AS if to lend color to Shakespeare’s fears, he was soon to hear
disquieting news. Finding himself in the course of the morning in the
tavern parlor, he overheard the conversation of those assembled there.
A sturdy yeoman, it seemed, was full of information concerning a murder
that had been committed during the night at the Grange, the house of
Mr. Simon Heriot, along the Banbury Road.
“They do say that Mr. Heriot himself has had his throat cut by his own
nephew,” said the bearer of the news.
“What’s that you say?” sharply interposed a man who sat in the corner
drinking his morning flagon.
The man was Grisewood. Instantly, he was all attention and alertness.
The countryman repeated his story, to be sure with a number of
embellishments that were very wide of the truth. But the essential fact
was there, that Simon Heriot had been done to death by his nephew in
the course of the previous night.
Grisewood’s interest was very great. He knew as a fact that Gervase
Heriot was close at hand, and that he had a powerful motive for taking
even a course so desperate as the murdering of his uncle.
“Has the nephew been arrested?” asked Grisewood, with an excitement he
did not attempt to conceal.
“No, he’s not taken yet,” said the news-bearer. “But he will be
precious soon, else call me a rogue. They do say that young villain
lies here in Oxford, but I’ll wager Justice Pretyman and his posse will
mighty soon rout him out o’ this home o’ learnin’.”
“Who the devil is Justice Pretyman?”
“The Justice is a great man hereabouts. There’s none better than he at
tracking down the evil doer. I passed him and his men along the road as
I came up. They are going to search every tavern and alehouse in this
city from cellar to attic for this wicked young man, Gervase Heriot.”
“Well, here’s luck to their errand,” said Grisewood, piously, draining
his tankard.
In the next moment, plunged in deep thought, he left the tavern parlor.
Shakespeare soon left the parlor also.
This news was very disquieting to the player. He was in such a state
of grave uneasiness, that he could have wished to start from Oxford
immediately. But it would not be possible to do this until the Lord
Chamberlain’s men had given their final performance that afternoon.
Therefore he must possess his soul in patience until that time, but
also he must be fully alive to all contingencies. Of one circumstance
he was ignorant, and well it was for his peace of mind that this was
the case. He did not know that Grisewood had penetrated the disguise of
the Italian music master.
Happily, there was no reason to suppose that the dead man’s steward
had associated the members of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company with the
tragedy of the previous night. At least, as yet there was no evidence
of this fact. But the playwright felt they must be prepared for all
untoward things that might befall.
Fortune was kind, inasmuch that the officers of the law did not pay
their visit to the Crown Tavern before the final performance had taken
place. Indeed, as luck would have it, they went away at first on a
false scent as far as the neighboring town of Banbury, so that by the
time they found their way to the Cornmarket the play was over, the
audience had dispersed, and the members of the Company were about to
sit down to a well-earned meal.
As was sometimes their habit in such circumstances, they had not
troubled to change their clothes. The principal players were thus
arrayed with the magnificence of gallants and courtiers. And a little
group of these sat sunning themselves outside the tavern door, waiting
patiently for the summons to the board within, when Justice Pretyman
and his posse made their long-expected appearance.
It was well that Shakespeare had already informed Burbage and Kemp,
and one or two of the others, that this untoward visit was to be
expected. Thus, as soon as the officers of the law came into view, the
quick-witted playwright was ready to meet the situation.
A shrewd observer of men and things does not take long to find out what
a man is worth. And a glance at Justice Pretyman was enough to assure
the dramatist that he might have stood for the prototype of Justice
Shallow.
The magistrate arrived with a number of sheriff’s men. And he was
armed with an authority to enter and search every likely place in the
city and county of Oxford which might harbor the notorious traitor,
Gervase Heriot, who had not only broken out of prison, but who had also
murdered his uncle the previous night.
John Davenant had been told beforehand of Justice Pretyman’s coming.
Therefore he met him at the inn door. And the demand that a house of
such repute should be searched for so dark a purpose appeared to fill
the heart of the worthy vintner with grief and consternation.
“You may search my tavern, sir,” he said, “but I would have you to
know that, upon my honor as a licensed victualler, this is the most
reputable tavern betwixt here and The Pump in Aldgate.”
“That I don’t doubt, sir,” said Justice Pretyman, with official
asperity.
He was a pompous, overbearing little man, very conscious of the dignity
to which it had pleased Providence to call him.
