He called out several more times, despite the risk, then used the answering shouts to help him find his way. It was all too easy, especially under the circumstances, to make several turns through the maze and then lose track of direction. That was the idea, after all. These arboreal mazes were all the rage among the idle rich, and so of course Godfrey Middleton absolutely had to have one that was larger and more intricate than anyone else’s, for which Smythe roundly cursed him as he kept turning through the corridors, trying to keep his mind on which side of the hedge walls lay towards the exterior and which were towards the center. He tried not to think about Elizabeth, difficult as that was. He could only pray that she was safely gone by now.

Then, suddenly, he was out. It took him by surprise when he stepped through a break in the hedgerows and abruptly realized he had come out. For an alarming moment, he felt exposed and vulnerable. He crouched, instinctively, holding his dagger out before him, glancing quickly to his left and to his right, but there was no sign of anyone. Then he heard shouting and saw figures in silhouette against the light coming from the house as they moved towards the steps leading down to the gardens.

Quickly, he moved away from the entrance to the maze, keeping it in sight to see who might come out behind him. He went a short way down the garden path, keeping to the shadows, still in a position to see anyone who came out of the maze, but he could see no movement there. He hesitated to go any further, because as it was, he would not see anyone come out of the maze until they came away from the entrance and moved out onto the garden path. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to get a good look at anyone in the darkness.

There were several people running down the steps now, entering the garden.

“ ‘Allo! Allo! Allo! Who called for help? Allo! Are you there? Allo?”

There was still no sign of anyone coming out of the maze. Smythe swore under his breath. Could he possibly have missed them? Or had they managed to get out ahead of him?

“ ‘Allo! Where are you?”

Smythe was about to call out in reply when something else occurred to him. If those men had managed to get out of the maze before him, then for all he knew, they could be the ones who were calling out to him right now. He would reply, and they would come running up to him, and he would think that they were coming to the rescue, when in fact…

“Allo! Allo!”

Smythe bit his lower lip. He had no time left to deliberate. He could hear running footsteps approaching. Quickly, he stepped back off the flagstoned path and concealed himself among the shrubbery just as several dark figures came running around the bend. He had a tense moment, wondering if they had seen him, but they ran right past his hiding place, heading towards the maze. He could hear them calling out to one another, asking if anyone had seen anything, and they kept calling out to him, as well. However, he would give no answering shouts this time, for he did not know for certain who they were.

He headed towards the steps, ducking back out of the way at least twice more to avoid being seen, then made his way back to the servants’ wing of the house without further incident, for which he was profoundly grateful. He had experienced quite enough excitement for one night.

“God’s breath!” Shakespeare exclaimed, when Smythe had finished telling him what happened. “ ‘Tis a wondrous miracle you were not slain! What manner of deviltry have you stumbled into this time?”

Smythe shook his head. “I know not the whole of it, but I know something of their plan, enough at least to warn our host what they intend. And by God, I shall do that, you may be sure of it! I am of a mind to go at once to Master Middleton and tell him all I heard. Will you come with me?”

“Well, soft now,” Shakespeare replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “let us pause a bit to consider these events before we rush to raise any alarums. There is nothing to be served by undue haste, and methinks nothing that shall not keep til morning. To be sure, with his daughter being married on the morrow, Master Middleton should not receive us very cordially if we were to call upon him at this late hour.”

They sat together in a tiny room on the first floor, in the servants’ quarters. It was illuminated only by one candle stuck into a small, saucer-shaped brass sconce. The other members of the company were all abed by now, distributed throughout several rooms within the servants’ wing. Some of them had been put up four or five to a room, because as players they did not rank above servants and, in truth, generally ranked well below them. Nor did any of them complain, for the accomodations that they had received were in fact better than those they often got, and in this case, certainly better than the merchants, who slept either in their tents or in their wagons, where they could keep close to their goods. Shakespeare and Smythe had a bedroom to themselves, though that was only because, as Shakespeare had earlier observed, calling it a room at all would be allowing it pretensions of grandeur. It was actually little more than a small closet, with two beds close together upon the floor. There was room for little else save for a small nightstand, a washbasin and a candle. That candle was now burning very low, for it was well past midnight.

When Smythe returned, Shakespeare was still up, hunched over some papers. Squinting in the insufficient light from the candle on the little nightstand, he sat cross-legged on the bed, having improvised a writing desk with a wooden trencher he had borrowed from the kitchen. He was, even at this last moment, still working on the play they were to perform the following day. Since this was to be a private performance, taking place outside the city of London, there had been no need to submit a fair copy of the play to the Master of the Revels, as would have been necessary for a performance at their theatre, but at the same time, the more changes he would make at this late stage, the more burden would be placed upon the players, who would quickly have to memorize new lines and adapt themselves accordingly to any changes he might make in the stage directions. Shakespeare knew all this, of course, but still, he was not happy with the play. He was more than happy, however, to have an excuse to put it aside for awhile and discuss Smythe’s fascinating situation.

“I do see what you mean,” Smythe said. “The last thing the father of the bride would need on the night before the wedding was a hue and cry raised about an overheard conversation in a garden. Still, it has a most intimate bearing on his family, and were it my own daughter who was being so intrigued against, I would most certainly wish to know!”

“Indeed,” Shakespeare agreed. “However, let us first examine what you do know.”

Smythe frowned once more. “But… what do you mean? Did I not just tell you?”

“You told me that you had overheard a conversation,” Shakespeare replied, “but between whom?”

“Why, the two men in the maze!”

“What were their names? What did they look like?”

“Why, how in the world should I know? I do not think that either of them used the other’s name. And as for what they looked like, I never even caught a glimpse of them!”

“Precisely,” Shakespeare said, with a wry grimace. “You have overheard a conversation which may lead you, justifiably, to make an accusation, but against whom?” He shrugged. “There are many visitors here. This is the largest wedding the society of London has seen since… well, certainly since we have been in London. And what have you to go by to identify these men save for the sounds of their voices? For that matter, unless a voice should have some marked characteristic that renders it uncommon, one voice often sounds much like another. Can you be certain, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that you could pick these two voices out from all the rest? Or from one that may sound similar?”