheard those men because he had followed her. And if he told her that it had happened last night, then even if he did not admit he followed her, she would realize that he had gone out to the maze at about the same time she did and she would doubtless guess the rest. So . . . the lie had to be concocted there. It could not have happened any earlier than yesterday, he thought, for everybody knew when the players had arrived. But it could easily have happened several hours earlier, in the afternoon. There were several hours during which the Queen's Men had been settling in, getting their equipment put away, and preparing the stage for their performance. He would need no more pretext to say why he had gone out to the garden than to tell her that he had gone along with Shakespeare, to help him work out some last minute changes in the play.

With most of the visitors to the estate either in the house itself or at the fairgrounds, the garden, and in particular the maze, would seem like the perfect place to go to have some privacy and quiet in which to work. He would need only to tell Shakespeare of his plan, so that Will would know to say that he had been there with him. And because he had already discussed last night's events with him in detail, Will would not require any further briefing. He al-ready knew as much as if he had been there himself. Smythe nodded to himself with satisfaction. The plan at least seemed workable and he could see no flaw in it. It was also close enough to the truth to make it eminently practical. He would now have to try to find Elizabeth as soon as possible and tell her what he knew. In the face of this threat to the future of her friend's sister, surely, her earlier quarrel with him would be forgotten. That was almost worth an attempt upon his life.

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

"Look smartly now," said one of them. "Yonder boat bears Mas-ter Middleton and his younger daughter, with Sir Percival. Their arrival means that the wedding flotilla shall not be far behind." Kemp drew himself up to his full height, which because he was not much taller than five feet had the comical effect of making him look like a bantam rooster trying to stretch itself into a game cock. The importance of making a good impression on their host, one of the richest men in London, was not lost on him, for Kemp had ambitions of his own that were no less lofty than Ned Alleyn's. As the boat pulled up to the steps, Smythe marked Godfrey Middleton as he prepared to disembark. Smythe realized that he had seen this man before, when he had attended to his elaborate, black lacquered coach at the Theatre, though he had not known who he was. Now, he recognized him as Middleton stepped off the boat, assisted by his servants.

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

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

"There's a bright beplumaged bird," said Smythe.

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

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

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

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

"Well, 'twas a bit of an unpleasant journey, I'll agree, but 'tis over now and our feet are once again upon dry land," said one of Middleton's companions. "From now on, 'twill all be smooth sail-ing." The man chuckled at his own remark. "Eh? What? Smooth sailing? I say, that's jolly good, what?" This gentleman turned out to be the groom. Sir Percival Pennington-Pugh was at least the same age as the bride's father, if not older, but there any similarity ended. Where Middleton was portly, thick-chested and short-legged, Sir Percival was thin as a hay-rake and practically all legs and elbows. And if Middleton brought to mind a puffed up goose, then Sir Percival looked like a spindly water fly, albeit one decked out in a costume so garish as to make Middleton's clothing look positively subdued. For the occasion of his wedding, Sir Percival had donned a white ruff and a doublet of robin's egg blue silk with double rows of silver buttons set so close together that they touched. His sleeves were

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

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

"Shhh!" hissed Kemp, elbowing him in the ribs. "Mock this Cae-sar at your peril, fool," he whispered. "They will club you down, stuff you in a weighted sack, and toss you in the river!" Smythe fell silent, but not so much as a result of his companion's admonition as from the sight that greeted him as the next passenger lightly stepped off the boat and pulled back the hood of her long, dark blue velvet cloak with a languid, graceful gesture.

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

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

"My, my," she said in a low and throaty voice, as she drew even with him. "You are a big one." Feeling flustered and not quite knowing how else to respond, Smythe bowed slightly and said, "Your servant, ma'am."

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

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

"Coming, Father!" she called, without taking her eyes off Smythe. And then she cleared her throat slightly, took a deep breath, enhancing her already ample cleavage, lowered her eyelids, and pursed her lips before continuing on her way up the steps with a lingering backward glance over her shoulder. It took Smythe a moment to find his voice, and when he did, all he could say was, "Good God!"

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

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

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

A crowd had gathered at the top of the steps behind them, drawn by the arrival of their host and their anticipation of the wed-ding flotilla bearing the bride. Many of the men were also doubtless drawn by the arrival of Blanche Middleton, who was certainly worth looking at and who seemed to delight in the effect she had on any male within viewing distance. Smythe noticed that all of the young aristocrats he had marked earlier were there, vying for her attention and trying to elbow one another out of the way. If this sort of thing kept up, he thought, there could well be trouble brewing before the day was through. What concerned him more, however, was that he had as yet seen no sign of Elizabeth. Where could she be? Catherine was due to arrive at any moment. It puzzled Smythe that while Catherine Mid-dleton had spent the night in London, at the residence her father maintained there, Elizabeth had been here, at Middleton Manor. Why? One would think that the logical place for her to have been was at her friend's side as she got ready for the wedding. And why was Elizabeth not part of the wedding party that was arriving on the barge?

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

Someone called out that the wedding flotilla was approaching, and in moments, everyone was pointing and shouting excitedly. In-deed, the wedding party was approaching in a fleet of boats accom-panying the royal barge, just as he had seen them rehearsing the previous day. This time, however, it all seemed to be going smoothly, and despite the "wretched wind" and "frightful chop" that Godfrey Middelton had complained of, the flotilla was approaching in perfect formation, albeit spaced out a bit more widely than before, no doubt in order to avoid the sort of collision that had occurred yesterday. Smythe had to admit that it certainly looked impressive. The rivermen were an independent and often surly lot, but somehow Middleton's man had succeeded in getting them to work together and take direction in this waterborne pageant. The smaller boats stayed more or less in line and relatively equidistant from one an-other, forming an escort for the wedding barge that was being drawn by the larger boats in the center of the formation.

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

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

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

"Pity," Speed replied. " 'Twas much more fun to watch, what with people shouting and falling overboard and such."

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

As the barge came closer, they could see the details of the throne, which had been constructed especially for the occasion. It was made of wood, carved and painted to resemble gold and set with bits of colored glass to reflect the sunlight and make it look as if it were covered in jewels. The backrest was positively huge and resembled the prow of a ship. It was carved into the shape of a snake's head, meant to mimic the imperial Egyptian headdress that Catherine Middleton wore. As the barge drew up to the river gate and the smaller boats held back, waiting for the bride and her party to disembark before they came up to discharge their passengers, all eyes were on the bride as she sat impressively upon her throne. She was dressed in a glit-tering white robe festooned with jewels and heavily embroidered with gold and silver. Her hair was covered by the imperial headdress, which was striped in black and white and held in place by a circlet of hammered gold, with a snake's head rising from it just over the forehead.

"I do not believe the queen herself ever made a grander en-trance," Shakespeare said, as he came up to stand beside Smythe. "And I do not mean Cleopatra."

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

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

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

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

"She may only be experiencing the natural hesitation of a blush-ing bride," said Fleming, with a smile.

"You know, having herself a bout of stage fright, as it were."

"When it comes to being married, fright is more often the nat-ural condition of the groom," said Shakespeare. "Perhaps she is un-well. Do you think we should go and see if—" At that moment, someone screamed. It was one of the brides-maids still aboard the barge, and in moments, her scream was taken up by others. This, clearly, was not part of the script. Except for a couple of servants, the players standing on the steps by the river gate were the closest to the barge. Smythe led the way as he ran down the remaining couple of steps and jumped onto the barge, where chaos and confusion now reigned. With Shakespeare and several of the others right behind him, he shouldered his way past the rowers, who had stood up from their benches and were now milling about in confusion. Several of the women were scream-ing hysterically up on the platform which formed the upper deck and one of the unfortunate girls either fell or else was accidentally knocked overboard into the river.

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

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

"Oh, heaven!" Burbage said, as Smythe bent over her. "Dead! Can it be true?" Smythe put his ear to Catherine's chest. "I cannot hear her heart," he said.

"Oh, woeful day!" said Burbage.

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

"Perhaps it could," Shakespeare said.

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

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

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

"I would be loath to have any of you drink from this," said Shakespeare. "This potation might be of a potency not to your lik-ing."

"What is it, Will?" Smythe asked.

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

"To keep her warm against the river chill, no doubt," said Bur-bage. "But what of it?"

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

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

"Poisoned!" Kemp exclaimed.

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

"I cannot say for certain," Shakespeare said, "but there is some-thing rotten in Egypt. History repeats itself, for unless I miss my guess, Cleopatra has once more fallen to a deadly venom." 6

THE GUESTS WATCHING FROM THE plaza at the top of the steps knew something had gone wrong, but it was a while before word of what had happened reached them. They saw the commotion below them, where the wedding barge had pulled up to the river gate, and they heard the screaming and saw one of the bridesmaids fall into the river, which resulted in a burst of laughter breaking out among them, but within moments, they knew that something much more serious than a minor mishap had occurred.

When they saw the players rush onto the barge, accompanied by several of the servants, their merriment subsided into silence and the hush continued, stretching out uneasily as they saw the players gather around the bride. A few among the gathered guests began to whisper, wondering what had gone wrong, and then they heard the shouting. At first, they could not make out what was being shouted, and the whisperings among them grew into an anxious undertone that made the shouting down on the barge even more difficult to understand. Then, as people started running back up the steps, call-ing out what had happened, they finally learned the news of the bride's death.

Godfrey Middleton had stood among the wedding guests, to-gether with his youngest daughter and the groom, impassively watching the spectacle below him. He had frowned angrily at first when the commotion broke out on the barge, doubtless thinking that something had gone amiss at the last moment in all the carefully rehearsed arrangements, but moments later, when it became appar-ent that something more serious had occurred, his angry frown be-came a look of consternation. And then the color drained out of his face when he saw Smythe coming slowly up the stairs, carrying the limp form of Catherine in his arms.

