The Merchant of Vengeance

by Simon Hawke

  "Bah! You compare oranges with apples," Shakespeare said.

  "They are very different works."

  "Mayhap so, but the audiences seem to enjoy Marlowe's oranges much more than your apples."

  "Now look, we have staged Henry the Sixth but once," Shakespeare said defensively, "and 'twas despite my protests that the play was not yet ready."

  "Then why submit it for production?"

  "Because… well, because Marlowe keeps on writing new ones, and everyone keeps asking when they shall see mine and why I cannot write so quickly and why all I have managed to produce is books of sonnets!"

  "Ah, so you allowed yourself to be rushed into submitting it before you were fully satisfied with the result," said Smythe.

  "Aye, damn it," Shakespeare said. "I admit it freely, 'twas a stupid thing to do. But even you keep chiding me for not yet having finished anything!"

  "Aye, 'tis true," admitted Smythe, "but '(Was nothing more than a means to have a bit of fun with you. If it truly troubles you, Will, than I shall refrain from doing it, I promise."

  "Nay, it does not trouble me," said Shakespeare. "Well, perhaps a little, but in truth, it does help to spur my efforts. Yet I have learned something from all this, methinks."

  "And what is that, pray tell?"

  "I have discovered that waiting till I have written something to my final satisfaction is but a means to keep from ever finishing a thing," he said. "For in truth, there is no final satisfaction. At least, not for me. A much better way to work, '(Would seem to me, would be to treat a play as if it were a gemstone and I a patient and painstaking jeweller who makes my cuts, thus faceting the stone, and then submits the cut gem to the company so that we may all then proceed to polish it together, just as we did when I rewrote some of the Queen's Men's repertoire, do you recall?"

  "Aye, but then you did it thus because you had no other choice," said Smythe. "You had to write and then rewrite as flaws were made manifest in the production, because there was no time to do it any other way."

  "Quite so," said Shakespeare, "and as a result, 'twas needful to put on the finishing touches in rehearsal, and then revise again after one performance, and once again after the next, and so forth and so forth… just as you said to Greene back in the tavern, when you spoke about a play being a crucible in which the intent of the poet and the interpretation of the player comingle with the perception of the audience. 'Twas most excellent, most excellent, indeed! I recall being very taken with that line, even as that vile souse upbraided me, and thinking that I must remember it. 'Twas a memorable turn of phrase, indeed. And much more than that, Tuck, 'twas a rare insight into the alchemy of the crafting of a play!"

  "Well, I was but repeating something that you said once."

  Smythe replied.

  "What! I said that?" asked Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows with surprise.

  "Or else something very like it," Smythe replied.

  "The devil you say! "When did I say that?"

  "I do not remember when just now," said Smythe. "But I do seem to recall that you were rather deeply in your cups when you said it."

  "Zounds! I shall have to ask you to start setting down these things I say so that I may remember them," said Shakespeare.

  The crashing sound of thunder interrupted them, booming so loudly that it seemed to shake the rafters up above them. The first crash was almost immediately followed by the next, and then a third hot on its heels.

  "Oh, dear," said Smythe. "That sounds like a rather nasty storm is brewing."

  The next clap of thunder was deafening, and lightning seemed to split the sky as they stepped out of the tiring room. The wind had picked up suddenly, and moments later a torrential rain began pelting down, bringing an immediate end to the rehearsal.

  "Well, so much for that," said Shakespeare, watching as the other players scrambled for their hats and cloaks. "We have been rained out nearly every night this week."

  "This bodes ill for the companies' already meagre purses," Smythe replied, as he buckled on his sword belt. He had of late been trying to cultivate the habit of wearing his rapier everywhere he went, although he still found it rather cumbersome and had an unfortunate tendency to keep catching it on things. His uncle had taught him how to fence, but until he came to London, he had never even owned a sword. He always carried the dagger that his uncle made for him, but wearing a sword had simply seemed like too much trouble, despite the fact that it was much the fashion and, given the steady increase in crime, also seemed very practical.

