“If he keeps up like that, he might well do that,” said Smythe. “Although the road here is much wider and more level, he still goes at an unsafe pace.”
“Blast! Look at this! I am pricked with stickers like a pincushion!”
“Here, let me see.”
“Have a care now… ouch!”
“Oh, come on, now. I’ll not pull these out if you go squirming like a wench upon a haystack. Screw your courage to the sticking place and stop your twitching.”
“ ‘Tis the infernal stickers that are screwed in, not my courage.”
“Will you hold still?”
“Aaah-owww!”
“Such bravery! Such mettle!” Smythe laughed. “Look at you. A thorn or two and you are all undone.”
“Oh, sod off! Yowwwww! Have a care, Tuck, curse you!”
“Oh, don’t be such a mewling infant. It is not so bad. Only a few more.”
“Ouch! Ow! Damn it! I shall take my turn next and then we shall see who is more the mewling infant!”
“I’ll not cry over a few thorns. But I shall remember that gentleman from last night. That’s twice now he’s inconvenienced me.”
“Oh, indeed? And just what do you intend to do about it, your lordship? The man is not someone you can address on equal standing, you know. Or did you fail to note the arms blazoned on the side of his coach?”
“No. Why? Did you recognize them?”
“Nay, I caught but a glimpse of sable and some fleury crosses. I would not know those arms from any other scutcheon save that they mark him for a gentleman of rank. Not exactly someone you can give one of your country thumpings to, young blacksmith.”
“Perhaps not, but I will remember that gentleman just the same.”
The poet snorted. “You would do better to remember your place, my friend, if you do not wish to get clapped into the Mar-shalsea.”
Smythe was tempted to point out to the poet that he could claim an escutcheon of his own, thanks to his father’s efforts, but he decided at the last moment not to bring it up. It meant nothing to him, really, and he liked Will Shakespeare and did not wish him to think that he might in any way hold himself above him. Aside from which, his father might now be a gentleman, but he was in debt up to his ears, for all the good it did him.
“Well, I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But it still rankles, just the same.”
“So then send an oath or two his way, as I do, and have done with it. There is little to be served in dwelling upon matters that one cannot resolve. Now bend over and I’ll pull your stickers for you.”
“Why, Will, I bet you say that to all the sweet young boys.”
“Look, you want me to pull those thorns from out your bum or put my muddy boot into it?”
Smythe laughed. “Very well. You may dethorn me, but be gentle.”
“I’ll give every one at least three twists for your impertinence!”
“Well, best be quick about it then, or we shall not reach London until nightfall.”
“Just as well,” said Shakespeare, with a scowl, “for I shall very likely be much too sore to sit down until then.”
3
“But Father, I don’t want to marry him!” Elizabeth Darcie stamped her foot in exasperation, gritting her teeth with anger and frustration. She turned away to hide the tears that suddenly welled up in her eyes.
“Want? Want? Good God, girl, who in blazes asked you what you want?“ Her father stared at her with open-mouthed astonishment. “What does what you want have to do with anything? You shall do as you are told!”
“I shall not!“ In her exasperation, Elizabeth spoke before she thought and she caught her breath as soon as the words were out. She had never spoken back to her father in such a manner before, and was shocked at her own boldness.
Her father was no less astonished. “You bloody well shall, girl, or I shall take my crop to you, so help me!”
“But Father, please! I do not love him! I do not even know him!”
“Love? Who the devil spoke of love? We were speaking of marriage!“ He turned with indignation to his wife. “This is what comes of your silly notions about education! ‘She ought to read,’ you said. ‘She ought to know how to keep household accounts! She ought to have a tutor!’ A tutor! God’s wounds! That silly, mincing fop just filled her head with foolishness, if you ask me! Love poems and sonnets and romances… what does any of that have to do with the practical matters of life? A tutor, indeed! What a monstrous waste of money!”
“A proper lady should be well accomplished, Henry…” Edwina Darcie began tentatively, but her husband was in no mood to listen and simply went on as if she hadn’t spoken.
“Music, yes, I can see music, I suppose,” Darcie went on, working himself up into a fine state of pontifical righteousness. “A woman ought to know how to play upon the lute or the harp or the virginals, so that she can properly entertain her husband and his guests. And embroidery, aye, that is a useful craft, and dancing, I suppose, has much to recommend it as a skill, but… reading? ‘Tis a thing for idlers. The only reading that is useful and fitting for anyone is the Book of Common Prayer. What value is to be found in your foreign Greeks and Romans, your windbag philosophers, or your absurd ballads and your penny broadsheets for the lower classes to while away their time with instead of doing something more productive? What waste! What utter nonsense! You see the sort of thing that comes of it! I tell you, giving an education to a woman makes about as much sense as giving an education to a horse!”
“The queen is a woman,” Elizabeth said, hesitantly, invoking her royal namesake as the color came rising to her cheeks. She knew that she was being impertinent past all bearing, but she could not help herself. “And she is well educated and speaks several tongues. And reads and writes in Latin, too. Would you compare her to a horse, Father?”
Henry Darcie’s eyes grew wide with outrage. “Silence! What monumental impudence! The queen is different. She is not an ordinary woman. She is the queen. She has, by virtue of her birth and divine right, given herself in marriage to the realm and thereof she has always done her duty. As you, young woman, are going to do yours and there’s the end of it! ‘Tis done! The matter is settled! I shall say no more!”
He stabbed his forefinger in the air to emphasize his point, then quickly turned and left the room, effectively bringing an end to the discussion. Not that it had been much of a discussion in the first place, Elizabeth thought. He wasn’t the least bit interested in what she felt or had to say.
“ ‘Tis not fair,” she said to her mother, fighting back the tears.
“ ‘Tis how things are done, my dear,” her mother replied, in a tone of resigned sympathy. “I, too, was betrothed to your father before I ever really knew him. But I came to love him… in time.”
“Yes, and I see how well he loves you, Mother,” Elizabeth said, sadly. “He does not listen to you any more than he listens to me.”
“That is not so, Bess!” her mother responded defensively. “Your father listens. In his own way.”
“Which is to say, only when he so chooses,” Elizabeth said, bitterly. “Where is the fault in me that he should treat me so? What have I done that was so wrong? Where have I failed to please him? How have I offended? Why does he wish to punish me?”