Instinctively, the people standing near him drew back, as if prox-imity could somehow infect them with his horror. Meanwhile, God-frey Middleton stood absolutely motionless with Sir Percival and Blanche beside him, the three of them forming a sort of island in the sea of guests around them, guests invited to a wedding that was now clearly not going to take place.

The gravity of the situation had apparently not yet impressed itself upon Sir Percival, who seemed oblivious not only to Middle-ton's concern, but to the strained mood of the crowd around him, as well.

"Dear me!" he said. "The poor girl looks to have swooned, eh, what? Bridal jitters, I daresay. Mere trifle. A few sips of wine and we shall have her right as rain, eh, what?"

"For God's sake, Sir Percival, shut up," said Blanche.

His eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. "Well! I never! The cheek! Godfrey! Good Lord, Godfrey, is this how you taught your daughter to address a gentleman?" But Middleton moved away from him as if he hadn't even heard, and in all probability, he hadn't. His stricken gaze was riveted on Smythe as he came up the stairs, carrying Catherine in his arms. Blanche went to her father's side and took his arm, leaving the dith-ering groom standing alone, not quite knowing what to do with himself.

Middleton was pale as death as Smythe reached the top of the stairs and stopped before him. "Sir," Smythe said, haltingly, "oh, sir, I am so very sorry."

Middleton's lips began to tremble. He simply stood there for a moment, trying to find some way to accept the unacceptable. He looked up at Smythe, his eyes moist, holding an agonized expres-sion. Somehow, he found his voice.

"Be so good as to take her into the house, young man," he said, his voice strained with his effort to control it.

"Of course, sir," Smythe replied.

The crowd parted before them silently as Smythe carried Cath-erine toward the house, with Middleton and Blanche following. As they passed Sir Percival, the groom stood there perplexed, with his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"Is ... is there to be no wedding, then?" he said.

Middleton stopped and turned to stare at him, aghast. "My God, sir," he said. "I knew you were a fool, but I did not suspect you were an utter, money-grubbing, inbred idiot." And with that, he turned and followed Smythe and Blanche into the house.

As Smythe was coming back downstairs, he saw Elizabeth at last, standing in the entrance hall with Shakespeare, in conversation with a gentleman who had apparently just arrived. He was still wearing his cloak and was in the act of pulling off his riding gloves while listening to Elizabeth intently. It was not until he removed his hat and cloak and handed them to a servant that Smythe saw to his surprised relief that it was Sir William Worley.

Accustomed as he was to seeing Sir William attired in subdued and somber colors, Smythe almost failed to recognize him resplen-dent in a gold embroidered, burgundy velvet doublet with gener-ously puffed shoulders and gold buttons, with the wide sleeves slashed to reveal the crimson silk shirt he wore beneath it. His breeches matched his doublet and were tightly gartered and tucked into high, cuffed brown leather riding boots that made him look like one of the privateering captains who commanded his ships. His shoulder-length black hair hung loose, framing his chisled, clean-shaven features. He looked up at the sound of Smythe's approach. "Tuck!" he said. "Elizabeth and Will were just telling me the dreadful news. "Tis a sad, sad day, indeed." Smythe came the rest of the way down the stairs and nodded. "Aye, milord. I have just carried Mistress Middleton upstairs to her room, where I have left her with her sister and her father." Worley shook his head. "Poor Godfrey. I came to attend his daughter's wedding, and now it appears that I shall be attending her funeral, instead."

"And 'twould probably be best if 'twere attended to as soon as possible," Elizabeth said. "What with all the guests still here, their presence would doubtless be a comfort to Master Middleton in his time of grief. I should think 'twould be unbearable if he were to delay in laying her to rest til everybody left and then have to face malting arrangements all over again."

"I quite agree," said Worley, nodding. " 'Tis a compassionate suggestion, and a very sensible one, as well. The sooner after death a body is interred, the better. Not only does it aid the bereaved in coming to grips with grief, but it lays the dead to rest before cor-ruption can set in. I shall take the liberty of making certain his stew-ard makes immediate arrangements to place Catherine in the family vault. It may be presumptuous, but under the circumstances, I sus-pect that I may be forgiven the presumption. Godfrey is doubtless devastated by what has happened. He shall need to have some help."

"I should go and see how he is bearing up," Elizabeth said. "And I should look to poor Blanche, as well."

"Indeed, you should," Worley agreed.

"Elizabeth . . ." Smythe began, but she interrupted him.

"We shall speak later, Tuck. For the present, I must go and try to comfort the Middletons."

"Of course. I understand."

As she hurried away up the stairs, Smythe turned to Shake-speare. "Have you told Sir William everything?"

"Not yet," Shakespeare replied. "Elizabeth was here. 'Twould have been a trifle awkward."

"What do you mean?" asked Worley. "What is awkward? What more is there to tell?"

"A great deal more, Sir William," Shakespeare said. "It has been a most unfortunate and trying day, a beastly trial for all concerned. And I, for one, could certainly use a drink." He took out a small flask and unstoppered it, then started to raise it to his lips. In that instant, Smythe recognized the flask.

"Will!" He reached out and snatched it from him just before he drank. "For God's sake, man! The poison!"

Shakespeare paled. "Oh, sweet, merciful heavens! What in God's name was I thinking?"

"Poison?" said Sir William, with a frown. "What poison?"

"You had not told him?" Smythe said.

"I had not," Shakespeare replied, shaken by what he had almost done. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair distractedly. "Elizabeth did not seem to know and I did not wish to upset her any further, though it shall not be long before she hears about it, I am sure. The rumors are already flying among the guests. 'Tis en-tirely my fault, I fear. I should have been more discreet down at the barge, rather than blurt it out as I did." He put a hand up to his brow, as if he suddenly felt faint. "Odd's blood, I cannot believe I nearly drank the vile stuff!"

"Right," said Worley, grimly. "Come with me." He led them to the library in a brisk manner that made it clear he knew his way around the house. Once there, he closed the door behind them firmly and looked around to make sure they were alone. "Now . . . what is all this about poison?" he asked, frowning.

"Catherine Middleton was apparently drinking from this flask during her journey on the wedding barge," said Smythe, holding it up for Sir William to see. "Will found it lying stoppered at her feet."

"I opened it and sniffed to see what it contained," said Shake-speare. "And I knew at once that there was something wrong."

"Let me see it," Worley said.

Smythe handed it over. Worley unstoppered it and took a ten-tative sniff. He frowned. "Brand," he pronounced at once, identi-fying it correctly. "But for a surety, 'tis mixed with something else. There is a curious, uncommon, musty sort of odor." "I thought so, too," said Shakespeare. Worley sniffed the flask once more, frowned, then shook his head. "I cannot put a name to it. And you say Catherine was drink-ing from this?"

" 'Twould appear so," Smythe replied, "although we did not see it for ourselves."

"But Will found it lying stoppered at her feet, you said. If she were drinking from it, and 'twere poisoned, then would she not have dropped it while it was still open?"

"Perhaps," said Shakespeare. "But like one who has already had too much to drink and falls insensible in the act of raising the cup once more, if she had already drunk from it earlier and the poison was not very quick, then she may have been preparing to open the flask to take another drink when it finally took effect, causing her to drop the flask unopened."

Worley nodded. "That is certainly possible. And 'twould explain why the flask was still stoppered and unspilt. But though it may smell peculiar and raise a foul suspicion, we must nevertheless find out for certain if 'tis poison and, if possible, what the poison is. 'Twill take a skilled apothecary to make such a determination."

Smythe and Shakespeare exchanged glances and simultaneously replied, "Granny Meg."

"She is the cunning woman who had helped you once before, as I recall," said Worley.

"Aye," said Smythe. "She has an apothecary shop in the city."

"And she is possessed of uncommon skills," added Shakespeare.

"Her name is not unknown to me," said Worley. "But 'tis said she is a witch."

"If so, then she is an honest one," said Smythe. "And witch or no, she knows her herbs and potions. If anyone can tell us what manner of poison has been put into this wine, she is the one."

"So be it," Worley said, nodding. "Middleton has a light carriage in which you can make the journey with dispatch. In the meantime, I shall see to matters here and send word to Her Majesty that I shall not be rejoining her because of pressing matters that require my immediate attention."

"There is more, Sir William," Smythe said.

"What, more? Come on, then, out with it."

As quickly as he could, Smythe told him about what he had overheard the previous night in the maze, and how an attempt had been made upon his life to silence him.

"I see," Worley said, when he had finished. He fixed Smythe with a sharp look. "And how did it happen that you were in the maze to overhear this intrigue in the first place?" Smythe hesitated awkwardly.

"Come on, Tuck, tell him, for God's sake," said Shakespeare. "There is no shame in it."

"I . . . was following Elizabeth," said Smythe, somewhat sheep-ishly. "We had quarrelled previously, some days ago, and I suspected that she was seeing someone else."

"And was she?"

"I never learned the truth of it," admitted Smythe. "I lost her in the maze, and then I heard the voices of those men, and you already know the rest. More than anything, I feared that they would stumble upon her and she would come to harm. Hence, I shouted out to warn her and to draw them off."

"Well, if 'twas ever any doubt that foul play was at hand, this certainly dispells it," Worley said.

"Whoever those two plotters are, it seems evident from their attack on you that they will not stop at murder to achieve their goal. And now with Catherine's tragic death . . ." He grimaced and shook his head. "Catherine was, G6d rest her soul, a strong-minded young woman. Godfrey had been trying to get her married off for quite some time, but whether 'twas justified or not, she had a reputation as a shrew. Her sister seems to have a milder disposition, one most men would doubtless find preferable in a wife, but 'twas well known that Godfrey would never have consented to the betrothal of his younger daughter before the older one was married. And now Catherine is dead . . . 'out of the way,' as that miserable scoundrel put it."

"And with no sons to inherit Middleton's fortune, 'twould all go to Blanche now," Shakespeare said.

"Or, more to the point, to whoever should become her husband."