  "Well, this does not appear as if 'twill soon blow over," Shakespeare said, gazing up glumly at the dark sky. "I fear that we shall have no play today."

  "Much like the day that we set out in search of Thomas to deliver him his father's message," Smythe replied.

  "That troubles you still, I see," said Shakespeare.

  "Would that it did not," said Smythe, "but I keep thinking on it."

  "'Twas not really your fault, you know, the way that things turned out," said Shakespeare. "You must not blame yourself."

  "Do you suppose they have arrested Mayhew?"

  Shakespeare snorted. "Not bloody likely, I should say, unless they caught him standing over the poor lad's corpse with a bare bodkin in his hand. Rich men do not often get themselves arrested, you know. 'Tis bad for the economy."

  "Well, quite likely, you are right," said Smythe, "else we should have heard something by now."

  "Now, if you are asking me if I think that Mayhew was responsible," said Shakespeare, "then I would have to say that on the surface, the odds seem much in favour of it… that is, from what we know. Remember, we do not know for a certainty that Thomas was killed because of his relationship with Portia. His murder could have been completely unrelated to that. For all we know, he had some enemy who wished him dead. More than one, perhaps. Or else it could have been a thief who had been trying to rob his room when he walked in, thus setting off a confrontation that ended in his death." He shrugged. "We simply do not know, Tuck. And chances are that we shall never know."

  "So what are you saying, then? That because we do not know, we should not care?"

  "Nay, I did not say we should not care," said Shakespeare, "for that would make us callous and hard-hearted, and I should not like to think that we were that. But people die in London every day, of many causes and for many reasons. We cannot seek justice for them all, however much we may wish that justice could be served. We did not really know young Thomas Locke. Our paths happened to cross but once, during which time you gave him some advice. Whether 'twas wise advice or not does not make any difference in the end, for 'twas his choice whether or not to take it. In any event, before he could act upon it, he was killed. And there's an end to it."

  "He could have been your Jew, you know," said Smythe. "Or else, as it appears that he was raised a Christian, perhaps his mother could have served your purpose and acquainted you with their ways and their beliefs."

  "Perhaps," said Shakespeare. "But '(Would be crass of me indeed to ask her now. And I rather doubt we would find welcome at her husband's house."

  "Aye, to be sure. Well, 'twould seem the others have all repaired to Cholmley's," he said, referring to the small, one-story, thatch-roofed building attached to the theatre and operated by John Cholmley, Henslowe's partner, as a tavern and victualing house for the patrons of the Rose. "Shall we go and join them?"

  Shakespeare sighed. "Cholmley overcharges scandalously, quite aside from which, I have about had my fill of Ned and Kit for one day. But we can go and join the others, if you wish."

  "Or else we could make our way back home to the Toad and Badger and see Dick Burbage," Smythe said. "And then you could go upstairs and write, which would give you an excuse to avoid Cholmley's."

  "An excellent idea, I must say!" Shakespeare responded, clapping him upon the shoulder. "I would much rather spend some time with Dick, sweet Molly, and that old bear Stackpole at the Toad than overpay at Cholmley's and listen to Ned and K
it attempt to outbark each another like a pair of hounds and lay the blame for every flaw in the production on Lord Strange's Men. Forsooth, I have had enough of that rot. To the Toad, then!"

  "To the Toad it is," said Smythe. "What say you, shall we chance it with a wherry in this infernal downpour, or shall we go the long way, by the bridge?"

  "In this wind, there should be quite a chop," said Shakespeare, somewhat dubiously. "And many of the boats will have pulled in, though a good wherry-man would not be frightened by the weather. Just the same, methinks I would prefer to take the bridge. Either way, we shall get soaked."

  "'Well, let us walk, then," Smythe replied. "I have always enjoyed a good walk in the rain."

  They wrapped their cloaks around themselves, pulled down their hats, and went out into the wind and rain, through the theatre gates. The rain was coming down in sheets as they started walking toward the river, but they were in good spirits. For the moment, at least, the uncertainties and troubles of the world were all forgotten. The Thames was frothed with whitecaps, and the bracing smell of the sea was strong in the air.