“As _custos rotulorum_ of this country, as one armed with the Queen’s
authority----”
“Aye, God protect her,” suddenly interposed a man who stood by in
a voice of fervent piety. “But I would beg you, sir, to abate all
instancy of demeanor and likewise all of the same on the part of your
bumpkins, whom I doubt not are excellent fellows in the right place and
season, but who at this moment will best serve the Queen by bearing
themselves with all the modesty they can command.”
The man who had ventured these somewhat haughty remarks was dressed in
a cloak of plum-colored velvet and a feathered hat, of such style and
dimension as is seldom seen out of a court. He had come up with an air
of nonchalant ease, and had interposed his remarks in a manner which
seemed to claim for them the highest possible consideration.
At the opprobrious term “Bumpkin,” it had been on the tip of
Justice Pretyman’s tongue to retort, “Bumpkin yourself, sir.” He
was a hotheaded little man, also he was vain, also he was very
self-important. But he was thwarted in this natural desire by the very
patent fact that whatever else this haughty personage was, he was
evidently not a bumpkin.
Now Justice Pretyman was a small gentleman, who would like to have been
thought a great gentleman. And those who are thus afflicted, however
much they may browbeat their inferiors, however much they may ruffle it
among their equals, are of all men particularly wary when it comes to a
question of their superiors.
By the courtesy of Providence, it chanced that before Justice Pretyman
was able to make the proper, necessary and entirely satisfactory
rejoinder of “Bumpkin yourself, sir!” his small, birdlike eye lit upon
the plum-colored cloak and the hat with the feather, and further, it
caught a glimpse of a wonderful doublet of black satin barred with
yellow. Therefore, was his rejoinder reduced from “Bumpkin yourself,
sir!” to “I beg your pardon, sir,” with as little in the way of
asperity and as much in the way of dignity as he could command.
The personage in the plum-colored cloak smiled with a benign gravity.
“If you are upon the Queen’s business, sir,” he said, “heaven forefend
that I of all men should come between you and your high and honorable
occasions. But, to be plain with you, I am bound to say you and your
ragged robins have come here in a plaguy ill season.”
“Od’s life, sir!”
The hand of Justice Pretyman strayed involuntarily to the hilt of his
sword. But again his eye caught the plum-colored cloak, and he thought
the better of the matter.
“I have written and signed authority,” he said, “to search this house
for one Gervase Heriot, a notorious traitor, and that is a course I am
determined to follow.”
The man in the plum-colored cloak lowered his voice.
“If such is your intention, sir, by all means pursue it,” he said.
“But, before you do so, there is a matter of grave concern with
which you will do well to make yourself acquainted. Perhaps, Master
Davenant”--he turned to the innkeeper--“you will have the goodness to
inform this gentleman of the matter in question?”
Mine host demurred in a manner of obsequious reverence.
“God forbid, sir, that I should expound the matter to the worshipful
justice when you yourself are by,” he said, in a tone of awe.
“As you will,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak. “The fact of
the matter is, sir,” he said, turning to Justice Pretyman, who by this
time was fully primed for some startling announcement, “a certain lady
who is of the highest--I may say of the very highest--consideration has
just arrived at this inn on her way to the north, and is lying here one
night.”
Justice Pretyman nodded with the gravity of a man who fully grasps the
significance of such a piece of news.
“Indeed, sir,” he said. “Is that the case? And may I presume, sir, to
ask the name of this personage?”
The man in the plum-colored cloak laid a finger to his lip.
“Forgive me, Master Prettyfellow,” he said, “but your style and
assemblance assure me that you are not unacquainted with the Court.
Correct me if I err.”
Justice Pretyman did not correct him.
“And that being the case, I have the less compunction in withholding
the name of the high personage who, at this moment, sheds upon
this humble roof-tree the lively radiance of her presence. Master
Prettyfellow, you take me, I trow and trust. You understand me, Master
Prettyfellow?” The man in the plum-colored cloak laid a confidential
hand upon the Justice’s sleeve.
“By God’s life, I take you, sir.” A subtle but delightful sense of
flattery had been engendered in the little peacock’s brain. “That is, I
think I take you. It is--that is--she is--”
The man in the plum-colored cloak checked the threatened indiscretion
of Justice Pretyman with an uplifted and much-bejeweled hand.
“For heaven’s sake, Master Prettyfellow!” He gazed around him
apprehensively. “We are in danger of being overheard.”
For this surmise, the man in the plum-colored cloak had full warrant
without a doubt. Others, attired with a flamboyance and a glitter that
went well with his own, were standing a little apart. And their almost
excessive gravity of manner could not disguise the fact that they had
both ears and eyes for all that was going forward.