"Indeed," said Worley. "And whoever marries Blanche will likely find her far more manageable than ever her sister would have been."

"I am not so sure of that," said Smythe, "but either way, me-thinks Master Middleton should know of this." He sighed heavily. "If I had only said something last night. . ." His voice trailed off.

" ‘Twould have made no difference in the end, Tuck," said Shakespeare, gently. "Last night, as it turns out, Middleton was in London with his daughters. We did not know that then, yet even if we did, word could never have reached him in time to save Cathe-rine. How were you to know that someone meant to kill her? And even if you knew, you could not have known she would be poi-soned."

"Your friend speaks sensibly and truly," Worley said. "You are entirely blameless in the matter, Tuck. The guilt rests with the mur-derers. And we shall find them, have no fear. There cannot be many here who are not known to me. We shall look to Blanche's suitors for our suspects."

"But will they not be forewarned now?" Smythe asked.

"Perhaps," said Worley. "However, we have a number of things working in our favor. For one thing, they may not know who you are. And for another, even if they do, they can have no way of knowing that you have discussed with me the things you overheard last night. They shall have no reason to suspect any relationship between us, and we shall give them no reason to suspect one. For all they know, you are merely someone who may have overheard part of their conversation last night. They cannot know for certain what you may have heard, or whether you shall do anything about it, or even whether you shall make any connection between their plot to impersonate aristocrats and Catherine's death."

"But in either case," said Shakespeare, "would it not be in their interest to eliminate even the least possibility that their plot may be exposed?"

"To be sure," Worley agreed. "And they have already demon-strated their willingness to do so in their attack on Tuck. And if they did not hesitate to do so once, they shall not hesitate to try again. Remember that without Blanche Middleton, they have nothing. The entire success of their plan rests on their remaining here and seeing it through. And that is where they shall give themselves away." Smythe sighed. "I fear I know where this is headed."

Worley clapped him on the shoulder. "Tuck, no one shall force you to take any risks you do not wish to take," he said. "But consider that one woman has already died and the welfare of another is at stake."

"I had already considered those things, Sir William," Smythe replied. "And there can be no question but that I must do whatever must be done. I am completely at your service."

"Good lad."

"I, too, stand ready to assist," said Shakespeare. "What would you have us do?"

"I knew that I could count on you both," Sir William said. "We shall have to move quickly, however. The more time that elapses, the more it favors the killers." He turned to Shakespeare. "Will, you must make all haste to London with this flask and see your Granny Meg. I shall have a carriage made ready for you at once."

"We shall change our clothes and leave immediately," said Smythe.

"Not you, Tuck," Worley said. "You shall be staying here. You have a different part to play."

"That of the Judas goat," said Smythe, dryly.

"Precisely. We must bait them into coming after you once more. Are you up to it?" Smythe took a deep breath. "I am."

"Good. Now, the first order of business shall be to get Will on his way to Granny Meg's and then see to Catherine's funeral. I shall speak with Godfrey Middleton and fix him to our purpose. It shall not be difficult. He may appear foppish, but there is iron in his spine. I should not wish to have him as an enemy. Once he finds out that his daughter has been murdered, he shall not rest until he has seen her killers brought to justice. But at the same time, we must see to it that in his anger, he does not give our plan away."

"We have a plan, then?" Shakespeare asked.

"Aye," Smythe replied, "to put me into harm's way and see who tries to harm me."

"Ah. It sounds like a good plan to me."

"Oh, does it, indeed?" asked Smythe, wryly.

"Well, I much prefer it to putting myself into harm's way," the poet said, nonchalantly.

" ‘Twould be an awful thing if the carriage hit a rut and dropped a wheel on its way to London, so that you fell out and broke your neck," said Smythe.

"Aye, and 'twould be terrible if someone stuck a rapier in your gizzard whilst I was not there to watch your back," Shakespeare riposted.

"If you two are finished fencing, there is more to be discussed," said Worley. "Now then, mark me well, here is what we shall do. . . ."

The journey back to London in Godfrey Middleton's light carriage took far less time than the trip out, but it was also far less comfort-able. When they had set out for Middleton Manor, the Queen's Men had travelled by horseback and by wagon, but because their wagon was large and rather cumbersome and loaded with all of their gear, they had traveled slowly, those of them on horseback proceeding at an easy walk so as not to lose the wagon. This was Shakespeare's first ride in a gentleman's open carriage, and he was not especially enjoying the experience.

The well-padded, velvet-covered seats were certainly a vast im-provement over a simple leather saddle or the hard, unupholstered wooden bench of a wagon, but the rate at which they travelled made the carriage bounce and jounce as they careened along the rutted road to London and each jarring impact was transmitted through the wooden wheels of the carriage to its frame, then through the seats, despite their padding, directly into the poet's bones. Every bump made his teeth click together sharply and at least twice he had almost bitten through his tongue. Sir William had directed the driver to waste no time in getting him to London and back, and the man was complying with disconcerting efficiency. Shakespeare knew better than to ask the driver to slow down. The liveried servant had stared at him with thinly veiled contempt when he discovered whom he would be driving to the city and back. After all, he was a gentleman's driver. He had certain standards and a reputation to uphold. And Shakespeare knew that he did not even remotely resemble a gentleman.

Someday, he thought, it would be a fine thing to be able to call oneself a gentleman, with good clothes and a grand house and ser-vants who would tug their forelocks at you. He imagined what it must be like to have his own coat-of-arms to display over his door-way and his mantelpiece, and have painted on the sides of a fine, black-lacquered coach. A coach whose driver he could order to drive slowly. He swore to himself as yet another jarring impact shot pain-fully through his tailbone into his spine. If this was how a gentleman was meant to travel, then he could damn well do without it. If I should ever become a gentleman, he thought, then I shall travel everywhere on horseback. At a walking pace. It struck him suddenly how utterly ludicrous that thought was. That an actor should ever be regarded as a gentleman was simply ridiculous. An actor, he thought, had about as much chance of be-coming a gentleman as he did of being knighted. Still, it was a lovely fantasy with which to pass the time. It was not very long before the rutted road led to the outskirts of the city and then gave way to London's cobbled streets, which were no less gentle to the poet's fragile frame than they were to the stout, wooden frame of the carriage. Shakespeare swore softly to himself as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Carriages and coaches were a fairly recent addition to the traffic on the streets of London, but there were now so many of them vying for space with the wooden-wheeled carts and wagons of the farmers and trades-men, not to mention the horses and pedestrians, that the streets were more often than not hopelessly clogged. It was becoming insuffer-able and Shakespeare could not see it getting any better as more and more of the "new men" were infiltrating the ranks of the upper classes and buying carriages and coaches of their own.

The ditches that ran down the middle of each street trickled with a stinking quagmire of every sort of waste, including human and animal, raising a stench that was enough to take the starch out of a pleated ruff. And for those who could not navigate these streets from the relative safety of a carriage or a perch on horseback, it was a constant hazard to be splashed with the awful ooze, or to lose one's footing on the slippery cobbles. Not a few elegant suits of clothes in evidence on the streets were inelegantly bespattered, and those that were not bore testimony to the light-footedness of their owners. At the same time, however, London was full to brimming with a sense of energy and purpose that Shakespeare found invigorating and even intoxicating. Unlike his sleepy home village of Stratford, this was a place where things were happening all the time. Here in these teeming streets, and behind those doors, fortunes were being made and lost and people struggled to survive, to live and love, sometimes with passion worthy of a poet's muse, and sometimes with a dull, rutting mindlessness that was nothing more than some primitive, instinctual affirmation of existence. It was all here, the base and the sublime, the endless drama of human character and existence that he found so endlessly fascinating and compelling. Just being here made him feel alive.

To him, this was the true theatre, whose machinations he wanted his more artificial theatre to reflect. There was an ongoing drama unfolding in these streets that was far more essential, far more basic, far more tragic, comedic, and uplifting than anything that was cur-rently being acted on the stage. Compared to all of this, he thought, as his alert gaze swept the streets around him, how tawdry, how simple-minded and how utterly banal were the highjinks, jokes and caperings indulged in by the players of the day. All that petty pos-turing, all those silly, ribald songs, all those grandiloquent speeches said nothing at all about the piece of work man truly was. The ancient Greeks had understood something that men like Greene and his academic cronies seemed to have forgotten, and that was that the highest king could have at heart the motives of the basest peas-ant, and the meanest menial could possess nobility that would sur-pass that of the highest king.

The carriage had slowed considerably when they had entered the city and now, as it turned down a winding, narrow street, it slowed even more as the driver scanned the buildings carefully, unsure of his surroundings. Shakespeare called out to him, "Just a short way further on! Look for the sign of the mortar and the pestle!"

Moments later, the driver was reining in before a small apothe-cary shop on the ground floor of a small, two-story timbered house, crammed wall-to-wall in a row with other similar houses that lined the narrow, winding street. Above the heavy, planked front door hung a wooden sign with a mortar and a pestle painted on it, iden-tifying the apothecary shop.

"Wait here," Shakespeare said to the driver, rather superfluously, for of course the man would wait. He had been ordered to take him there and back. The driver merely glanced at him with disdain and said nothing.

The shop was still open for business, so Shakespeare went straight in. The strong aroma of herbs filled the air inside the shop.

It was the same curious, yet somehow comforting mixture of rich smells he remembered from the first time he had visited the shop, together with Tuck Smythe, Dick Burbage, and Elizabeth Darcie. The door shut behind him with a loud, protracted creaking sound, accented by a soft tinkling of small bells tied to a cord. A profusion of herbs hung drying from the ceiling beams in bunches, dozens and dozens of them, giving the ceiling the appearance of a hanging gar-den. From one instant to the next, depending upon where he stood, different odors wafted over him, some familiar, like rosemary, fen-nel, thyme and basil, others strange and exotic. Wooden shelves from floor to ceiling lined all four walls, each shelf holding a wide assortment of earthenware jars of various sizes. In front of one row of shelves, to his left as he entered the shop, stood a long wooden counter upon which were spread cutting boards and mixing bowls, mortars and pestles, scales with weights and measures, scoops, fun-nels, scissors, knives and various other tools, some of which he could not even identify. For all the clutter, however, there was not a speck of dirt or dust anywhere in evidence.

