“Hearsay, sir. ‘Twas a lie, I’ll warrant.”
Shakespeare shrugged. “Well, we shall find out soon enough.”
“I am not at all sure what you have to gain by raising all this fuss,” said Camden, looking at him as if trying to gauge his motives.
“I have nothing at all to gain, sir,” Shakespeare said, “and only time to lose. You, on the other hand, would stand to gain a great deal more, I should think, if Catherine were truly dead. That would increase her sister’s worth considerably, would it not?”
“I do not care for your tone, sir.”
“I do not much care for yours, either. I have played penny whis-des that have made less grating noise.”
“What is your name, sir?” asked Camden, stiffly.
“Marlowe,” Shakespeare said. “Christopher Marlowe, at your service.”
“Marlowe.” Camden nodded. “I shall make a point to remember that name.”
“Suit yourself. I have already forgotten yours.”
Camden fell behind as Shakespeare increased his stride and hurried on ahead. He had almost caught up to Middleton, at the head of the procession, when yet another of Blanche’s suitors came up beside him and introduced himself.
“Sir, my name is Andrew Braithwaite. Might I have a word with you?”
“Have three, as you are the third to ask.”
“Indeed, I did see Dubois and Camden speaking with you just now. Did they say anything of interest?”
“No, not really. I rather hope you shall do better.”
Braithwaite smiled. “I fear, then, that you are doomed to disappointment. I doubt I can be much more interesting, for I am neither a great wit nor a learned scholar.”
“Then you at least appear to be an honest man, which in itself makes you more interesting. A plain bird would stand out ‘mongst all this plummage.”
Braithwaite chuckled. “You do not care much for this company, I see. And yet, here where each man competes with every other, you have seized everyone’s attention. You stand centerstage, and yet seem to regard it as an imposition.”
“It amuses you?” asked Shakespeare, glancing at Braithwaite to see if he was being mocked. But it seemed that he was not.
“If I can say so without giving offense, aye, it does amuse me. But the amusement, I hasten to add, is not at your expense.”
“I am not offended then.”
“Good.”
Shakespeare glanced at him with interest. “Most people, especially in this vaunted company, would not concern themselves overmuch about giving offense to a mere player.”
“Well, I try not to be careless about whom I may offend,” Braithwaite replied. “That way, I can husband my offenses for those who most deserve them.”
“Well said.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome, sir. What would you have of me?”
“Why, nothing in particular,” Braithwaite replied.
“What, not even after my singular announcement at the wake?”
“ ‘Twas, indeed, singular,” Braithwaite said. “Quite astonishing, in fact.”
“And in light of it, you have nothing more you wish to ask?”
“Not at present. I suppose if what you said proves to be the truth… well, frankly, I have absolutely no idea what will occasion then. It should prove quite fascinating. But if what you said turns out to be false, I have a rather better idea of what will occur. Godfrey Middleton will have you whipped for your impertinence and then see you thrown off his estate. That is, assuming you survive the whipping.”
“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?”