There was one, however, who watched this play with a sour smile. He was
a man more sober in dress, but whose attire was yet that of a person of
quality. He stood quite apart from all the rest, and carried his arm in
a sling. The look on his face clearly showed that he, too, had ears and
eyes for all that was taking place. Moreover, he stroked his chin with
an air of grim but deeply pensive satisfaction.
“If you are determined to have search made of this tavern, Master
Prettyfellow,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “it is not
for me to gainsay you. But I am sure you will readily understand how
necessary it is that this matter should be pursued with the utmost
decorum.”
“Sir, that I do promise,” said Justice Pretyman.
“That is well,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “with the
utmost decorum. And as I understand, you have figured at Court, Master
Prettyfellow”--here the voice was raised to a level that drew the
attention of the group near by--“And, as I understand, you have figured
at Court, Master Prettyfellow”--the words were impressively repeated.
“You may take it, sir, that I have.” The tone of Justice Pretyman was
full of dignity.
“I am very glad indeed to hear that.” The man in the plum-colored
cloak spoke with a sudden accession of feeling. “I cannot tell you how
glad I am to hear that. Now there will not be the least difficulty
about the whole matter. I will send in your name at once to this most
distinguished lady, who must remain without one. My lord----”
George Taylor and William Kemp, arrayed in the robes of the theater,
stepped forward together in answer to this summons. Such zeal, however,
in nowise embarrassed the man in the plum-colored cloak.
“My lord duke”--he turned to William Kemp--“will you have the good
kindness to take in the name of Master Prettyfellow----”
“Pretyman,” corrected the justice, beginning, however, to perspire
freely.
The officious provincial was not a little uncertain as to the ground
upon which he stood. Judging by the demeanor of these gayly-attired
gentlemen and the high tone that went with it, he began to fear that
the Queen herself had arrived at the Crown Tavern. And his vanity
having allowed him to claim a familiarity with the Court when he had
never been there in his life, he had merely to be received in audience
by her to incur the risk of a grave exposure.
“One moment, sir,” he said, desperately. “If this unknown lady is the
high personage I take her to be, I have no desire----”
But William Kemp, in his ducal trappings, was already away on his
errand.
Justice Pretyman felt the situation to be growing desperate. And,
to make matters worse, the man in the cloak was fain to misread his
attitude of mind.
“I have not the least doubt, sir,” he said, “that if this lady--whom
we shall both do well not to name more explicitly--is informed that
you are familiar with the Court, she will gladly give you an audience,
although you must please remember she travels incognito.”
By this time Justice Pretyman was fully convinced that it was the
Queen herself who was lying one night at the Crown Tavern.
“You mistake me, sir,” he said, desperately. “I never said that I was
familiar with the Court.”
“You never said you were familiar with the Court, sir!” The man in the
plum-colored cloak was the picture of polite indignation. “But, ods my
life, sir! this is a very grave matter.”
Justice Pretyman thought so, too. At least, his perspiring red face
belied him if he did not.
“How I wish, sir,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “you had had
the grace to make yourself more explicit. This lady is a bad one to
cross, as all the world very well knows.”
“Yes, sir, I am aware of that,” said Justice Pretyman, beginning
already to wish himself well out of the affair.
The richly caparisoned figure of William Kemp emerged with slow
dignity from the tavern interior. He bent to the ear of the man in the
plum-colored cloak. A good deal of confidential whispering followed, of
which Justice Pretyman could only catch the ominous words, “Her Grace.”
But it was the man in the plum-colored cloak who addressed the uneasy
magistrate.
“The fact of the matter is, sir,” he said, “this lady does not
remember your name, but she hopes she may remember your face. She is
not unwilling to grant you an audience of five minutes, but--strictly
between ourselves--if you will take the advice of a friend, you
will think twice before you run any risk of incurring her august
displeasure.”
Justice Pretyman’s mind certainly seemed to recognize the wisdom of
this sage counsel. And the result of a very little deliberation on his
part was that he gathered his men and made off down the street with the
least possible delay, leaving the members of the Lord Chamberlain’s
Company to enjoy the triumph of their audacity.
To be sure, they little knew on how slender a thread it hung. Not ten
yards from them, during the whole time in which this comedy had been
played, a man stood marking sourly every phase of the proceedings. He
could have undone them with a word.
The word, however, was not spoken. Grisewood judged the hour to be not
yet. Still, he had marked very closely all that had passed. And he had
been at pains to make himself fully acquainted with the matter in all
its details. There and then, he could have laid his finger on the man
these blundering rustics sought. But that would not have suited his
purpose at the moment. For he was too astute not to realize the immense
advantage his knowledge gave him, and far too cunning not to be fully
determined to take some high profit out of it.