A hanging cloth embroidered with the symbols of the zodiac was pushed aside and a tall, almost skeletal-looking man in a long black robe stepped out. His dark eyes were deeply set, giving them a hooded aspect, and his features were lined and gaunt. He had high, prominent cheekbones and a high forehead with long, wispy, snow white hair cascading down over his shoulders from beneath a woven skullcap. His face was set into what appeared to be a perpetual ex-pression of somberness. Once again, Shakespeare thought that he looked like the very image of a sorcerer, only instead of having a dramatic name like Merlin Ambrosius or Asmodeus or some other suitably necromantic appellation, he bore the rather prosaic and in-nocuous name of Freddy.

"Good day to you, Master Shakespeare," Freddy said, greeting him with a slight bow.

" 'Allo, Freddy. I am pleased to see that you remembered me."

"Indeed, I do remember, sir. And if I had not, then Meg would have reminded me. She told me that we might be expecting you today."

"Did she?" The poet shook his head, smiling. "Your good wife continues to amaze me, Freddy. And did she also, by any chance, happen to tell you on what errand I would come?"

"A grave errand, Master Shakespeare."

The smile slipped from Shakespeare's face. "Aye. A grave errand, indeed. I trust that she will see me then?"

"But of course," said Freddy, standing aside and beckoning him through the doorway. "This way, sir." The poet went through as Freddy held aside the hanging cloth and together they proceeded to the back of the dimly lit shop, to-wards a steep and narrow flight of stairs against the far wall. Shake-speare slowly climbed the creaky wooden stairs until he came out through the floor of the living quarters on the second story. It was a narrow, one-room apartment, longer than it was wide, with white-washed walls and a planked wood floor that was, unlike the floor in the shop below, not covered with rushes, but swept bare and kept immaculately clean.

At the far end of the room was the only window, looking out over the street below. It was partially hidden by a free-standing wooden shelf that also functioned as a divider to screen off the sleep-ing area in the back. Nothing at all had changed since the last time he was here. The furnishings were still simple and rough-hewn, con-sisting of not much more than a couple of sturdy wooden chairs, several three-legged stools and a number of large, old-looking wooden chests. A rectangular wood-planked table similar to those that one might find in any tavern stood in the center of the room, before a fireplace. Except in the homes of the wealthy, fireplaces on the second floor were simply unheard of. In thatch-roofed country homes, where the ceilings on the upper floors were usually just the dry thatch on the roof, the fire hazard would have been extreme, to say nothing of the flammability of the rushes strewn upon the floors.

However, there were no rushes scattered here, and the ceiling was planked and wood-beamed, not thatch. With the exception of a cou-ple of candles, the flames from the hearth provided most of the light in the room, and there were several black cauldrons of various sizes hanging from iron hooks over the fire. In his mind's eye, the un-bidden image of three witches came to him as they stood over the cauldrons, stirring the bubbling brew and cackling to themselves. He shook his head and smiled at his own foolishness, yet at the same time, his surroundings were very much conducive to that sort of vision. Like the apothecary shop below, the walls were all but covered with wooden shelves crammed full of books and earthen jars, curious looking wooden carvings and small statuary made of stone, clay pots of every shape and size, necklaces and amulets of every description, little leather pouches suspended from thongs with who knew what sort of strange talismans contained therein . . . Shakespeare imagined eyes of newts and wings of bats and pulverized horn of unicorn. Everywhere he looked, there was something wonderfully different and strange to arrest his attention.

"Freddy, I was wondering . . ." he began as he turned around, then stopped abruptly when he saw that Freddy was not there. He frowned. He could have sworn that Freddy had come up the stairs right behind him. In fact, he was certain that he had. He made a wry grimace and shook his head. "The man moves like a ghost," he said to himself.

"Not all ghosts move quietly," said a soft, low voice from behind him. He started when she spoke and turned around again to see Granny Meg standing by the table in front of the fireplace. It seemed as if she had simply appeared from out of nowhere. Clearly, she must have come from behind the screen at the far end of the room, by the window, but she was barefoot and had moved so quietly that he had not heard her footsteps. He tried to recall if Freddy had been barefoot also, but he had not noticed, and with his floor-length robe, it would have been difficult to tell, in any case. Once again, he was struck by how ageless Granny Meg ap-peared. She was no longer young, but her skin was so fair and clear as to be almost translucent, without a single blemish or wrinkle. She was of average height, girlishly slim, and sharp-featured, with a pointed chin, high cheekbones, and a delicate, thin nose. Her thick, silvery-gray hair hung down to her waist. She had worn it loose the first time he had seen her, but now she had it plaited into one thick braid that hung down the left side of her chest and was held with simple rawhide thongs. She wore a simple homespun gown, lightly and delicately embroidered with green vines and flowers around the neckline. Her voice was low and mellifluous, memorable certainly, but not nearly so much as her eyes, which were an unusual, striking shade of pale grayish blue, so light that they seemed to absorb light and reflect it. And she seemed to be surrounded by a brightly glow-ing, pulsating aura.

Shakespeare blinked, taken aback, and then realized that it was but a momentary illusion of the firelight on the hearth behind her. He smiled, thinking of how easily his imagination ran away with him each time he came here. It was, after all, nothing more than an ordinary apothecary shop.

"I was thinking that surely no ghost could move as quietly as you, madame," Shakespeare said. "You gave me a bit of a start."

She smiled. "Forgive me. The floorboards here are stout, and these old bones are very light."

" 'Tis good to see you once more, Granny Meg. Good day to you. I am given to understand I was expected?"

She shrugged, a very spare and graceful gesture. "I had a strong presentiment that I would be seeing you today."

"And lo, here I am."

"There you are." She indicated one of the chairs at the table. "Please, be seated." He took the chair and she sat down across from him.

"You are very troubled," she said.

"Indeed. You can divine that much already?"

"I can divine that simply by looking at your face," she replied, raising her eyebrows. "You wear a very troubled look."

"Ah. Well. . ." He nodded. "I am troubled, 'tis true. Very much troubled. Something has happened . . . something both unfortunate and terrible. There has been a murder ... or at the very least, it seems very like a murder. A young woman is dead and it appears as if there may have been foul play. Indeed, we very much suspect so."

"We?" she asked.

"The esteemed Sir William Worley, Tuck Smythe, and my hum-ble self," Shakespeare replied. She nodded. "I have heard much of Sir William, and I remember Tuck, of course. Go on."

"Well. . ." He paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. "The poor, unfortunate girl. . . 'twas to be her wedding day, you see, and her father had prepared a most elaborate and lavish celebration at his estate outside the city. We players were to participate, which is why Tuck and I were there, of course, and Sir William was one of the illustrious invited guests. There was to be a fair, and a grand progress on the river with the bride in costume as Queen Cleopatra arriving on her royal barge. All went well, as had been planned, until the arrival of the bride, who tragically turned up dead upon her throne. And beside her body, I found this . . ." He took out the flask. " ‘Twould appear that she was drinking from this flask to ward off the chill upon the river. Tis brand, burnt wine, but 'twas mixed with something else, methinks, some foreign matter. There is a cu-rious sort of odor, one the girl no doubt could not discern, which would be no great surprise if she were not accustomed to the drink. I believe it may contain a deadly poison."

"And so you seek to have me confirm what you believe," Granny Meg said.

"Aye, 'twould prove that murder had been done," said Shake-speare, grimly. "And perhaps, if we knew the nature of the poison and where it might have been obtained, then 'tis possible we might learn who had obtained it. Sir William will see to it, of course, that your efforts in this matter are rewarded." Granny Meg nodded. "Let me see the flask."

Shakespeare passed it to her across the table, but the moment her hand came in contact with the flask, Granny Meg stiffened and a frown crossed her features. Her grasp tightened on the flask. She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if to dispel whatever percep-tion or sensation she had just experienced, or else deny it, then she unstoppered the flask and brought it up close to her lips, as if she were about to drink, only instead her nostrils flared delicately as she sniffed its contents once, and once only, whereupon she set the flask down and abruptly got up from the table. Shakespeare could no longer contain himself. She knew what it was, that much seemed certain from her reaction. She had turned away from him and was staring intently into the flames upon the hearth. Clearly, she was greatly troubled.

"I can see that you recognized the odor," he said, softly. "I was right, was I not?" Granny Meg kept staring into the flames as she slowly shook her head. "No. You were not." He was completely taken aback by her reply. It did not seem possible. He had been so certain. " 'Tis not poison?" he said. "Are you certain?"

"I should think I ought to know," Granny Meg replied. "I had prepared it myself."

"What?" He stared at her, eyes wide with astonishment. "You prepared this flask?"

"Not the flask," she replied, "but 'twas I who mixed the potion that went into it. 'Tis an ancient blend of certain rare herbs and distillations, comingled with some common plants that can be found simply growing wild by the roadside. But the effect that it produces is not common at all."

"But. . . you just said 'twas not a poison," Shakespeare said. "And yet Catherine Middleton is dead!" Granny Meg turned back towards him and shook her head. " 'Twas not the name she gave me, though I had a feeling that the name she gave was false. That alone might have dissuaded me from helping her, yet she came well recommended. If she was the bride of whom you speak, the one who drank this potion, then most assuredly it did not kill her."

Shakespeare pushed back his chair and stood. "Granny Meg, I was there! With my own eyes, I saw

her lifeless body! She neither moved nor took a breath! Tuck listened at her chest and said her heart had ceased to beat! Odd's blood, if she came to you for some sort of tonic and by mishap you had made some dreadful error in the concoction that resulted in her death, why then . . . this terrible tragedy is your responsibility!"

