Simon Hawke - The Slaying Of The Shrew

“Which would you prefer to see, I wonder, Catherine alive or me whipped?”

“Oh, I would much prefer to see Catherine alive. The ensuing scandal would be absolutely marvelous. And you seem much too fine a fellow to be whipped.”

“Odd’s blood, Master Braithwaite, ‘tis entirely too likeable for a knight’s son, you are. I may be in danger of aspiring to have a friend above my station.”

“Never fear, I have no shortage of friends below mine. And those friends call me Andrew.” He offered his hand and Shakespeare took it.

“Will Shakespeare is my name.”

“I heard you tell Camden that your name was Marlowe.” “I lied.”

“I knew that. Among those lowly friends of mine is a certain poet by the name of Marlowe. Camden ’s father has considerable influence. You may have caused Chris some annoyance.”

“Well… he deserves it.”

“Aye, he does, at that. He is a scoundrel. But then, I seem to like scoundrels. I generally find them much more entertaining than this lot. We are nearly there, I think. ‘Tis hard to tell. At night, things often neither look nor sound the same.”

“Indeed. I do not see young Master Holland.”

“I have not seen him myself since the funeral. But as we are all rivals for Blanche Middleton’s affections, we do not enjoy a particular camaraderie. Perhaps he had retired early and thus missed your dramatic entrance and your speech. If so, then he shall doubtless miss whatever happens next, for we have arrived.”

They were just behind Middleton and the torchbearers at the head of the procession, and ahead of them they could dimly make out the white stone structure in the clearing that was the Middleton family vault. As they approached it, however, a piercing scream sounded and, for a moment, froze everybody in their tracks. It had been, unmistakably, a woman’s voice.

“Good God!” Braithwaite exclaimed. “Did that issue from within the crypt?”

Shakespeare did not respond, however. He was already running towards the door, for he saw that it stood open. Braithwaite was right on his heels, having had enough presence of mind to pause only long enough to grab a torch from one of the servants. They ran past Middleton, who stood rooted to the spot with the others in the vanguard, and Shakespeare was almost to the door when he felt his arm seized from behind.

“Wait, Will!” Braithwaite said. “Have a care!” He handed him the torch and drew his rapier. “You are unarmed. Stay close behind me.”

Shakespeare hesitated, then followed him through the door.

The scene that greeted them within the vault was startling, to say the least. There stood Smythe, holding Elizabeth in his arms. She was sobbing against his chest as he held her close and tried to comfort her. Next to the carved stone pedestal where Catherine’s shrouded body had been placed, awaiting the completion of the coffin, stood a young man Shakespeare had never seen before. He appeared to be about the same age as Smythe, but of a slighter build, cleanshaven, with blonde hair and strong, handsome features that were contorted with misery as he bent over Catherine’s now un-shrouded body, holding it in his arms as he wept unashamedly. But as dramatic a sight as that presented, even more striking was the stark red blood all over Catherine’s snow white gown and the dagger protruding from her chest.

“Tuck!” said Shakespeare, as soon as he recovered from his initial shock and found his voice. “Angels and ministers of grace defend us! What deviltry is this?”

“Treachery and murder, Will,” Smythe said, looking shaken. “Murder most foul.”

Braithwaite stood there with rapier drawn and held ready, looking both stunned and uncertain. Behind them, Middleton and several others came into the chamber.

“God’s mercy!” Middleton exclaimed, as he beheld the startling tableau before him. “What foul, horrible and loathesome desecration is this! Seize that man!”

Several of the servants rushed forward and grabbed hold of the young man, prying him away from Catherine’s body. For a moment, he resisted them, holding onto her corpse as if with desperation, then he seemed to resign himself and simply went limp, allowing them to pull him away.

Middleton’s eyes widened even further as he recognized Elizabeth, who had turned around at the sound of Shakespeare’s voice and now stared at them all with desolation, her ashen face streaked with tears. “ Elizabeth! Dear God in Heaven, what are you doing in here?”

Her mouth opened as if she were about to reply, but no sound issued forth. It was as if she had lost the power of speech. She could simply find no words.

“We came in and found her thus,” said Smythe, indicating Catherine’s body, which now lay sprawled at an awkward angle, her head hanging down, the dagger protruding starkly. “ ‘Twas Elizabeth who screamed. Catherine was already dead.”

“Is this some ill-conceived notion of a joke?” asked Middleton, his face pale and drawn. “My God, man, what else should she be but dead in her own tomb?”

“That dagger was not there when she was laid to rest earlier this day,” said Smythe.

“Of course that dagger was not there, you imbecile!” said Middleton, his voice trembling with fury. “Because this… this… foul, perfidious, evil fiend has violated both her tomb and body and thus desecrated my poor dead girl by plunging it within! Oh, horrors! Horrors! What manner of vile beast would mutilate the dead?”

“Methinks that was not what happened here,” said Braithwaite slowly, gazing at the body curiously. He put away his rapier and approached Catherine’s corpse. “I truly mean no disrespect by what I am about to say, Master Middleton, but as any hunter would readily attest, blood does not gush forth from a carcass as ‘twould from a body freshly slain. And what we have here, I would hazard from my experience at tracking, is blood that seems but freshly spilled within the hour. ‘Twould seem Will Shakespeare spoke the truth in what he told us all tonight. Without a doubt, your daughter was still alive when she was stabbed.”

“Can this be possible?” said Middleton, his voice strained. “Am I to bury the same daughter twice within the same day? Oh, Heaven! Oh, monstrous spite! Then this foul villain has slain her!”

“No!” Elizabeth shouted. “No, ‘tis not true! He loved her!”

“Then from whence came that dagger buried in her breast?” Middleteon demanded.

“ Tis mine,” Mason said, dully.

“John, no!” Elizabeth shouted.

“There! You see? Convicted out of his own mouth!” cried Middleton, pointing at him. “Venomous wretch! Who are you, that you would visit such vile treachery upon me? What is your name, villain? Speak!”

“My name is John Mason,” he replied, emptily. “I am… or I have been a groom at Green Oaks. Now… now I am nothing.”

“A groom! A groom, by God! And at good Sir William’s estate! Incredible! And you…” He turned his wrathful gaze on Elizabeth. “My best friend’s daughter, and I had treated you as if you were my own! Thus do you repay my kindness towards you, by conspiring with this deceitful rogue to seduce my poor daughter and lead her to her ruin! You are as guilty of her death as he is!”

“Oh, that was base!” Elizabeth said, flushing red with anger. “In your spiteful eagerness to place the blame, you put it everywhere save where it belongs, squarely upon your own shoulders! Had you not tried to force her into a farcical and loveless marriage intended solely to advance your own ambitions, there would have been no need for Catherine to resort to the deception that has led to this sad end! John Mason is no murderer. Look at him! See his face! So utterly undone is he by Catherine’s death that he will not even speak out to defend himself! He did not do this awful thing! If you have him arrested for this crime, then the true criminal shall go free! And God Himself shall judge you for it!”