Godfrey Middleton had stood among the wedding guests, together with his youngest daughter and the groom, impassively watching the spectacle below him. He had frowned angrily at first when the commotion broke out on the barge, doubtless thinking that something had gone amiss at the last moment in all the carefully rehearsed arrangements, but moments later, when it became apparent that something more serious had occurred, his angry frown became a look of consternation. And then the color drained out of his face when he saw Smythe coming slowly up the stairs, carrying the limp form of Catherine in his arms.
Instinctively, the people standing near him drew back, as if proximity could somehow infect them with his horror. Meanwhile, Godfrey Middleton stood absolutely motionless with Sir Percival and Blanche beside him, the three of them forming a sort of island in the sea of guests around them, guests invited to a wedding that was now clearly not going to take place.
The gravity of the situation had apparently not yet impressed itself upon Sir Percival, who seemed oblivious not only to Middle-ton’s concern, but to the strained mood of the crowd around him, as well. “Dear me!” he said. “The poor girl looks to have swooned, eh, what? Bridal jitters, I daresay. Mere trifle. A few sips of wine and we shall have her right as rain, eh, what?”
“For God’s sake, Sir Percival, shut up,” said Blanche.
His eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. “Well! I never! The cheek! Godfrey! Good Lord, Godfrey, is this how you taught your daughter to address a gentleman?”
But Middleton moved away from him as if he hadn’t even heard, and in all probability, he hadn’t. His stricken gaze was riveted on Smythe as he came up the stairs, carrying Catherine in his arms. Blanche went to her father’s side and took his arm, leaving the dithering groom standing alone, not quite knowing what to do with himself.
Middleton was pale as death as Smythe reached the top of the stairs and stopped before him. “Sir,” Smythe said, haltingly, “oh, sir, I am so very sorry.”
Middleton’s lips began to tremble. He simply stood there for a moment, trying to find some way to accept the unacceptable. He looked up at Smythe, his eyes moist, holding an agonized expression. Somehow, he found his voice.
“Be so good as to take her into the house, young man,” he said, his voice strained with his effort to control it.
“Of course, sir,” Smythe replied.
The crowd parted before them silently as Smythe carried Catherine toward the house, with Middleton and Blanche following. As they passed Sir Percival, the groom stood there perplexed, with his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
“Is… is there to be no wedding, then?” he said.
Middleton stopped and turned to stare at him, aghast. “My God, sir,” he said. “I knew you were a fool, but I did not suspect you were an utter, money-grubbing, inbred idiot.” And with that, he turned and followed Smythe and Blanche into the house.
As Smythe was coming back downstairs, he saw Elizabeth at last, standing in the entrance hall with Shakespeare, in conversation with a gentleman who had apparently just arrived. He was still wearing his cloak and was in the act of pulling off his riding gloves while listening to Elizabeth intently. It was not until he removed his hat and cloak and handed them to a servant that Smythe saw to his surprised relief that it was Sir William Worley.
Accustomed as he was to seeing Sir William attired in subdued and somber colors, Smythe almost failed to recognize him resplendent in a gold embroidered, burgundy velvet doublet with generously puffed shoulders and gold buttons, with the wide sleeves slashed to reveal the crimson silk shirt he wore beneath it. His breeches matched his doublet and were tightly gartered and tucked into high, cuffed brown leather riding boots that made him look like one of the privateering captains who commanded his ships. His shoulder-length black hair hung loose, framing his chisled, cleanshaven features.
He looked up at the sound of Smythe’s approach. “Tuck!” he said. “Elizabeth and Will were just telling me the dreadful news. ‘Tis a sad, sad day, indeed.”
Smythe came the rest of the way down the stairs and nodded. “Aye, milord. I have just carried Mistress Middleton upstairs to her room, where I have left her with her sister and her father.”
Worley shook his head. “Poor Godfrey. I came to attend his daughter’s wedding, and now it appears that I shall be attending her funeral, instead.”
“And ‘twould probably be best if ‘twere attended to as soon as possible,” Elizabeth said. “What with all the guests still here, their presence would doubtless be a comfort to Master Middleton in his time of grief. I should think ‘twould be unbearable if he were to delay in laying her to rest til everybody left and then have to face malting arrangements all over again.”
“I quite agree,” said Worley, nodding. “ ‘Tis a compassionate suggestion, and a very sensible one, as well. The sooner after death a body is interred, the better. Not only does it aid the bereaved in coming to grips with grief, but it lays the dead to rest before corruption can set in. I shall take the liberty of making certain his steward makes immediate arrangements to place Catherine in the family vault. It may be presumptuous, but under the circumstances, I suspect that I may be forgiven the presumption. Godfrey is doubtless devastated by what has happened. He shall need to have some help.”
“I should go and see how he is bearing up,” Elizabeth said. “And I should look to poor Blanche, as well.”
“Indeed, you should,” Worley agreed.
“ Elizabeth…” Smythe began, but she interrupted him.
“We shall speak later, Tuck. For the present, I must go and try to comfort the Middletons.”
“Of course. I understand.”
As she hurried away up the stairs, Smythe turned to Shakespeare. “Have you told Sir William everything?”
“Not yet,” Shakespeare replied. “ Elizabeth was here. ‘Twould have been a trifle awkward.”
“What do you mean?” asked Worley. “What is awkward? What more is there to tell?”
“A great deal more, Sir William,” Shakespeare said. “It has been a most unfortunate and trying day, a beastly trial for all concerned. And I, for one, could certainly use a drink.”
He took out a small flask and unstoppered it, then started to raise it to his lips. In that instant, Smythe recognized the flask.
“Will!” He reached out and snatched it from him just before he drank. “For God’s sake, man! The poison!”
Shakespeare paled. “Oh, sweet, merciful heavens! What in God’s name was I thinking?”
“Poison?” said Sir William, with a frown. “What poison?”
“You had not told him?” Smythe said.
“I had not,” Shakespeare replied, shaken by what he had almost done. He ran his fingers through his thinning hair distractedly. “ Elizabeth did not seem to know and I did not wish to upset her any further, though it shall not be long before she hears about it, I am sure. The rumors are already flying among the guests. ‘Tis entirely my fault, I fear. I should have been more discreet down at the barge, rather than blurt it out as I did.” He put a hand up to his brow, as if he suddenly felt faint. “Odd’s blood, I cannot believe I nearly drank the vile stuff!”
“Right,” said Worley, grimly. “Come with me.” He led them to the library in a brisk manner that made it clear he knew his way around the house. Once there, he closed the door behind them firmly and looked around to make sure they were alone. “Now… what is all this about poison?” he asked, frowning.
“Catherine Middleton was apparently drinking from this flask during her journey on the wedding barge,” said Smythe, holding it up for Sir William to see. “Will found it lying stoppered at her feet.”