"There has been no error, Master Shakespeare, I assure you," Granny Meg said calmly. "Hear me out before you rush to judge-ment of me. The potion I had mixed at the woman's own request has, by your own report, produced precisely the result that was de-sired."

"Good God!" he said. "Are you saying that Catherine Middleton wanted to kill herself?"

"No. Far from it. She had the best reason in the world to want to live. But she wanted to produce the illusion that she did not. She asked me if I could prepare a potion that could, for a certain length of time, produce the appearance of death, and yet not bring it about. I hesitated to perform the task she asked of me, and warned her that such a ruse was not without its dangers, but she and your friend who brought her to me both beseeched me, and said it was the only chance she had to avoid a life of hopeless misery."

"You said that a friend of mine had brought her to you?" Shake-speare said. "What do you mean?

Which friend?"

"Why, the one you brought to see me once before," Granny Meg replied. "Young Mistress Darcie."

"Elizabeth?"

"Aye, she is the one who brought her to me."

"Then you mean to say that Catherine Middleton is not truly dead, but merely in a sort of morbid slumber?"

"Her heart still beats, but so weakly that one may not easily discern it," Granny Meg replied. "And she still breathes, but only barely, and to all outward appearances seems not to breathe at all. She will lie thus for at least a day or more, and then she will awake as if from an ordinary slumber, and should be no worse for wear."

"But... the funeral. . ." Shakespeare said.

"I was assured that there would be no burial," said Granny Meg, "but that she would be laid to rest within her family vault, where she could sleep in safety until the effects of the potion had worn off."

"Of course!" said Shakespeare. He remembered then Elizabeth's insistence that the funeral should take place as soon as possible, while the guests were still assembled, so that Catherine could be laid to rest inside the family vault, the better to ease her father's grief. . . and aid in the deception. "So there has been no murder after all!"

"And yet," said Granny Meg, as she reached out slowly and picked up the flask, "I have a strong presentiment of death." Her brow was deeply furrowed and her eyes had an unfocused, distant look.

"Something is very wrong. I see death where there should be no death." She looked at him. "Go back," she said. "And ride with all due haste. Death comes; there is no time to waste." 5

THE NEWS OF THE BRIDE'S death had cast a pall over the fes-tivities, but not quite to the extent that Smythe might have expected. For one thing, rather to his surprise, it had not brought the festivities to an end. Quite the contrary, it seemed to add a morbid stimulation to them. Instead of offering their condolences to their host, or at least sending them through servants and then leaving quietly, as Smythe had expected most of them to do, the guests had all, without exception, chosen to remain, no doubt out of curiosity to see what would develop and because there was still a fair they could attend, with the added spice of new rumors and gossip to exchange.

None of the merchants had packed up and left, mainly because no one had told them to go and the fair was still on so far as they were concerned. There were still good profits to be made and they continued to do a brisk business as the day wore on. When Godfrey Middleton's steward came out to announce formally that Catherine's funeral would be held that very afternoon, and that ban-queting would follow for the guests, then anyone who might have considered leaving chose instead to stay. As Shakespeare had re-marked wryly just before he left for London, " 'Tis thrift, Tuck, thrift. The baked meats of the wedding feast shall now coldly furnish forth the tables for the wake." Smythe thought that was rather cold of his friend to make the observation in such bitter terms, yet he had to admit that it was accurate. His eldest daughter had just apparently been murdered on the very day of her wedding, and Godfrey Middleton, however dis-traught he might have felt, was nevertheless allowing the fair to continue. Was it because he had already made a commitment to the merchants, who had indeed gone to some trouble and expense to come out to Middleton Manor from London, or did he have more mercenary motives because he would, as owner of the grounds on which the fair was held, pocket a percentage of the merchants' prof-its?

"If 'twere my daughter," Smythe said to Sir William, "I would have shut down the fair and asked everyone to leave, albeit kindly, so that I could be left alone with my grief. Instead, the fair proceeds as planned, even with Catherine lying dead upstairs in the house." He shook his head. "I simply cannot see how Middleton can con-tinue with it."

" ‘Tis said the rich are different, Tuck," Sir William replied, "and having started out in life quite poor, I have seen both sides of for-tune, good and ill. There is, indeed, a lot of truth to what they say. A poor man may not have a rich man's luxuries, but then neither does he have his obligations. And while 'tis true that money may beget more money, 'tis also true that it takes money to maintain money. Godfrey Middleton is a rich man, but his estate is frightfully expensive to keep up, as is his business and his home in London, too. All must be staffed, provisioned and supplied, and otherwise maintained. There are many people who depend upon him for their livelihoods. Just because a man is rich, Tuck, does not mean that he is without care or duty."

"I can see your point, Sir William," Smythe replied. "And yet, I still cannot help but think that there are times when a man can simply be past caring, and when duty can just be damned." Worley nodded. "I can see your point, as well, lad. And 'tis well taken, too. For my own part, I have no children, so I cannot say for certain that I know how I would feel were I in Godfrey's place. But I have known what it is to love, and then to lose that love, and if such pain can in any measure be akin to the pain of a lost child, then I believe that I would feel much the same as you." Smythe glanced at Sir William briefly, but Worley seemed to be looking off into the distance somewhere. Smythe had never be-fore heard Sir William speak of any romances in his past. Indeed, there was much about Sir William Worley's life he did not know— although in some respects, he knew a great deal more than most— and it would have been much too presumptuous of him to ask.

"Howsoever that may be," Worley continued, "it serves our pur-pose that the fair has not closed down and the guests have not been asked to leave, for we can now proceed to run our murderer to ground."

"Or murderers, if there be more than one," said Smythe, mind-ful of the two men whose plotting he had overheard.

"Indeed," said Worley. "And the first order of business shall be to inform Godfrey Middleton of how things stand. That, I fear, must be my sad duty to perform, as he is my friend and neighbor."

"And yet, he is your rival," Smythe observed.

"That, too. However, truth be told, 'tis a rivalry more keenly felt by him than me. I am aware of it, of course, but I do not pay it any mind. I know he envies me my privilege of playing host to Her Royal Majesty each year when she sets out for her progress through the country, but I shall tell you frankly—and in strict con-fidence, mind you—that 'tis a privilege I would gladly cede to him. Her Majesty alone can be a handful at the best of times, but together with her sycophantic pilot fish at court, she becomes much more of a vexation than a privilege. Each year, I play the gracious host to them and spend a small fortune on their entertainment. And each year after they have gone, it takes yet another small fortune to clean up the mess they leave behind. If Godfrey wishes to contend with that, believe me, he is more than welcome."

"Well, after what has happened, I should think there would be little chance that the queen would ever wish to lodge here."

Worley gave a snort. "After what has happened here, you could not beat the old girl off with a stick," he replied, in a manner rather more befitting his rough demeanor as Black Billy than the elegant Sir William. "There is no dish quite as piquant to the nobility as a good serving of scandal, and murder makes for the most savory morsel of them all. The queen is no exception. I love the old girl, and 'tis my honor and my duty both to serve her, but at heart she is as bloodthirsty as her father was before her. Godfrey wanted this to be a memorable occasion that all of London would talk about for months or even years to come. Well, he has paid a very high price for it, I fear, but he has gotten precisely what he wanted. Come on, then. Let us go and pay our respects to him."

"You wish me to go with you to see him?" Smythe said, with surprise.

"Of course," Worley replied. "He shall want to hear from you, in your own words, what you overheard those two men say out in the garden."

"But do you really think, that at such a time . . . that is, with his daughter's death as yet so fresh . . ."

"Godfrey Middleton is not a man who is ruled by sentiment, believe me," said Worley. "However grief-stricken he may be, he shall still want justice, rest assured. So let us go and speak with him." They found Middleton alone in his own chambers, standing and staring impassively out the window at the river. They were admitted by his steward, Humphrey, who quietly withdrew, leaving them alone with him.

"Godfrey ... I am so very sorry for your loss," said Worley. Middleton slowly turned to face them. He nodded. "Thank you, Sir William. And my thanks to you for coming. I only wish that it were for my daughter's wedding rather than her funeral." His gaze settled upon Smythe. "You are the young man who brought my daughter up from the barge. Forgive me, but I do not believe I know your name."

"Tuck Smythe is one of the players, Godfrey," Worley said. "He is also my friend and protege." Middleton's eyebrows went up. "Indeed?" He looked at Smythe with new interest. "That is not a claim that many men can make. It speaks very highly of you, young man."

"Thank you, sir."

" 'Tis I who should be thanking you for the service you per-formed," said Middleton, his voice flat and unemotional. "But for-give me, I am being rude. Please, be seated."

"I think that we should rather stand, for the bitter news that we have to impart," Worley told him. Middleton stiffened. " 'Tis true, then, about the poison?"

"You knew?" asked Worley, frowning.

"My steward, Humphrey, told me that there was talk of poison among the guests, but he did not know if there was any truth to it." Middleton hesitated. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "Is there?"

"We do not yet know for certain," Worley replied, "but I have good reason to believe there is. She appeared to have been drinking from a flask to help keep warm upon the river. The flask was found and brought to me by William Shakespeare, another of the players, a young poet who is well known to me. I am nearly certain that the flask contained some sort of poison. I have sent Shakespeare to Lon-don with it, to have an apothecary analyze its contents so that we may know for certain. He will notify me of what was found as soon as he returns."

Middleton swallowed hard. "So then 'tis true. My daughter killed herself to spite me, rather than go through with a marriage that she did not want."

Worley frowned. "Good Lord, Godfrey! Is that what you thought?"

"What else should I think, damn you?" Middleton shot back, and then he suddenly caught his breath and paled as comprehension dawned. "Dear God in Heaven! Do you mean to tell me she was murdered?"

