He knew that he could count on Will to help him, but that would not be enough. Shakespeare had no more knowledge about London ’s upper crust than he did. Neither of them had been in the city very long. Without Sir William present, the only one who was in a position to help him was Elizabeth. And that brought him right back to the irksome problem of how he was to tell her what he knew and how he knew it. There seemed to be only one solution.
He would have to lie.
He recalled Sir William saying once that the best lies were those that kept closest to the truth, because they required the least embellishment and it was thereby easier to avoid making a slip. Therefore, he would stick to the truth as much as possible. He would say that he had overheard the two strangers plotting to take advantage of Blanche Middleton and her father. But then he would have to explain how it happened that he had heard them, but had never seen them. Once again, the simple truth would provide an easy and credible explanation, but what he wanted to avoid, if possible, was telling Elizabeth that he had overheard those men because he had followed her. And if he told her that it had happened last night, then even if he did not admit he followed her, she would realize that he had gone out to the maze at about the same time she did and she would doubtless guess the rest. So… the lie had to be concocted there.
It could not have happened any earlier than yesterday, he thought, for everybody knew when the players had arrived. But it could easily have happened several hours earlier, in the afternoon. There were several hours during which the Queen’s Men had been settling in, getting their equipment put away, and preparing the stage for their performance. He would need no more pretext to say why he had gone out to the garden than to tell her that he had gone along with Shakespeare, to help him work out some last minute changes in the play.
With most of the visitors to the estate either in the house itself or at the fairgrounds, the garden, and in particular the maze, would seem like the perfect place to go to have some privacy and quiet in which to work. He would need only to tell Shakespeare of his plan, so that Will would know to say that he had been there with him. And because he had already discussed last night’s events with him in detail, Will would not require any further briefing. He already knew as much as if he had been there himself.
Smythe nodded to himself with satisfaction. The plan at least seemed workable and he could see no flaw in it. It was also close enough to the truth to make it eminently practical. He would now have to try to find Elizabeth as soon as possible and tell her what he knew. In the face of this threat to the future of her friend’s sister, surely, her earlier quarrel with him would be forgotten. That was almost worth an attempt upon his life.
An abrupt change in the manner of the two servants at his side alerted Smythe to pay closer attention to the next boat that was drawing up to the gate. It was a larger boat, better appointed, with a small mast and gaff-rigged sail. Even Kemp, who was not the most observant of individuals, noticed that the manner of the servants had changed somewhat. Their backs had stiffened noticeably and they began to check their costumes, brushing at them and making small adjustments.
“Look smartly now,” said one of them. “Yonder boat bears Master Middleton and his younger daughter, with Sir Percival. Their arrival means that the wedding flotilla shall not be far behind.”
Kemp drew himself up to his full height, which because he was not much taller than five feet had the comical effect of making him look like a bantam rooster trying to stretch itself into a game cock. The importance of making a good impression on their host, one of the richest men in London, was not lost on him, for Kemp had ambitions of his own that were no less lofty than Ned Alleyn’s.
As the boat pulled up to the steps, Smythe marked Godfrey Middleton as he prepared to disembark. Smythe realized that he had seen this man before, when he had attended to his elaborate, black lacquered coach at the Theatre, though he had not known who he was. Now, he recognized him as Middleton stepped off the boat, assisted by his servants.
He was not a young man, by any means, though he was stout and barrel-chested, with thick legs that seemed a bit too short for his torso, so that he seemed to waddle slightly when he walked. His wide and round-cheeked face was ruddy and his prominent, bulbous nose was red, though whether from the chill upon the river or overindulgence in fine wines, Smythe could not tell, though he could easily hazard a guess.
