Simon Hawke - The Slaying Of The Shrew

“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 performed,” said Middleton, his voice flat and unemotional. “But forgive 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 London 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, overheard 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, motionless 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 yourselves, 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 memory. In the meantime, we shall begin to ferret out our plotters by paying particular attention to your younger daughter’s present suitors, 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 costumes 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.