"I fear she was, Godfrey," Worley said. "Smythe, here, over-heard two men last night, plotting in the garden, and it very nearly cost him his life. I thought it best if he were to tell you what he heard in his own words."

Quickly, Smythe recounted the details of what had transpired in the maze the previous night. Middleton listened without saying a word, his features strained, his lips compressed into a tight grimace. When Smythe had finished, Middleton simply stood there, motion-less and silent, as if he could find no words to say.

At length, Sir William broke the awkward silence. "Godfrey . . . are you well? Perhaps you should sit down?"

Middleton blinked several times and looked at him. "My God," he said, hoarsely. He made a weak, waving sort of gesture towards the sideboard. "There is wine ... in the decanter there. Help your-selves, please. I insist."

Smythe went to pour them all a drink. He handed a goblet to Middleton, one to Sir William, and then took one for himself.

"How is the groom taking it?" asked Worley.

Middleton snorted. "Sir Percival? He is out there somewhere, dithering and acting very put upon. One would think that Catherine died just to inconvenience him." He grimaced, then raised his goblet in a toast.

"To my daughter, Catherine," he said, somberly. "May merciful Almighty God rest and protect her poor, unhappy and un-shriven soul."

"Amen," said Worley, softly.

They drank.

Middleton simply tossed the goblet aside onto the floor. "Now then," he said, grimly, "what are we going to do about this?"

"We are going to find the guilty parties, Godfrey," Worley said, "and then they shall hang."

"Not nearly punishment enough," said Middleton, with a hard edge to his voice, "but as we are not Spaniards, I suppose that it shall have to do. What do you want from me?"

"Proceed with the funeral and hold the fair, as planned," said Worley. "Let it be known that it shall be held in Catherine's mem-ory. In the meantime, we shall begin to ferret out our plotters by paying particular attention to your younger daughter's present suit-ors, especially those whose families we do not know. In this regard, Tuck Smythe here will assist us, as will young Shakespeare when he returns. They have assisted me before in a matter of great import and they have my fullest confidence." Middleton nodded. "Then that is good enough for me. I shall see to it that they have whatever they require."

"Do so, but pray, do so with discretion," Worley cautioned him. "Our quarry shall be brought to ground more swiftly if they do not suspect that they are being hunted."

"It shall be done as you wish, Sir William," said Middleton. "I am in your debt."

"He who strikes out at my neighbor strikes at me," said Worley. "I am certain that you would do no less if you were in my place. Smythe and Shakespeare shall be our hounds in this regard. For the present, I fear that I must leave and rejoin Her Majesty, who shall be awaiting my return. However, I shall inform her of what has happened here and beg her leave to absent myself from court in order to pursue this matter to its swift conclusion. I feel confident that she shall not refuse me."

"You honor me in this," said Middleton.

"Murder does dishonor to us all," Worley replied. "Now, before I leave, let us sit down and put our heads together, so that Smythe may have the benefit of our common knowledge and proceed in my absence. . . ."

The funeral was held late that afternoon, when the performance of the play had originally been scheduled. Much to everyone's surprise, however, it was announced that the players would still perform on the afternoon of the following day. This news was as much of a surprise to the Queen's Men as to anybody else. They had fully expected that their performance would be cancelled because of the bride's death and were thus quite taken aback by the announcement. They had already returned the Roman togas they were given as cos-tumes for the bride's arrival and had started packing up their gear to leave. Now, with this unexpected turn of events, it brought about a flurry of unpacking and new preparations. A lively debate ensued among them about which play from their repertoire should be performed. Burbage was strongly of the opin-ion that Shakespeare's new play, being a broad and rather bawdy comedy, would now be completely unsuitable for the occasion, and most of the players agreed. Kemp, of course, was the notable excep-tion, for any comedy with a good deal of physicality and broad humor played mostly to his strengths as a dancer and a clown. John Fleming argued that a tragedy should be performed instead, for that would be more in keeping with the funereal occasion. Part of the problem was that with Shakespeare still away in Lon-don, the man who would be most adept at making any last minute alterations in any of their plays to render them more suitable was gone, and they could not seem to agree on which play should be performed or whether any changes should be made. The one thing they all seemed able to agree on was that, under the circumstances, the success of their performance would almost certainly be doomed from the beginning. However, they could not very well refuse to perform. It simply was not done, aside from which, they had already been paid; their audience would be an illustrious one; and their host was a good friend of one of their principal investors. It was a situ-ation that none of them were pleased with and their mood was petulant and sullen. After explaining that he and Shakespeare had both been directed by Sir William to perform some special tasks for their bereaved host, Smythe left them arguing amongst themselves. As he was not one of the principal actors, or even a significant supporting player, Smythe thought wryly that he would not truly be missed unless there was a need to move any heavy objects. It occurred to him, in passing, that here was probably the single greatest opportunity for him as a player to make a good impression on some of the most important people in the city, and it now looked as if he would not even be setting foot upon the stage. But then again, the few times that he had set foot upon it, he had not distinguished himself for anything save his maladroitness.

"Face it, Smythe," he mumbled to himself, as he left the others arguing in their quarters, "as a player, you make an admirable black-smith."

In the months since he had arrived in London together with Will Shakespeare, whom he had met upon the road, they had accom-plished much together. They had managed to find jobs, for one thing, which in itself was a significant accomplishment, considering the vast numbers of people arriving in London every day from small towns and villages across the country. And not only had they found jobs, but they had found positions with one of the most illustrious companies of players in the land, which had been the dream they shared in common.

Granted, they had started out as ostlers, tending to the horses and carriages of playgoers, but Shakespeare had quickly demon-strated his value to the company as a poet and adapter of existing plays, while he, at least, had managed to move up to stagehand and occasional spear carrier, though he was still expected to perform his duties as an ostler when not otherwise engaged. And considering his appalling lack of talent as an actor and his disastrous clumsiness on stage, Smythe knew that he should consider himself fortunate not to have been summarily dismissed from the company. In all likelihood, he thought, he would have been let go already, were it not for Shakespeare, whose abilities were highly valued by the Queen's Men and for whose sake they had kept him on.

In all, Smythe knew that he had nothing to complain about.

There were many men and women in London who were jammed together in absolutely squalid quarters, a dozen to a room or more, barely able to eke out an existence by picking up odd jobs, or beg-ging, or stealing, or selling themselves upon the streets. For many, their dreams of making a new life for themselves in the city would end up on the gibbet, or in prison, or perhaps worse still, in Bedlam, among the screaming lunatics. Yet, at odd moments, Smythe won-dered what his life would have been like if he had remained in his small village in the Midlands and followed the trade to which he had been apprenticed.

He would have continued to work together with his Uncle Tho-mas at his forge, spending his days with the man who was more of a father to him than his own father ever was, and he would have pursued a trade at which he had some skill. Smythe knew he was a good smith, an excellent farrier, thanks to his natural way with horses, and he had a serviceable talent as a forger of blades which, under the skilled and gifted tutelage of his uncle, he could have developed into a separate trade of his own. In time, perhaps, he would have met a girl and married, and then had children and a home of his own. It would have been a good life, undoubtedly, better than most. From any practical standpoint, leaving home and coming instead to London to pursue a life in the theatre had been foolish beyond measure. Yet, it had always been his dream. It was all he had wanted to do ever since he had seen his first play performed by the Queen's Men upon a makeshift stage in the courtyard of a village inn. Now, he had joined that very company, and was embarking upon his very first tour. True, the beginnings of the tour were certainly far from auspicious, and the players were already speaking with trepidation of the tour being ill-omened, but Smythe nevertheless felt buoyed by the knowledge that he was living out his dream. Even the present circumstances could not dampen his enthusi-asm. He was on the road with the Queen's Men and he was having an adventure. He could feel sympathy for Godfrey Middleton, and he certainly felt sorry for what had happened to his daughter, but then, he had never known her. It was not his tragedy and he could feel no grief. There was really only one dark cloud on his horizon . . . the possibility that Elizabeth had found somebody else.

Perhaps he was wrong for feeling jealous. After all, it was not as if Elizabeth were his lover. They had never been intimate; they did not have any sort of understanding between them and, indeed, they could not. Shakespeare was right when he pointed out that she was much too far above him. Her father was a wealthy man, a prin-cipal investor in the Burbage Theatre, and if Henry Darcie was not quite yet a member of the landed gentry, then the tide of "gentle-man" was certainly not very far beyond his reach. Henry Darcie often purchased dresses for his daughter that cost more than Smythe could make in several months. The thought that he could ever hope to meet with her on equal terms was ludicrous. Her father tolerated their friendship—rather grudgingly, it seemed—because of the ser-vice Smythe had rendered to his family, and because he knew that Sir William Worley had taken Smythe under his wing, but at the same time, Smythe knew it was a tolerance that would not bear much testing. Darcie still hoped to make a good, advantageous mar-riage for his daughter. He would not stand idly by and watch some randy young ostler spoil his plans.

Smythe knew and understood that, but still could not help the way he felt. And until recently, he had been certain that Elizabeth had felt something for him, too, something more than friendship. Now, he was no longer certain. Since the day they had argued in St. Paul's, Elizabeth had been avoiding him. She had barely even spoken to him, and the one time that she had, she had put him off. Granted, she had promised him that they would speak, and under the circumstances, it would have been the height of selfishness if he had expected her to put his needs above those of a grieving father, especially when the daughter he was grieving for had been Eliza-beth's close friend. Smythe very much wanted to believe that was all it was. Yet, there was still the troublesome riddle of what Eliza-beth had been doing in the garden maze that night.

It worried him throughout the funeral ceremony, which was mercifully short, doubtless because Godfrey Middleton would have found it unbearable to draw it out into an elaborate ritual, as he had intended to do with Catherine's wedding. The musicians who had been engaged to play for the wedding now played for the funeral instead, offering up sweet and solemn tunes which they played upon lutes, recorders, citterns, sackbutts, harps and psaltries, coaxing more than a few tears from the assembled guests, especially the women, many of whom joined in to sing several psalms for the procession to the family vault.