Godfrey Middleton had the appearance of a man who enjoyed all of the finer things in life and could easily afford them. His clothing was obviously expensive and exquisitely tailored. He wore a saffron ruff and his chestnut colored doublet was of the finest three-piled velvet, tailored in the French style, richly embroidered with gold and silver thread and sewn with jewels, puffed at the shoulders and slashed deeply at the sleeves, revealing bright glimpses of a marigold satin shirt beneath that must have been imported from Paris and probably cost more than Smythe could hope to make in a year. Middleton’s galligaskins were deep scarlet and gartered with marigold silk ribbons that matched the silk rosettes upon his gold-buckled shoes. The striking ensemble was topped off with a long cloak in dark, chestnut-brown brocade with a matching floppy bonnet set off with marigold silk ribbons.
“There’s a bright beplumaged bird,” said Smythe.
“Softly, simpleton, else he shall hear you!” whispered Kemp, glancing at him sharply.
“I doubt it,” Smythe replied, although he did lower his voice. “And methinks he would care little if he did. Look at him. He is positively green.”
Indeed, Godfrey Middleton looked decidedly ill as he stepped unsteadily out of the boat, assisted by his servants. He appeared genuinely grateful to be on dry land once again. Even though it had been only a relatively short boat trip on the Thames, Middleton acted as if he had just barely survived an arduous transatlantic crossing.
“Zounds, what beastly weather!” he exclaimed to his companions as they disembarked. “That wretched wind! ‘Twas a frightful chop out there, I tell you! I damn well nearly gave up breakfast!”
His voice was high-pitched and rather nasal and complemented his waddle perfectly. To Smythe, he sounded like a large, affronted goose, squawking with pompous indignation. The “frightful chop” that he referred to was, to Smythe’s eyes, no more than a slight display of whitecaps on the water’s surface, hardly what anyone would call rough sailing. It might be a bit of a rock in a small rowboat, perhaps, but it was only the Thames River, after all, not the English Channel. The breeze was brisk and cool, but it was a long way from being a “wretched wind.” And Smythe thought that the only reasonable excuse that anyone would have for giving up their breakfast out there would be if they were pregnant.
“Well, ‘twas a bit of an unpleasant journey, I’ll agree, but ‘tis over now and our feet are once again upon dry land,” said one of Middleton’s companions. “From now on, ‘twill all be smooth sailing.” The man chuckled at his own remark. “Eh? What? Smooth sailing? I say, that’s jolly good, what?”
This gentleman turned out to be the groom. Sir Percival Pennington-Pugh was at least the same age as the bride’s father, if not older, but there any similarity ended. Where Middleton was portly, thick-chested and short-legged, Sir Percival was thin as a hay-rake and practically all legs and elbows. And if Middleton brought to mind a puffed up goose, then Sir Percival looked like a spindly water fly, albeit one decked out in a costume so garish as to make Middleton’s clothing look positively subdued.
For the occasion of his wedding, Sir Percival had donned a white ruff and a doublet of robin’s egg blue silk with double rows of silver buttons set so close together that they touched. His sleeves were “pinked,” or slashed to show a silk shirt in a newly fashionable color named “dead Spaniard,” in honor of the sinking of the Armada. To Smythe, who did not have much of an eye for distinguishing fashionable subtleties of color, it simply looked dark purple. The groom’s fashionable if rather impractical shoes were made of light blue silk, to match his doublet, and they were likewise pinked to show off his morbid Spanish hose. His baggy gaskins were made of velvet in a violet hue and he wore so many jeweled rings that merely lifting his long-fingered, bony hands seemed to take an effort. He wore a wide-linked silver chain, enameled as was currently the fashion in shades of black and purple, to match his high-crowned hat, and in keeping with the latest court fashion of matching one’s tonsorial hues to one’s haberdashery, he had dyed his hair and pointy beard a purple shade, as well. The servants approached him and helped him don a long, purple fringed robe over his ensemble and then exchanged his hat for an elaborate, Romanesque laurel wreath made of hammered gold. Smythe thought that the unlikely combination of the pleated ruff together with the Roman robe made him look rather like an ambulatory tablecloth surmounted by the head of John the Baptist sitting on a platter.