At that moment, someone screamed. It was one of the bridesmaids still aboard the barge, and in moments, her scream was taken up by others. This, clearly, was not part of the script.
Except for a couple of servants, the players standing on the steps by the river gate were the closest to the barge. Smythe led the way as he ran down the remaining couple of steps and jumped onto the barge, where chaos and confusion now reigned. With Shakespeare and several of the others right behind him, he shouldered his way past the rowers, who had stood up from their benches and were now milling about in confusion. Several of the women were screaming hysterically up on the platform which formed the upper deck and one of the unfortunate girls either fell or else was accidentally knocked overboard into the river.
She started screaming that she could not swim and within moments, the weight of her soaked garments pulled her under. A couple of the rivermen jumped in to save her and fortunately managed to grab hold of her and pull her in towards shore, thus saving her life, but it seemed the bride was not so lucky. When Smythe reached her, one of the hysterical bridesmaids was sobbing and crying out, “She is dead! She is dead! Oh, God have mercy, she is dead!”
Indeed, Smythe found that Catherine Middleton felt cold to the touch, and did not seem to be breathing. Her eyes were closed and she looked quite peaceful, as if she had simply drifted off to sleep.
“Oh, heaven!” Burbage said, as Smythe bent over her. “Dead! Can it be true?”
Smythe put his ear to Catherine’s chest. “I cannot hear her heart,” he said.
“Oh, woeful day!” said Burbage.
“Injurious world!” said Fleming. “Poor girl! To die so young, and on her wedding day! Could anything ever be more tragic?”
“Perhaps it could,” Shakespeare said.
They looked towards him. “What do you mean?” said Fleming. “What have you there?”
“A drinking flask,” said Shakespeare, as he sniffed it contents.
“Lord, hand it here,” said Kemp. “Methinks now we could all do with a drink!”
“I would be loath to have any of you drink from this,” said Shakespeare. “This potation might be of a potency not to your liking.”
“What is it, Will?” Smythe asked.
“ ‘Tis known as brand,” said Shakespeare. “Burnt wine, to some. A spiritous distillation from grape wine. Not a very common beverage, leastwise for the likes of us common folk. Our late, lamented Cleopatra had this flask lying right here at her feet.”
“To keep her warm against the river chill, no doubt,” said Burbage. “But what of it?”
“It does not smell right to me,” said Shakespeare. “And mine, gentlemen, is a most educated nose. There has been something added to this flask that did not come from the vine.”
“God shield us!” Burbage said. “Do you mean she has been poisoned?”
“Poisoned!” Kemp exclaimed.
The cry was taken up at once by everyone around them.
“I cannot say for certain,” Shakespeare said, “but there is something rotten in Egypt. History repeats itself, for unless I miss my guess, Cleopatra has once more fallen to a deadly venom.”
6
The guests watching from the plaza at the top of the steps knew something had gone wrong, but it was a while before word of what had happened reached them. They saw the commotion below them, where the wedding barge had pulled up to the river gate, and they heard the screaming and saw one of the bridesmaids fall into the river, which resulted in a burst of laughter breaking out among them, but within moments, they knew that something much more serious than a minor mishap had occurred.
When they saw the players rush onto the barge, accompanied by several of the servants, their merriment subsided into silence and the hush continued, stretching out uneasily as they saw the players gather around the bride. A few among the gathered guests began to whisper, wondering what had gone wrong, and then they heard the shouting. At first, they could not make out what was being shouted, and the whisperings among them grew into an anxious undertone that made the shouting down on the barge even more difficult to understand. Then, as people started running back up the steps, calling out what had happened, they finally learned the news of the bride’s death.
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.