As it was a newly built estate, the vault was new as well, a small yet stately stone mausoleum which contained but one coffin, that of Catherine's mother. Now Catherine would sleep beside her, laid out in her wedding dress upon the slab until her own coffin could be prepared. It would doubtless be speedily arranged upon the mor-row, if Middleton or, more likely, his steward did not already have a carpenter at the estate busily engaged upon the task. The proces-sion gathered in the front courtyard of the house and then slowly and solemnly made its way across the grounds, in the opposite di-rection from the fair's pavillions, down a path that led along the riverside and through the woods to where the vault stood in a small clearing, surrounded by a stone wall with an iron gate set into it. It would, thought Smythe, be a very peaceful place to rest.

His thoughts and his attention were less upon the funeral, how-ever, than upon those in attendance, in particular a certain few who had been the subject of discussion earlier between Godfrey Middle-ton, Sir William, and himself. Because of what he had overheard, their discussion had centered upon Blanche Middleton's suitors, in particular those who were not well known to either Middleton or Worley. Given that Blanche was quite a sultry beauty, and with a very wealthy father, there seemed to be no shortage of eager suitors for her hand in marriage. However, a good number of them were easily eliminated from consideration as suspects due to either Mid-dleton or Worley being well acquainted with their families, if not with the young men themselves. That still left three or four who seemed quite worthy of suspicion. One such was young Andrew Braithwaite, a baron's son who hailed from Lancashire. Or so he claimed. Middleton knew nothing of him and Worley had no knowledge of him, either. However, that did not necessarily mean Braithwaite was not who he said he was. Not all the members of England's nobility were regulars at court or sat among their peers in the House of Lords; some never even came to London. Consequently, they did not necessarily all know one another. Sir William had explained, primarily for Smythe's benefit, that presently there were three degrees of nobility in England, those of baron, viscount, and earl, in descending order. A duke would have been above a baron, of course, but at present, no one held that tide.

As a country commoner with little formal education, Smythe did not know a great deal about the nobility, nor had he learned very much more since he came to London. He knew that a noble was created by the sovereign through a patent bearing the Great Seal of England and the title of that noble was thereupon passed down through the eldest son. He also knew that bishops, equal to the nobility in rank, were likewise appointed by the sovereign, and their offices were not hereditary. Below them were knights and gentlemen, with knighthood bestowed for special service or as a mark of favor by either the sovereign or a deputy empowered to act in the sovereign's name, such as a general or an admiral in time of war. As with a bishopric, a knighthood was not hereditary, and a gentleman could only properly call himself a gentleman when the College of Heralds saw fit to award him with a coat of arms. And that, essentially, was the limit of Smythe's knowledge.

Sir William was not sure exactly how many nobles there were in England at the present time. There were a dozen earls or so, he thought, a few viscounts, and probably more barons than any other degree of nobility, perhaps thirty or more. There were people at court, he said, who paid far more attention to that sort of thing than he did. Her Majesty, for one, would have more knowledge at her fingertips, as would her ministers and any of the heralds, for among their varied functions was the granting of coats of arms to gentlemen and the preservation of all records of England's noble families. The heralds took their duties very seriously, Sir William had explained. Organized into a college, they were under the authority of the Earl Marshal, who was a court official. The three senior her-alds held the tides of Garter King at Arms, Clarenceaux King at Arms, and Norry King at Arms. Below them were the heralds of York, Somerset, Lancaster, Richmond, Chester, and Windsor, with four pursuivants below them bearing the colorful titles of Rouge Dragon, Blue Mantle, Portcullis, and Rouge Croix. And while Her Majesty might conceivably lose track of a noble or two, Sir William said, especially if he were not in regular attendance at her court, it was unthinkable that a herald should do so, for one of their most important duties was to examine the claims of anyone, including foreign visitors, who claimed to be of noble or gentle birth. Regretably, there were no heralds handy, and with the royal court away from London, a bold imposter might easily believe that he could pass himself off as a nobleman and get away with it, at least for a while.

Young Braithwaite seemed modest to a fault, a quality which had initially impressed Middleton quite favorably, but that now made him suspicious. Braithwaite's apparent reticence in discussing his family had at first seemed like modest self-effacement, but now, given what Smythe had overheard from the two mysterious plotters, it could readily be perceived as guile. Moreover, there was some-thing rather rakish about young Andrew Braithwaite, despite his outward display of manners. He was approximately the same age as Smythe, chestnut-haired, blue-eyed, clean-shaven and handsome in a rugged, provincial sort of way, but there was something in his manner that Smythe did not quite care for. He had a way of strut-ting when he walked, a sort of loose-hipped, rolling swagger that did not quite seem to match his seeming outward modesty. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it rubbed Smythe the wrong way. The elder Braithwaite was not in attendance, which might have cast some doubt on the younger Braithwaite as a suspect, for the plan that Smythe had overheard involved one of the two men posing as the father. However, as Worley had pointed out, knowing that someone had overheard them, even if they did not know precisely who it was, could easily have brought about a change in the two scoundrels'

plans. If they knew that someone might expect a noble-man and his son to be imposters, then it was possible that they might have decided to withhold the father, so to speak, and just advance the son, thus hoping to confuse anyone looking for a father and a son, while keeping the other man in reserve, standing by to perform whatever unsavory task might be required of him. That made sense to Smythe, therefore he did not dismiss the strutting Andrew Braith-waite out of hand. Nor did he miss the fact that Blanche very much seemed to enjoy the attention he was paying to her. But then, at the same time, she seemed more than willing to encourage the attentions of the chevalier Phillipe Dubois, as well. Here, thought Smythe, was a different kettle of fish entirely, and he did not much care for how it smelled. One of the things he had discovered about the upper classes since coming to the city was that artifice was something that they often elevated to an art. They went to extraordinary lengths and expense to out-peacock one another, and an exaggerated sense of flamboyance—or at least so it seemed to Smythe, with his plain, country sensibilities—was usually the or-der of the day not only in fashion, but also in behavior. In this respect, Dubois excelled even in this company. True, the young Frenchman was not required, on this occasion, to compete with the more socially prominent and consequently more fashionably adept courtiers who were away from London with Her Majesty, but Wor-ley had observed in passing, after only a brief glimpse of him, that Phillipe Dubois would have doubtless held his own with them, as well.

If Andrew Braithwaite could be considered handsome, Smythe thought, then Phillipe Dubois was very nearly beautiful to the point of femininity. Smythe had never before seen anyone quite like him. He could not have been very much older than twenty or so, but it was somewhat difficult to tell, for Dubois painted his face and wore a beauty mark, and his curled hair was so long that it hung almost to his waist. He clearly lavished a great deal of attention upon it and Smythe noticed not a few women gazing at his dark tresses with undisguised envy. Nor was envy the only emotion that Dubois seemed to engender in many of the ladies present.

He was tall, well-formed, and graceful to the point of being langorous. His slightest gesture seemed elegant, studied and delib-erate, and his demeanor was the very epitome of cultured charm, which this French Huguenot supporter of Henry of Navarre wielded most adroitly and disarmingly. Smythe had detested him on sight, in no small part because earlier he had observed Dubois walking with Elizabeth upon his arm, and Elizabeth seemed rather taken with him. It seemed un-likely, however, that this effete fop could be one of the plotters whom he had overheard, for those men both had English accents, and while Dubois spoke excellent English, his accent was unques-tionably French. Nevertheless, Dubois had arrived together with his father, a French aristocrat who smiled at everyone, yet spoke to no one because, according to his son, he had gone completely deaf from some injury sustained upon the battlefield.

Then there was Hughe Camden of Pendennis, who had arrived at the estate with his father, Sir Richard. Smythe was not quite sure what to think of Sir Richard and his son. He supposed they could have been the men that he had overheard, although he could not say for certain. The white-bearded Sir Richard seemed rather aloof and close-mouthed, and acted as if he disdained the company that he was keeping. His short, curdy polite, yet somewhat irritable re-plies to any comments or questions that were addressed to him dis-couraged conversation. The general impression was that Sir Richard Camden was a solitary gentleman of leisure, and no one was quite certain what he had done to merit a knighthood. Knights, said Wor-ley, who spoke as one, were even harder to keep track of than bar-ons, earls and viscounts. Indeed, there was concern among some of the nobility that the rank of knight was being diminished by the recent increase in the ranks of knighthood.

"In the old days," Sir William had said, "a mere merchant ship-builder such as I would never have been knighted. But as I have done much to increase the royal coffers, so hath Her Majesty seen fit to increase my honor through my rank. 'Twas a generous offer, and one that I could scarcely refuse, you understand. But at the same time, neither did I campaign for it, as so many others have, and continue to do, often successfully. Why, if one were to throw a stone at some annoying dog in London these days, one would be just as liable to miss and strike a knight. So then, Sir Richard Camden may indeed be entitled to wear spurs, for all I know. And then again, he just as well may not be. For my part, I do not know him from Adam. He and his son, therefore, must remain suspect, at least until I can find out more about them."

For the present, it seemed somewhat easier to learn something of the younger Camden. Hughe was a slightly built, studious-looking young man in his mid-twenties, with a neatly-trimmed beard and moustache, and a thick shock of dark and curly hair that came just to his shoulders. He seemed as self-effacing in his dress as did Andrew Braithwaite in his manner, affecting somber hues of black and brown in his simple, unadorned doublet, breeches and hose with a plain, though well-made shoulder cloak. He was a stu-dent of the law, an inner barrister at the Inns of Court, and had a great fondness for poetry, which he had been observed to write in a fine Chancery hand well worthy of a scrivener. He seemed an amiable and pleasant enough fellow, and Middleton said he had applied for and been given a small stipend as Blanche's tutor in poetry and literature while they were at their home in London. He seemed clearly smitten with her and she, in turn, seemed not averse to his company, but at the same time, Smythe had the distinct im-pression that there were few males between the ages of eighteen and eighty to whose company Blanche Middleton might actually be averse.