  As they made their way toward London Bridge, Shakespeare began to sing a ribald tune, and Smythe laughed, linked arms with him, and joined in. They sang lustily and loudly, looking forward to an evening in front of a warm fire with old friends.

  Neither of them noticed that they were being followed.

  Elizabeth was growing increasingly concerned about her friend. Already despondent over her father's cancellation of her marriage plans, Portia was plunged into absolute despair when she learned that Thomas had been murdered. When the sheriff's men had come to question them, Portia ran out of the room in tears and fled upstairs to the guest bedroom that she had occupied since leaving home. Now she would not even leave that room. She had taken to her bed and would not get up, not even to eat.

  Not knowing what else to do, Elizabeth had sent a servant to Antonia with a message begging her to come at once. But as the day drew on and she did not arrive, Elizabeth grew more and more anxious. It was growing late when Antonia arrived in her carriage at last.

  "I wanted to come as soon as I received your message," Antonia explained apologetically, as one of the servants helped her with her cloak, "but my husband was entertaining guests and my presence was required at home. Alas, I could not leave till they had all departed."

  "I understand, of course," Elizabeth replied as they made their way together to the drawing room. "And I am much relieved that you have come at last. I am simply driven to distraction. Poor, poor Portia! I just do not know what to do. I cannot think how to help her!"

  "You are already helping her, my dear," Antonia replied solicitously. "You have given her safe haven, and a caring heart to see her through this tragic time. And in the end, 'tis said that time itself must heal such wounds."

  Elizabeth shook her head. "In this case, Antonia, I am not so certain. Doubtless time could heal grief suffered over an untimely loss, but this was the foul murder of the man she loved, and I do believe she holds her father to account for it, which can only serve to multiply her torment."

  "Do you suppose he could have done it?" Antonia asked as the servant poured their wine.

  Elizabeth sighed and shook her head once more. "I cannot say. 'Tis not so long ago I would have said that Henry Mayhew certainly did not strike me as a man who would be capable of murder, but I have since discovered that one simply cannot tell such things from appearances and that people one might never think capable of doing such terrible things are, indeed, capable of them and more."

  "So then he may have done it," said Antonia. "Or else he may have paid to have it done. Is that what she believes?"

  "I am afraid so," said Elizabeth. "What does one tell a girl who thinks her father killed the man she loved?"

  "I do not know," Antonia replied. "'What has her father said to this?"

  "Thus far, he has said nothing," said Elizabeth.

  Antonia frowned. "Does he even know that she is herd"

  Elizabeth nodded. "He knows. I sent a servant to him with a letter, so that he would know that she was safe with me. It seemed the proper thing to do. Had I a daughter who ran off somewhere, and I did not know where she was, I would be frantic with concern."

  Antonia nodded. "You did the right thing. And how did he respond?"

  "See for yourself," Elizabeth replied, picking up a letter and passing it to her. "This came but a few hours ago."

  With a look of interest, Antonia took the letter, unfolded it, and read:

  My dear Elizabeth,

  I have received your letter and was gratified to learn that Portia had decided to spend some time upon a visit with you. Doubtless, your pleasant company shall be of benefit to her and help assuage her distress over recent unfortunate events. The sheriff's men had paid me a visit, as they did you, it seems, and I informed them that there was little more that I could add to what they apparently already knew, but that I would remain at their service if they should require anything further of me in their inquiries. They thanked me respectfully and took their leave.

  & to my daughter’s future, the present uncertainty of which has likely been the cause of her distress, you may inform her that she is ever in my thoughts, and that I have already taken certain steps that will assure her welfare and grant her even greater prospects than she may have earlier expected. With warmest wishes of regard and good will toward your family, I remain, as ever, yours sincerely,

  Henry Mayhew

  "Well, upon my word," said Antonia, as she finished reading the missive, "he does not seem much concerned. What do you suppose he means when he writes that he has 'taken certain steps that will assure her welfare'?"

