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“Well, then wake up the old bugger and we shall crack open the tomb and raise her up again! And God damn it, get me a tupping drink!”
The crowd behind Humphrey gasped collectively. But a few were enough past the point of caring that they chuckled at Shake
speare’s irreverent remarks. Humphrey tossed them an acid gaze over his shoulder, then turned the full force of his basilisk glare on Shakespeare and the hapless coachman, who simply stood there helpless, not knowing what to say or do.
“You must be drunk!” said Humphrey, with outrage. “I shall have you thrashed and driven off the property!”
“Then you shall answer to Sir William Worley,” Shakespeare replied, shoving past the incredulous steward and making his way toward the tables. “And you shall likewise answer to your master, who shall not take kindly, I assure you, to being deprived of his eldest daughter for yet a second time!” He picked up a goblet and filled it, then quaffed it in one breath.
By now, more people had gathered round and everyone was talking at once. Humphrey was sputtering with outrage and turning purple with apoplexy, but Shakespeare did not care. He refilled the goblet and drank it down again, spilling some of the wine down his already thoroughly drenched and muddy doublet. It was ruined and it had been one of only two he owned, and the second one was threadbare, whereas some of the guests around him thought nothing of wearing at least three different doublets in one afternoon. He was tired; he was sore; he was cold and he was wet. He was a poet, not some post rider, and he felt resentful of the entire company around him. He had come to stage a play, and instead had played a part in one, the part of errand boy. Worse still, the whole situation had been nothing but a sham.
“Now see here-” Humphrey began, but Shakespeare merely shoved him away roughly without even a glance at him or a break in drinking.
“What in Heaven’s name is all this row?” Godfrey Middleton’s voice cut through the conversation. He stood up in the gallery, wearing a velvet dressing gown and looking down on the assemblage with cold fury. His gaze settled on Shakespeare as the obvious center of it all. “For the love of God, sir, have you no respect? No decency? My eldest daughter has just been laid to rest!”
“Well, mark my word, Master Middleton, she shan’t be resting long,” Shakespeare replied.
“This is an outrage!” Middleton said.
“I shall have the servants throw the vile villain out at once!” Humphrey said, finding his voice at last. “I shall set the dogs upon the pestilential rascal!”
Middleton suddenly seemed to recognize Shakepeare for the first time. “You are the man Sir William sent to London, are you not?”
“I am that very man,” Shakespeare replied. “Or what is left of him after the foul journey I have made. Your carriage, by the way, lies broken on the road some miles hence, I cannot say how far or where, precisely. We had tried to fix it once, but the damned wheel came off again a few miles down the road and cracked, and there was an end to it. By now, ‘tis likely kindling for some rufflers. We unhitched the horses and rode back like red Indians in the pouring rain, your coachman and I, and we are tired men and chilled straight through to the bone, but by God, we have brought fascinating tidings! To wit, sir…” He took another long drink from the goblet, “… your daughter is not dead, because there was no poison in that flask from which she drank. ‘Twas instead a potion merely meant to lull her for a time into the arms of Morpheus and only make it seem as if she slept eternally with Hades. So go back to your bed and rest you well, sir, if you wish, but know that when you wake upon the morrow, you shall find that Catherine had awoke afore you and absconded with her lover.”
He ignored the stunned reactions of the guests around him, turned his back on Middleton, and reached across the table for a cold and greasy drumstick that looked more appetizing to him now than any dish that he had ever seen. As he bit into it, he turned back and looked up towards the gallery. Middleton was gone. Shakespeare glanced at Ian, the coachman, who was staring at him with absolute astonishment, and shrugged.
“Well, I suppose that woke him up, eh, Ian?” he said. He held out the drumstick. “D’you fancy a bite?”
He did not have very much time to eat. Middleton came down almost at once, having paused only long enough to pull on a pair of boots and throw a cloak over his dressing gown. He barked out sharp orders to Humphrey, calling for torches and men, then put on his hat and turned a baleful eye on Shakespeare.
“Young man, you had best be telling me the truth, for if this is your gruesome idea of a prank, then you shall answer to me! I shall have you whipped until your eyes bleed. Now come with me!”
“I should answer quite well to a whipping,” Shakespeare mumbled, taking another quick swallow of wine before following his host.
Phillipe Dubois worked his way through the crowd to Shakespeare’s side. “Prithee, mon ami, do you mean to tell me that Mademoiselle Catherine is not truly dead?” he asked, as they went back outside, herded along by the press of people behind them.
“No, milord, I had meant to tell Master Middleton that Cadierine is not truly dead,” Shakespeare replied. “Strewth, I had not meant to tell you anything.”
“You have great cheek for a vagabond,” said Dubois, somewhat stiffly.
“And you lisp and wear strange suits.”
“I say, small wonder you players have such a scandalous and lowly reputation,” Ian said, as they left Dubois gaping with astonishment behind them. “You really are insufferably rude.”
“And you really are an amazing prig for a mere coachman, Ian.”
“I happen to be a liveried servant to a gentleman!”
“You are a glorified bootblack, Ian, so go stuff your hubris. Or you can actually be useful and go find my friend, Tuck Smythe, and let him know what has transpired, for your master seems intent upon marching us all into the dripping wood when we should all be drinking sensibly inside. I am beginning to envy Catherine. At least she has had an opportunity to lie down for a while.”
“A word with you, sir, if I may?” Hughe Camden called as he hurried to catch up with them. Ian the coachman stopped and fell behind as Camden took his place at Shakespeare’s side.
“And lo, another suitor. The kites begin to flock,” mumbled Shakespeare to himself.
“I beg your pardon?” Camden said.
“And you shall have it, sir. I am feeling positively popish tonight. Tell me your sin and I shall grant you absolution.” “I see you are impertinent.”