Finally, that left Sir Roger Holland and his son, Daniel. Sir Roger had, apparently, won his knighthood on the field of battle in his younger days, had married well, sired a brood of children, and was now primarily devoted to managing his wife's fortune and her property in Lincolnshire. Beyond that, Middleton had said, he had not revealed very much of substance. He dressed reasonably well, if somewhat unfashionably, and had, in fairly short order, established himself as a crashing bore. He spoke of little else save hunting and his "sports"—the dogs he raised for fighting—and of those two sub-jects, he spoke almost incessantly. Middleton had said that regardless of what anyone tried to speak with him about, within moments Sir Roger would turn the conversation back to dog fighting or hunting and drone on with so much throat-clearing and hemming and haw-ing and harrumphing that one would be reminded of the sounds made by a pair of rutting hogs. apparently, he did not seem to notice that anyone he struck up a conversation with thereafter tended to avoid him as if he had the pox. Or, perhaps that was his intent. Daniel Holland seemed much more amiable than his father, and looked a few years older than both Braithwaite and Camden, and possibly Dubois, for the latter's age was not easy to determine and he had not volunteered it. However, what Daniel Holland may have lacked in youth, he made up for with a confident maturity that made him appear very self-possessed. Without saying so in so many words, he managed to give off the impression that he felt himself unques-tionably superior to his rivals, and he positively smirked whenever his gaze fell upon the elegant Dubois. Blonde, bearded, green-eyed and good looking without quite being handsome, young Holland was of average height and stocky build. Being a gentleman of means, he had no need of a trade, although he claimed to know something of horses and their breeding. He stood to inherit a considerable amount of land and also spoke vaguely of some investments that he made in the New World.

Any of them, Smythe thought, could be the plotters he had overheard in the maze, though some seemed more likely candidates than others. There seemed to be no way, at least for the present, to verify their true status or their claims, and Smythe was certainly in no position to question their veracity. To his immense frustration, he was not able to recognize any of their voices. Dubois' voice seemed the most unlike those that he had overheard, as did his ac-cent, but then again, the accent could be something he was faking, although if he was, he was certainly convincing, and his father spoke not at all, which Smythe found a bit suspicious. Of the remaining three, Daniel Holland seemed, perhaps, the least likely to be one of the plotters, as both Worley and Middleton had thought, as well. He neither looked nor acted like a rogue, and if Smythe were casting for the part, Daniel Holland would probably have been the last one that he would pick. He looked like a student at the Inns of Court, and he seemed very well educated. He quoted poetry and wrote it. Yet since Sir William had departed, Smythe had noticed something else about young Holland that had given him some pause.

Most well-dressed gentlemen went armed, and the guests at Middleton Manor were no exception, especially the young, fashion-able men who vied for Blanche Middleton's attention. Dubois, as might be expected of a French chevalier, had a very showy blade, a rapier with a curvaceous basket hilt and jewelled crossguards. It seemed quite well made, though Smythe was unable to make a close inspection. However, it made sense that a man who could afford the sort of elegant clothing Dubois wore would also be able to afford a first-class blade. Whether or not he knew how to use it was another matter entirely. He wore it in a rakish hanger, but beyond that, Smythe had his doubts that the blade had ever been drawn in practice, much less combat. Likewise, Braithwaite and Camden both wore blades, and if they were not as showy and expensive looking as the Frenchman's, they were nevertheless quite handsome. Daniel Holland, on the other hand, who looked as if wearing a blade would suit him about as well as a silk dressing gown would suit a horse, wore a rather plain-looking rapier with a cup hilt and hooked cross-guards. It was of Spanish design, and it was most certainly not the blade of a courtier or fop or roaring boy. It was the purposeful blade of a duelist. It was, of course, quite possible that Holland had pur-chased it cheaply in the city from some down-on-his-luck soldier and had no more idea how to use it than Smythe had of writing poetry. But Smythe found it interesting, just the same. Until he knew more, Smythe could not eliminate any of them from consideration. Sir William had the best chance of uncovering any possible deception with a few inquiries at court, but until he could return, Smythe was on his own. The trouble was he did not know what, if anything, he could accomplish. He wished that Shake-speare would return from London soon, for the poet had a clever way of thinking through things and looking at situations from all sides that doubtless came from plotting out his plays. His mind was quite adept at doing that. However, as the day wore on towards evening and Shakespeare still did not return, Smythe could but ob-serve the suspects from a distance and attempt to guess which, if any of them, had tried to kill him in the maze.

At the same time, he could not help but notice that Elizabeth kept right on avoiding him. At the funeral, she had wept openly and unashamedly, and was more demonstrative in her grief than anyone, even Blanche, who dabbed daintily at her eyes with a handkerchief and kept her gaze downcast. Elizabeth had been escorted by her father, who had left for London shortly thereafter, promising to send a carriage for her on the following day, for she had seemed much too distraught to travel. Since then, Smythe had not even seen her. He told himself that she had every reason to feel upset and had probably retired to one of the upstairs rooms. But something told him there was more to it than that. Elizabeth simply did not seem herself, and some instinct told him there was more to it than grief over a murdered friend, however unlikely that may have seemed. He simply could not shake the feel-ing. He had learned to trust his instincts. Therefore, when he saw Elizabeth come furtively down the stairs that evening as the sun was going down and head outside, he followed her once more. 8

HE WAS COLD AND WET and there was mud all over his clothing from helping the coachman wrestle with the wheel of the carriage in the pouring rain. The fool had been as reckless with his breakneck speed on the return trip as he had been going out to London, but this time, instead of worrying about a wreck, Shake-speare had urged him to go even faster.

Shortly after they set out, it began to rain and he had held on for dear life, gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the way the light carriage careened and bounced along the rutted road. He could think of nothing else but what Granny Meg had told him and he knew he had to get back to Middleton Manor as soon as humanly possible. And so, of course, they had a wreck.

The wheel had come off after the carriage had bounced up and come down particularly hard, and Shakespeare was very nearly thrown from the seat. He and the driver had both somehow man-aged to hang on as the carriage slewed to a stop, further damage prevented only by the fact that the road had completely turned to mud where a creek had overflowed its banks and washed across their way, thereby softening the surface. Fortunately, the wheel had not been damaged and together they were able to replace it, effect-ing a barely workable repair. However, that was not until they had sworn and shouted at each other and pretty much exhausted their entire repertoire of epithets, at which point the driver, exasperated to the point of sheer blind fury, had launched himself at Shake-speare and together they tumbled down into the mud, where they grappled and pummelled one another until the utter absurdity of their situation struck them and they had started laughing, which ended the fight and induced a spirit of mutual cooperation in the face of adversity.

"Come on, now, Ian, God blind you," Shakespeare urged the coachman, from his seat beside him,

"can you not go any faster?"

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

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

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

"We wasted too much time back there." "Well now, whose fault was that, eh?"

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

"Aye, but you distracted me!"

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

"Sod off!"

"You bloody well sod off!"

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

be!"

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

"Oh, Hell's spite! The poxed wheel's come off again!" said Ian, throwing down the reins in disgust.

"Now it looks like we shall both be walking."

"The devil you say!" Shakespeare replied. "Unhitch the horses." "What? And leave the carriage?

Master Middleton would strip the hide straight off me if I was to abandon it."

"I promise you, he will do much more than that if we are de-layed much longer," Shakespeare said.

"Now unhitch them, damn you! We must reach Middleton Manor before nightfall!" It had begun to rain and Smythe cursed himself for not having the foresight to bring along a cloak, as Elizabeth had. Unlike most of the guests at the estate, whose sense of fashion had demanded that they bring enough suits of clothing with them to change at least several times a day, he owned but one cloak, two doublets, two pair of breeches, two shirts, two pair of hose—both threadbare—and but one pair of shoes, which were well worn. On one hand, it made packing fairly simple. On the other, it meant that ruining one suit of clothes left him with only one to wear. There would have been no time to run and get his cloak, for he would have lost track of Elizabeth. Therefore, he was forced to go dressed as he was, which meant getting cold and wet as he pursued Elizabeth outside. How-ever, mindful of what had happened the last time he had followed her, he hesitated only long enough to grab a rapier off the wall in the great hall, where it had been displayed along with its companion and a buckler. He was pleased to note that it was a good Sheffield blade, not ostentatious, but quite servicable. He gave Elizabeth some leadway, so that she would not suspect that she was being followed. She had been furtive in her movements as she went outside, glancing around several times, as if to make certain no one saw her. Several times Smythe had to duck back out of sight in order to prevent her spotting him, but now she seemed far more intent upon her destination than upon making sure she was not followed. Once more, Smythe thought, she was going out alone at night, in a manner that was most suspicious. If she were not going to meet a man, then what else could she possibly be doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The very idea horrified him. He stepped through the gate and confronted them.

"Elizabeth! What the devil are you doing?"

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

"John, no!" Elizabeth cried out, but the young man was already rushing forward with his blade raised. Smythe met his rush and parried his stroke, then quickly ri-posted. The young man was surprised by his speed and barely man-aged a parry of his own, then quickly backed away to get some room. Smythe would not allow it. He kept after him, sensing that this was no experienced swordsman. His attack had been clumsy and his defensive parry had been more luck than skill. Their blades clashed against each other as the young man fought off Smythe's furious attack.

"Stop it, Tuck! Stop it!" Elizabeth cried out. "For God's sake, stop! I beg you!" Smythe hesitated, allowing the young man some room, but he held his rapier at the ready. "Tell him to throw down his blade!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He is Catherine's lover."

Smythe blinked. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell him all of it," the young man said. "It makes no difference now. The game is up. We are undone.

'Twas all for nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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