Read Online The Slaying of the Shrew by Simon Hawke - Free Book Online

like. A large afterdeck had been erected on each barge, each with a dais and elaborate canopies of purple cloth fringed with gold, and benches had been placed along each deckrail for "slave rowers," though it seemed that the oars were only for show. They appeared much too short to be very functional, scarcely brushing the surface of the water. And after a moment's observation, it became evident that they were not functional at all, but nailed in place, for none of them moved at all. In one of the lead boats, a man was standing and shouting commands through a large horn as the boats bobbed in the choppy current, trying to maintain position relative to one another.
    "What in God's name are they doing?" Smythe asked, perplexed.
    "We, of all people, should be able to tell that," Shakespeare replied. "They are rehearsing."
    "Oh, of course," said Burbage. "They are preparing for the wedding progress. The theme, remember? Queen Cleopatra comes to visit the Emperor Julius Caesar."
    John Fleming shook his head as he rode up beside them to watch the nautical maneuvering. "Methinks Cleopatra could use a better steersman," he observed, dryly. "Her barge seems to be in the process of ramming her own escorts."
    Several of the boats had indeed suffered collision with the barge as Fleming spoke. The barge had drifted into them, and a number of the others steered quickly out of line to avoid the mess. One of the smaller boats was foundering and the man with the horn seemed to be having fits. He was holding the horn with one hand, shouting into it at the top of his lungs, and waving directions frantically with his free hand.
    "I, for one, find that rehearsal with a company of unruly players on a stage poses challenges enough, without having to concern myself with the disposition of a small fleet," said Burbage, with a chuckle.
    "What concerns me more," said Shakespeare, with a trace of anxiety in his voice, "is how our play shall compare with this elaborate nautical spectacle, to say naught of the distractions of the fair. I fear that we may have no easy task before us, my friends."
    As he spoke, the queen's barge kept on drifting, sliding sideways in the current and bumping into two other small boats that were not quick enough to get out of the way, no matter how desperately their boatmen rowed. The man in charge of directing the flotilla began leaping up and down in a frenzy, shouting himself hoarse into his horn.
    "He is going to upset that boat if he does not watch out," said Speed.
    The little boat was rocking violently and the boatman started shouting at his frantic passenger, who spun around angrily to shout back at the boatman and, in the process, lost his balance and plunged headlong into the river.
    'Man overboard!"
Will Kemp cried in his ringing stage voice, from his seat beside Speed in the wagon.
    They all burst out laughing heartily, but Smythe's laughter died abruptly in his throat when he saw the stricken expression on his roommate's face. Shakespeare alone was not laughing. He was watching it all with a look of chagrin and, for a moment, Smythe could not account for it. He gazed at the poet with puzzled concern, and then a moment later, comprehension dawned.
    Had he not known Will Shakespeare as he did, Smythe would not have understood, but all at once he realized that his friend was viewing the disaster down below—and especially their laughter at it—as a harbinger of things to come. Shakespeare had no confidence in the play that he had written. He had not wanted it performed. Indeed, he had kept insisting that it was not finished, but his concerns had been dismissed as nothing more than the natural hesitancy of a poet before the first performance of his work. If there were any problems, the Queen's Men were confident that they could be fixed during rehearsal. After all, they had seen Shakespeare rewrite plays already in their repertoire at a lightning pace, often making extensive changes overnight, or even inbetween