Simon Hawke - The Slaying Of The Shrew

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 powerful 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. However, 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 Elizabeth 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 holding 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 riposted. The young man was surprised by his speed and barely managed 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!”