The house was set back a considerable distance from the road, on the crest of a gently sloping hill. The narrow, winding drive that led up to the imposing stone house from the main thoroughfare curved around a copse of good, stout English oaks and shrub thickets that hid a large pond from view from the road. They saw it as they came around the bend, where the road ran below and past the house for a short distance and then doubled back to the top of the hill, leading past lushly planted gardens and an elaborate maze with its tall hedges carefully clipped to perfection. As the road curved around the side of the house, leading towards the front entrance on the river side, it gave way to a cobblestoned plaza large enough for a coach to turn around.

Past the stables and some outbuildings, on the gentle slope to the east of the house, they could see the gayly striped and berib-boned pavillions for the wedding and, just beyond them, in the field, the stalls for the fair were being erected. Already, merchants were arriving and setting up their tables. Most came by boat, disembarking and unloading their goods at the ornately carved stone river gate, but others, eager for an opportunity to sell their wares to some of the wealthiest citizens of London, were braving the road in carts and wagons, taking their chances not only with highwaymen, but with the weather as well, which could easily render the road from the city impassable in the event of rain. The river was by far the preferable and most reliable way for most people to travel in the environs of London, but unfortunately, it would not serve a company of players setting out upon a wide-ranging tour of the surrounding countryside.

“Quite the hurly burly,” Shakespeare said, as he observed all the activity. “That ground will be all churned up into mud by the time this festival is over. I do not envy the groundskeepers all the work that they shall have to do to put it right again.”

“They shall doubtless merely plough it up for planting,” Burbage said. “There shall not be too much damage, as this is only a small, private fair, a social event for the wedding guests alone,” Dick Burbage said. “The merchants are allowed to participate by invitation only.”

Smythe shook his head. “Even so, I should not wish to clean up after all of this. How many stalls and tents are they erecting? It seems I can count at least thirty or so from here. That does not seem like a small fair to me at all.”

Burbage laughed. “You will not say that after you have lived awhile in London, country boy. Bartholomew’s Fair boasts many more stalls and tents than you shall see here by a good measure, and the Stourbridge Fair, near Cambridge, is larger still. You would never see it all properly in just one day. However, I would wager that the goods you shall find for sale here will come a great deal more dearly than the run of what you might find at Bart’s or Stourbridge. These boys will all be charging as much as the traffic will allow, and you may be sure the purses here shall all be rather heavy ones.”

They were riding together at an easy walk, three or four abreast, with a wagon and two carts following behind, giving them the aspect of a small gypsy caravan. On the road, a company of players traveled as lightly as possible, but they still needed to bring all of their costumes and their props, as well as the materials to put up their stage and effect any necessary repairs to their equipment while they were out on tour. Sometimes it was necessary to send a rider or two on ahead to make preparations for their arrival in a town or at some country inn, and so they travelled with several spare mounts in addition to the cart and wagon horses. The wagon was painted with their name in ornate, gilt-edged letters, so that all would know the Queen’s Men were approaching, and they proudly flew their swallowtailed banner, as well.

As they approached the house, it took on even more grandeur up close than it had possessed from a distance, seen from the road. The carved stonework between the vast array of mullioned windows was now clearly visible and the sheer size of the place impressed itself upon them even more.

“Odd’s blood, ‘tis less a house than a small castle,” Shakespeare said. “It seems to lack only the moat and battlements and crenellations. ‘Twould not surprise me to find a ghost or two stalking the halls at midnight. How would you say this place compares to Sir William’s estate, Tuck?”

“Oh, quite favorably, indeed,” replied Smythe, very much impressed. “Only this has the aspect of a much newer construction. And I do believe ‘tis somewhat larger than Green Oaks, unless I miss my guess.”

“Your eyes serve you well,” Burbage said. “From what my father tells me, Middleton Manor was completed only four years ago, by the same architect who had built Green Oaks for Sir William Worley, save that Sir William’s house had been extensively refurbished, while Middleton Manor was newly built in its entirety. My father said the architect had been specifically instructed to surpass what had been done at Green Oaks, with no heed whatever to the cost. And from what I see before me, judging only by the exterior of the house, it would seem that little heed was paid, indeed, if any.”

“Middleton must have spent a goodly fortune on this place,” said Smythe. “I would swear there are more chimneys rising from this roof alone than could be found in my entire village. I will wager that each room has its own fireplace. And just look at all that glass! There are even bay windows in each turret! The morning light within must be quite blinding.”

As they proceeded around the side of the house, the river came into view below them, where the bank fell away sharply from the terraced slope. The sight that greeted them as they made the turn and saw the river made them all pull up short and stare.

Below them, a small flotilla of boats was approaching from the east in what looked like a carefully arranged formation. Most of the boats were being rowed by rivermen, but some of the larger ones were under sail and there were two barges being towed in the midst of the motley looking fleet. Both barges had been modified so that they had the aspect of craft that would convey Egyptian royalty, or at least someone’s idea of what such a vessel might have looked like. A large afterdeck had been erected on each barge, each with a dais and elaborate canopies of purple cloth fringed with gold, and benches had been placed along each deckrail for “slave rowers,” though it seemed that the oars were only for show. They appeared much too short to be very functional, scarcely brushing the surface of the water. And after a moment’s observation, it became evident that they were not functional at all, but nailed in place, for none of them moved at all. In one of the lead boats, a man was standing and shouting commands through a large horn as the boats bobbed in the choppy current, trying to maintain position relative to one another.

“What in God’s name are they doing?” Smythe asked, perplexed.

“We, of all people, should be able to tell that,” Shakespeare replied. “They are rehearsing.”

“Oh, of course,” said Burbage. “They are preparing for the wedding progress. The theme, remember? Queen Cleopatra comes to visit the Emperor Julius Caesar.”

John Fleming shook his head as he rode up beside them to watch the nautical maneuvering. “Methinks Cleopatra could use a better steersman,” he observed, dryly. “Her barge seems to be in the process of ramming her own escorts.”

Several of the boats had indeed suffered collision with the barge as Fleming spoke. The barge had drifted into them, and a number of the others steered quickly out of line to avoid the mess. One of the smaller boats was foundering and the man with the horn seemed to be having fits. He was holding the horn with one hand, shouting into it at the top of his lungs, and waving directions frantically with his free hand.