  "I can only take that to mean that he has already found another suitor for his daughter," Elizabeth replied.

  "So soon?"

  "Aye, he did not waste any time," Elizabeth said. "I cannot imagine how I shall tell Portia."

  "You mean to say she has not seen this letter?" Antonia asked, holding it up.

  "I have been afraid to show it to her. There is no telling how she may respond."

  "Well, you cannot keep it from her," said Antonia. "She shall find out eventually, from her father if not from you. And the sooner she knows, the better, I should think. 'Tis time that she learned to accept things as they are."

  "That was rather an unfeeling sentiment," Elizabeth replied, a bit taken aback. "She is still grieving for the man she loved."

  "Then let her don her mourning black, thus giving death its due, and go on about her life," Antonia said.

  "Antonia! How can you be so harsh?"

  "Oh, truly, Elizabeth, 'tis not my intent to sound hard-hearted." she replied, "but Portia simply must accept that Thomas is dead and there is naught that she can do to bring him back. And if she believes that he died by her father's hand or else by his will, then even so, what can she do about it? Is there proof she may present? And if, by some chance, she has such proof, would she present it, accusing her own father? And even if she could, what good would come of it? Who would convict a father for seeking to protect his daughter from disgrace? Who would even fault him for it?" She held up the letter once again. "He writes here in this very letter that the sheriff's men had come to see rum. From the sound of it, they spoke to him respectfully and he answered them in kind; thus they were satisfied and took their leave. And there it shall end, Elizabeth. There it shall end. Regardless of what we may suspect, officially the murderer shall remain unknown. Thomas was a young journeyman of much promise but of little means, and a Jew, at that. Henry Mayhew is a prominent and wealthy merchant and a Christian. What more is there to say?"

  "There is something more to say for Portia, surely," said Elizabeth.

  "Very well, then let us say it," Antonia replied. "She is her father's daughter and must do her duty, as must we all. My father never sought my counsel or consent when he arranged for me to marry. Nor do most fathers do so. And for all of your poetic and romantic notions about
love, Elizabeth, the day will come when your father, too, shall decide upon a husband for you, before you become too old for him to marry off and he is settled with a spinster. You and I have talked of this before. Marrying for love is fine for the more common sort of people, but we must be more serious and practical. And the sooner Portia comes to understand that and accept it, the better off she shall be. That is my advice to you, Elizabeth. Do with it what you will, but know this: Neither Portia's father nor yours shall remain patient forever."

  "And why, pray tell, should it be a matter of their patience?" replied Elizabeth, her temper flaring up. "Why is it a daughter's place to do her duty by her father and not a father's place to do his duty by his daughter? 'Tis a parent who brings a child into the world, and I should think 'tis a parent's duty to ensure that child is nurtured and protected. Why must a daughter grow up to be little better than a slave, destined to marry a man she did not choose, and to spend the remainder of her life at his beck and call, while a man may do whatever he desires?"

  "Oh, Elizabeth, there are ways for a woman to do what she desires also, if she does so with careful judgement and discretion," said Antonia. "Look around you at this handsome home. Is this truly what you call living like a slave? You have servants, for God's sake. You have never raised a hand to do anything much more demanding than embroidery! Methinks you see too much of your-self in Portia's plight, if we may truly call it plight. Indeed, how different has her life been thus far? Her father is one of London's richest merchants, and from what he writes in his letter, 'twould seem that he has made arrangements for a marriage for her that would improve her prospects even further. She shall marry a rich man of good standing and live a pleasant life of indolence, waited on by servants hand and foot, in return for which, in all likelihood, she shall be required to do nothing more than help entertain his friends and give birth upon occasion. This is a desperate plight? Good Lord! However shall we save her?"

  Elizabeth stared at her friend, her mouth set in a right grimace. "I perceive that I have made a mistake," she said after a moment. "I called upon you because I believed that you would care enough to help, but I see now that you do not care at all. Forgive me, Antonia. I did not mean to waste your time."