by Simon Hawke
"'Twas not me that they wanted."
"What do you mean?" Elizabeth asked.
"They took Henry," Winifred replied. She glanced at the servants. "Why are you standing there and dithering? Get some light in here! Look around the house and see if they have taken anything. Go on, now! Be quick about it!"
As the servants quickly moved to follow her directives, she turned to Elizabeth. "I would be much obliged if you would tell me who you are, young woman, so that I may thank you properly."
"My name is Elizabeth Darcie."
"Henry Darcie's daughter," Winifred replied, nodding. "Well, I am most grateful to you, Elizabeth. How did you happen to come here? Is anything amiss with Portia?"
"Nay, Portia is well," Elizabeth replied. "That is, she is still mired in her grief for Thomas, but when I left her, she was otherwise unharmed. You do not suppose those men…" She trailed off, unable to finish articulating the appalling thought that had just occurred to her.
"I do not think. so," Winifred replied, getting to her feet. "They demanded to know where she was. They were most insistent, but neither Henry nor I would tell them. Henry stubbornly refused to speak., so, fearing that they might ham him, I told them that she had run away from home and that we did not know where she was. They then took Henry and departed, after tying me up and carrying me upstairs. And save for the soreness in my ""'fists and ankles where they bound me up, they did not harm me in any way."
"Well, thank goodness for that, at least," Elizabeth replied. "I must say, you have been very brave through all of this."
"Brave?" Winifred snorted. "I was terrified out of my wits. I feel like sitting down and having a good long cry, but there is not time for that. I must try to think how to help Henry." She balled her hands up into fists. "I cannot, I must not, be weak now. I must keep my wits about me. These were no ordinary robbers, to be sure. They kept wanting to know where Portia was. I can only suppose they meant to abduct her and hold her for ransom, and failing to find her, they took Henry, instead, thinking to make me pay for his safe return."
"Perhaps not," said Elizabeth tensely.
Winifred gave her a sharp look. "What do you mean ? What other reason could there be?"
Elizabeth took a deep breath. "These men sound like ruffiers," she replied. "Men who knew what they were about. And unless there were things stolen from your house, 'twould seem to me that they came specifically for Portia and her father. If they truly meant to abduct Portia and hold her for ransom, then when they failed to find her here, why take her father? Why not take you in her place, and thus force him to pay for your safe return instead?"
"Indeed, why not?" Winifred replied. She shook her head. "I do not know. But why else would they have done what they did?"
"Perhaps because someone seeks revenge for the murder of Thomas Locke," Elizabeth told her. "Namely, his father, Who I have been told is one of the masters of the Thieves Guild. Thus, 'tis fortunate that you told them you did not know where Portia ,vas. However, they may not have believed you when you said that she ran away, and now that they have taken her father, they may try to force it out of him."
"Then before anything else is done," said Winifred, 'we must get Portia out of your house and hide her somewhere."
"I have a coach waiting outside," Elizabeth said.
"Then we must go there straightaway," said Winifred. "Henry is a strong-willed man, but he is no longer young, and if they put him to the question, he may not long hold out against them."
Hastings came back into the room at that moment, looking somewhat perplexed. "Mistress Winifred, 'tis a most curious thing!" he said. "The house is not in any disarray, and it does not appear as if they have taken anything!"
"Then you were right, Elizabeth," said Winifred. "'Twas Portia they were after all along! Let us make all haste! We must get to her before they do!"
Things were looking rather grim, indeed. As Smythe looked up toward the dais where the masters of the Thieves Guild sat, he desperately tried to make eye contact with the one person in the room who could be in a position to help them.
Moll Cutpurse was unique among women in the status she had achieved in her profession. There was not a foist or a pickpocket in all of London who could ply his or her trade without answering to her. It was said—by Robert Greene, among others—that she operated a school for pickpockets and cut-purses, training them in the arts that she had mastered. Many of her pupils were small children, often orphans with no homes, whom she taught to fend for themselves in London's streets and alley-ways. Others were people like Smythe himself, who came to London in search of work after the enclosures had driven them from their lands but found, when they reached the city, that work was scarce and difficult to come by. Those who, unlike Smythe and Shakespeare, were not fortunate enough to find work were often left with little choice but to resort to begging or else turn to crime, and these, too, found a friend in the unusual woman who dressed like a man and fought like a man and was known by a variety of names, the most infamous of which was Moll Cutpurse.
Her real name was Mary Flannery, which was a secret few men knew. Smythe just happened to be one of them. And he knew it because he also knew another secret about Moll Cutpurse, one she guarded closely. He knew she had a younger sister by the name of Molly, who worked as a serving wench at the Toad and Badger. Just now, he was hoping very hard that this knowledge would stand him in good stead, for judging by the way things looked, they were going to be in great need of a friend among this crowd.
Shakespeare groaned beside him. "Now here is yet another—"
"Do not say it!" Smythe cautioned him. "Do not even attempt to blame all this on me or, so help me God, I shall box your ears right here in front of everyone."
