Simon Hawke - The Slaying Of The Shrew

“So what prevents you?” Shakespeare asked. “Go and search her out. Or else send word to her by one of the household servants.” “You forget,” said Smythe, “we argued.” “About what?”

Smythe frowned. “For the life of me, I cannot now recall.” He snorted. “Foolish.”

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

“But we are not lovers,” Smythe protested. “We have never… Well, we have never.”

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

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

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

“Aye, all the time.”

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

Smythe shrugged. “I dunno.”

“God’s wounds! You have forgotten?”

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

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

“But… I had done nothing truly wrong,” said Smythe.

“Did you speak?”

“Well, aye, but-”

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

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

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

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

“Well, considering that they are setting up a fair outside,” said Shakespeare, “might not a young woman wish to be among the first to do a bit of shopping?”

It was drawing on towards evening, but the fairgrounds were still abustle as late-arriving merchants hurried to set up their stalls. Others, whose goods had already been displayed, were making last minute adjustments to their tables or else dickering with guests who had already arrived and were taking advantage of the warm and pleasant evening to peruse the tented and beribboned booths. Unlike other fairs that were open to the public, there was no official opening time. The invited merchants were free to begin selling as soon as they set up their stalls, so long as they refrained from remaining open during the wedding ceremony scheduled for the following day. It was a small enough concession, Smythe thought, considering the wealthy customers to whom the merchants would be given access and they were all doing their best to make the most of the opportunity by arriving early and setting up their stalls as soon as possible. And other than the singular oddity of this fair being held on the grounds of a private estate and restricted only to invited guests, it reminded Smythe of the one held at his village, or at least it did until he got a closer look at some of the goods being offered and heard the asking prices.

All fairs, large or small, had certain things in common, such as the sale of foodstuffs. Already, Smythe could smell the savory aromas of fresh fruit pies baked earlier in the day and carefully packed up for the journey to the fair. He could smell roast chicken and game birds cooking over braziers, as well as venison pastie. And much like the fair at home, there were merchants here selling bolts of cloth and ribbons, as well as finished goods, but only the very finest kinds.

There were bolts of three-piled velvet and Italian silk, as well as Flemish damasks and French lace, much finer than anything Smythe had ever seen at the country fairs back home. Expensive pewter bowls and plates and drinking goblets were for sale at one booth, fancy embroidered doublets at the next, and jewelry at the one past that. There were heavy gold rings and enamelled chains and bracelets and brooches all set with precious stones, the work of the city’s finest artisans. There was even an armorer’s stall where Smythe stopped to stare at the highly polished and extravagantly engraved armor of the queen’s own champion on display. Nearby, a booth with weapons laid out on the cloth covered tables and hung up on pegs affixed to slanted display boards drew his attention. He gazed with interest at the great double-handed swords and Scottish basket-hilted claymores, war axes, spiked morning stars and triangulated maces, all of which, in these times of peace, were far more likely to be purchased for display upon some wall rather than for potential use in battle. He paid closer attention to the more practical swords and daggers suitable for daily wear, such as the gleaming Toledo blades and Italian stilettos, their hilts wrapped with fine gold and silver wire; slim and graceful ladies’ bodkins with hilts of bone or ivory and precious jewels set into their pommels and crossguards; purposeful looking swords and knives from the best artisans of Sheffield, as well as elaborately-wrought cup and basket-hilted French poignards and rapiers and main gauches. Save for a venison pastie, perhaps, or a roast goose drumstick, Smythe saw absolutely nothing that he could afford on his meager player’s pay.

As he wandered among the stalls, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a familiar-looking hooded cloak of green velvet. It was the same one Elizabeth had worn when they had last seen one another at St. Paul ’s. The day that they had quarrelled, Smythe thought, ruefully. She had often worn that cloak; it was her favorite. He was about to call out her name, but then thought better of it and caught himself in time.

This was not the yard of St. Paul ’s, he reminded himself. This was a private celebration at the estate of Godfrey Middleton, one of the richest men in London, and all about him, aside from the merchants and their apprentices, were some of the most wealthy and influential people in all of England. It was not a place where Elizabeth would wish to call attention to her friendship with a lowly ostler and a sometime player, assuming, of course, that their relationship had not been irreparably damaged by their foolish quarrel.

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