Simon Hawke - The Slaying Of The Shrew

“What?”

“Was,” said Shakespeare. “Was her lover, not is her lover, for as he is dead, he must perforce be was, not is.”

“What in God’s name are you babbling about?” “Why, good grammar, I believe.” “God damn your grammar, sir!”

“I know, milord, ‘tis atrocious, truly. I mangle each and every part and participle of speech. I am not fit to speak with educated gentlemen such as yourself. I am thoroughly ashamed. Forgive me, I shall be on my way and trouble you no longer.”

“Stay, you impertinent rascal! Bestill yourself until I give you leave to go, you hear?”

“Why, certainly. Your servant, sir.”

They had stopped just inside the fairgrounds, amidst the colorful pavillions and painted wood stalls decorated with particolored banners, painted cloths, and pennants showing the wares being displayed. The hour was late, but every single stall and tent was open and the grounds were crowded by the guests, none of whom, it seemed, had left for home or even gone to sleep for fear of missing any more excitement. The grounds were lit with flickering campfires and torches and the tents were lit with candles, giving the entire fair a festive glow. The cookfires were all burning brightly and the food vendors were all doing a brisk business. The air was full of tantalizing roasting and baking smells and Shakespeare suddenly realized that he was hungry. He could also do with a pint of ale or nice flagon of spiced wine. The trouble was, he had no money.

“Now, what is all this about Daniel Holland being Blanche’s lover?” Camden demanded.

Shakespeare put a hand up to his brow, as if his head was paining him, and closed his eyes as he swayed slightly from side to side. “S’trewth, in all the excitement of the day, I fear I have not eaten anything. And here ‘tis night and I am so famished that I nearly swoon with weakness. My stomach growls and I feel weak-”

“Very well then, come on and we shall get some food inside you,” Camden said, leading him to the nearest stall that had a cook-fire, “but you shall, by God, answer my questions afore I lose my patience!”

“God bless you, sir, you are a kind and noble soul,” said Shakespeare, and within a moment he was munching contentedly upon a leg of mutton the vendor had been roasting.

“Now then,” Camden said, “tell me what you know of this matter of Daniel Holland and Blanche Middleton.”

“Mmpf!” said Shakespeare, clearing his throat several times, touching it as if something were caught there. “Urggh… guggh…”

“Oh, good God!” said Camden. “Here! You! Merchant! Some ale, and be quick about it!”

A moment later, the mutton was being washed down by a strong, dark ale and Shakespeare felt much better. “Ah! There, that seems to have dislodged it! I am much obliged to you, milord. Doubtless, you have saved my life, else I would have choked to death right here upon the spot!”

“I shall bloody well choke you to death right here upon this spot unless you give me an answer to my question!” Camden nearly shouted. “Now what is all this about Holland?”

“Oh, well, he is dead,” said Shakespeare, between bites of mutton leg. “He was killed, you see.” He frowned, considering. “Is dead, was killed… aye, that seems to be correct, grammatically speaking.”

“Speak whichever way you chose, you mountebank, but tell me how he was killed!”

“Run through, it seems,” said Shakespeare, smacking his lips and taking a drink of ale. “Oh, this is most excellent. I truly thank you for your kindness, milord. I was so weak with hunger, I could scarcely stand.”

“Stand and deliver me an answer, scoundrel! Run through by whom?” persisted Camden.

“Why, no one seems to know for certain,” Shakespeare replied. He pointed to a stall a few yards off. “Why, look there! Would those be shepherds’ pies?” He started walking towards a stall where an old man with an eye patch was laying out some freshly baked pies. “Ah, I can smell that tasty crust from here! My mouth waters with anticipation!”

Exasperated, Camden pursued him. “What do you mean, no one seems to know for certain? Do you mean that there is someone they suspect?”

“Oh, one of her suitors, I believe,” said Shakespeare, coming up to the stall and looking over the pies the grizzled, one-eyed vendor had set out. “Blanche Middleton’s suitors, that is. You know, the lady upon whom you were lying in the library. Or is that whom you were laying in the library? I am not quite certain. Both seem to me to be correct. Oh, my, these do look good…”

“Blast you! Here, you, vendor, let’s have one of those pies.”

“Certainly, milord,” the old man said, bowing and wiping his hands on his leather apron. “Which one would you wish, yer worship?” He indicated a dozen steaming pies freshly set out on his display board.

“Any one, it does not matter,” Camden said, impatiently.

“Oh, now, truly, sir, you do me honor…” Shakespeare said, as the old man selected one.

“Honor me with a reply and we shall both be satisfied.” said Camden, tersely.

Shakespeare appraised the pie, which looked quite tempting, and then dubiously glanced at the old man, who seemed a bit bedraggled with his long, stringy, white hair and grimey, floppy hat, but whose hands, at least, looked reasonably clean. “Well, now, I shall need to set this ale down… or else, methinks, this mutton…”

“Put it down upon the board,” said Camden.

“But it does not look too clean, milord.”

“Heaven help me!” Camden said, rolling his eyes. He threw some coins down for the pie. “Here, give me the mutton, and then you may take your blasted pie.”

“But… I was not quite finished with the mutton, milord.”

“Fine. Then I shall hold the ale, whilst you take the mutton and the pie.”

“Ah… well, that may work, I suppose, but then I cannot drink, you see.”

“Just give me the damned mutton leg!” said Camden through gritted teeth, snatching it away and brandishing it as if it were a club. “Now get on with it!”

“What was it I was saying, milord?”

“You were telling me who is suspected in the slaying of Daniel Holland!”

“Ah, well, one of the suitors, it seems, must have done it. Elimination of a rival, you see. They were seen together in the maze, it seems, that is to say, Holland and the lady… much as you and the lady were seen together in the library, and… oh, my goodness! I suppose that means that you could very well be next, milord!”

Camden paled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, if someone is killing off his rivals — “

“Then any one of us might well be next,” said Braithwaite, from behind them. Camden turned so suddenly, he nearly struck Braithwaite with the leg of mutton. Braithwaite jerked back and Camden, alarmed by the sudden movement, instinctively raised the leg of mutton like a club.

“Have a care with that,” said Braithwaite. “ ‘Twould be a waste to offer violence with a victual.”

“You startled me, sir,” said Camden, in an affronted tone.

“ ‘Twas never my intention, I assure you,” Braithwaite said. “I could not help but overhear what you and Master Shakespeare were discussing. I had already heard the news, however. Everyone speaks of nothing else. Tis a shame about Dan Holland. He seemed a decent enough sort, I suppose, though if he did dishonor to the lady, then I cannot feel too sorry for him.”

“Well, ‘twould seem that I have been the very last to hear of his demise,” said Camden, dryly.

“And yet I wonder if you were the very first to see it,” Braithwaite replied, raising his eyebrow.