“I know. My wife used to say exactly the same thing, which is why she lives in Stratford and I live in London, where I can no longer irritate her.”

Smythe shook his head. “The devil take it all. I started this, I may as well see it through. Although I have a feeling we may both regret this.”

“Anything worth doing is often worth regretting,” Shakespeare said. “And we can start tomorrow.”

THE MORNING BROUGHT A BUSTLE of activity throughout the household as the staff arose well before dawn to begin making the final preparations for the wedding. The kitchen was in full roar well before sunrise, with the cooks bellowing at their helpers like sergeants on the battlefield barking out orders to their troops. The cleaning maids scurried throughout the house with feather dusters, polishing cloths, straw brooms and fresh rushes. The grooms and stable boys fed, curry combed and brushed the horses they were stabling for the guests and shoveled out the stalls for additional arrivals, although it was expected that most of the remaining guests would be arriving by boat, rowed out from the city by the rivermen.

Outside on the fairgrounds, the activity among the merchants seemed more leisurely compared to the frenetic atmosphere inside the house, but they, too, started very early. Most of them arose well before dawn, just like the household staff, and got their cook fires going, then started opening their tents and stalls and laying out their goods for market. By sunrise, the displays were all prepared and the goldsmiths could be heard tapping their hammers in their stalls; the weavers were click-clacking their looms; the tailors had their dummies set out and dressed with the finest doublets in their stock and the potters had their wheels spinning. Even the well-heeled guests who were accustomed to rising late had risen early-if not quite so early as the help-to breakfast in the hall, so that they could go out to the fairgrounds and get first crack at the merchandise, or else simply wander around and enjoy the spectacle.

Godfrey Middleton had certainly done himself proud, Smythe thought. An elaborate, gala wedding celebration for his eldest daughter, complete with a nautical procession worthy of a display for the queen’s own court, and along with that, a private fair open only to his guests, a joust, and the premier of a new play staged especially for the occasion all made for an event that would have everyone in London talking about it for months. All those who had not been in attendance would feel that they had missed something very special and momentous, especially those noble hangers-on who had gone along with the queen’s court on Her Majesty’s progress through the countryside.

The queen herself would be certain to hear of it, and with her well known fondness for masques and jousts, theatricals and balls and entertainments of all sorts, it was almost a foregone conclusion that next time she would include Middleton Manor on her itinerary, instead of Sir William Worley’s Green Oaks. And then once he had played host to the queen for a few weeks, which would be an even more expensive proposition, Godfrey Middleton would be well on his way to the knighthood that he coveted. It was all going to cost him a great deal of money, Smythe thought, but doubtless he considered it money very well spent. Especially since he had it to spend.

The Queen’s Men had their duties already set out for them in their instructions from the steward. They had a light repast with the serving staff in the kitchen, which with all the frenetic and boisterous activity going on around them was rather like eating breakfast in the middle of a battlefield, then changed into their costumes and made their way down to the river gate, where they would await the remainder of the guests and, finally, the wedding party. First, however, they all lined up in their white senatorial robes for inspection by the steward, Humphrey, who walked up and down the line like a general and looked them over with a sort of disdainful resignation, adjusted the fold or drape of a robe here and there, then sniffed and pronounced that they “would do.”

“There goes a man who has missed his true vocation,” John Fleming commented wryly after Humphrey had dismissed them and they began to make their way down to the river. “With that bilious disposition, the man is a born critic if ever I saw one.”

Smythe chuckled, but Will Kemp’s perpetual grumbling and grousing forestalled his response.

“These costumes are ridiculous,” Kemp said. “Roman senators, indeed! We look more like a bunch of cadavers wrapped up in shrouds.”

“In your case, that would be particularly true,” Robert Speed replied.

“At least my talent is alive and well, which is certainly more than I can say for yours,” Kemp riposted, contemptuously.

Speed raised his hand and snapped his fingers, as if ordering up a tankard of ale. “Gentlemen, a shroud for Master Kemp’s talent, if you please?”

“We should have asked for some flasks of wine or perhaps a small keg of ale,” John Hemings said, as if prompted by the gesture. “These flimsy robes are none too warm.”

“Aye, and adding to the morning chill, there is a stiff cold breeze coming in off the river,” Kemp complained as they made their way down the steps to the arched stone river gate. “I can feel the wind blowing straight up through the bottom of this pox-ridden robe.”

“Well, ‘twould not be the first time you had your pox-ridden privates waving in the breeze, now would it?” Speed said.

Kemp gave him a withering glare. “And how would you know, Bobby?”

“Oh! Stabbed to the quick!” Speed cried out, grabbing at his chest and staggering down the steps. “Sweet mercy, I am slain!”

They all burst out laughing as he “died” theatrically on the steps in a series of dramatic thrashings and convulsions. Even Kemp was moved to laugh, despite himself.

“Well worthy of a Caesar’s death!” said Burbage, applauding. “Ned Alleyn himself could never have done better!”

“Aye, and he frequently did much worse,” added Kemp, whose dislike for their late colleague, who had recently quit their company for their chief rivals, the Admiral’s Men, was matched only by the legendary actor’s profound distaste for him.

The mention of Alleyn’s name momentarily broke their mood of levity, for aside from Kemp’s dislike of him, Edward Alleyn was sorely missed. He was widely acknowledged as the finest actor of the day and if Kemp considered both his talent and his ego overblown, Smythe knew it was because his feelings were motivated primarily by jealousy, for Alleyn’s was the name that drew the audiences. They were of different schools, with Alleyn being the realistic dramatist and Kemp the capering clown who played directly to the audience and ad libbed whenever the mood struck him, or whenever he could not recall his lines, which he took little trouble to memorize in any case.

Unfortunately for Kemp, Smythe thought, his brand of broad, physical comedy seemed to be going out of style, just as Shakespeare had predicted, and Kemp seemed unwilling or unable to adapt. For all his grave portentousness and showy manner, Alleyn was now drawing significantly larger audiences at the Rose Theatre, and while the Queen’s Men could still boast Her Royal Majesty as their patron, their reputation as the preeminent players of the day was on the wane. Their repertoire was somewhat shopworn and though Shakespeare had managed to improve several of their plays with rewrites, they badly needed something new to bring their audiences back. They were all too well aware of this, and the mention of Ned Alleyn’s name merely served to underscore it.

“Well, come on now, Speed, bestir yourself,” said Shakespeare, leaning down to give him a hand up. “You shall only soil your costume on these steps, aside from which, methinks I spy some boats drawing near.”