"Having my ears boxed would be the very least of my worries at the moment," Shakespeare replied. "Looking around at this scurvy lot, I shall count myself fortunate if we manage to leave this place alive."
'Well, we are not dead yet."
"Not yet," Shakespeare said wryly. "Do you suppose your friend Moll Cutpurse remembers you and the kindness that you showed her sister?"
"I do most earnestly hope so," Smythe replied. "I have been trying to catch her eye, but she has not yet looked toward us."
"Mayhap she does not wish to see us," Shakespeare said. "Depending upon how the wind is blowing, this may not be a convenient time for her to admit she knows us."
"If that is so, then you may be sure I shall remind her at the very first opportunity," said Smythe.
Shakespeare gave him an uneasy sidelong glance. "Just have a care," he said. "She is the only one we know with any influence among this crowd." He looked around with trepidation. "If, under the present circumstances, we should become inconvenient friends for her, then we are liable to wind up late, lamented friends."
"We shall see," said Smythe, still trying to catch her eye. But she did not look toward them. She seemed to be engaged in an animated conversation with the man upon her left.
"Here we go," said Shakespeare.
Charles Locke picked up the wooden mallet that lay before him and struck the table with it three times. "This meeting shall come to order!" he called Out. The noise of the crowd around them gradually died away. He waited until there was complete silence before continuing.
"We shall dispense with our usual order of business on this day," he said. "Many among you already know the reason why. And as for those of you who do not know, I pray, attend me.
"Oh, this does not look good," said Shakespeare softly.
"Be quiet, Will."
Locke continued. "I had a son," he said. He paused and looked down at the table for a moment, attempting to compose himself, There was not another sound within the chamber. All ears hung upon his every word.
"I had a son," he said once more, clenching his hand into a fist as he looked up. "A son by my wife, Rachel, who had very nearly died in birthing him and was afterwards pronounced unable to bear any more children. No matter, thought I, grate
ful beyond words that my dear wife should have survived the terrible ordeal of the birth. This one son would be enough. This one son would evermore be my contentment, for upon this one son my sun would rise and set. This one son I would cherish and raise up into a man to make a father proud. This one son would be my legacy and my ongoing purpose in this world. And so, throughout his young life,
I doted on him, and sought to provide him with every opportunity that I was myself denied. Thus, he grew into a fine young man, well known to many of those among you, a young man who became apprenticed to a tailor, Leffingwell by name, and who, upon completing his term of apprenticeship, became a journeyman in the shop of that same Leffingwell, who had considered him a credit to his business. Thus did a proud father look upon his son, who had grown into a man going out into the world upon his own, and who had become betrothed co a young woman of good family and would soon, no doubt, sire children of his own. I looked upon this one son and was both pleased and proud. Could any man ask for any more?"
"We are dead," said Shakespeare flatly.
"Not yet," said Smythe, for Moll Cutpurse had looked, for the first time, directly at him and had given him a nod.
Locke paused. A murmur went up among the crowd. Then it died away again as he continued. "Of late, it came to my attention that my son, Thomas, was planning to elope. The two men who had brought this news to me are the very men who sit before you now. Their names are Smythe and Shakespeare. They cold me that they were players with the company of Lord Strange's Men. I found this rather curious, for I could not think what these two players would have to do with my son Thomas's affairs. And so I inquired of them, how came they by this news? Why, I asked of them, would my son wish to elope when the father of his prospective bride had readily given his consent and blessing to the marriage? And upon being asked this, they then told me that the father of the bride had not only withdrawn his consent to the match, but had forbidden his daughter from ever seeing my son again, and that they had heard this from my own son's lips during a visit to the shop of my son's good friend Ben Dickens, the armourer."
"Nay, this is not looking good at all," murmured Shakespeare. "Hush, Will," Smythe replied. "All is not yet lost."
Locke continued speaking. "You may imagine my surprise," he said, 'When I heard this news from two men who were strangers to me, when my own son had said nothing. And 'twas this very fact which lent credence to their tale, you see, for if my son truly had intended to elope with this young woman, then both he and she would have intended to keep this knowledge secret from their respective parents. There yet remained the question… why? Why would the father of this girl at first give his consent, only to withdraw it soon thereafter? Why would he at first look upon the match with favour, only to look upon it later with revulsion? What could have brought about so profound a change in his affections? What could bring him to despise my son, whom he had but lately loved as a prospective son-in-law? And so I asked these men that very question… why? And there came the answer, 'Because his mother is a Jew.'"
The crowd began to murmur once again. Smythe looked around at them, but in the dim light, he could not dearly make out many faces. They all sat in the shadows, like some dreadful court that sat in judgment of their fate. And that was exactly what they were, thought Smythe. A court. A thieves' court, if such a thing could be. And what appeal could be made to such a court, he wondered? How could one sway a court that did not recognize any law except its own? How could he plead that he was not guilty of any crime to a court whose members were guilty of nearly every crime? What would he say to them? And would they even offer him a chance to speak before they reached their judgement?
"Some of you may be surprised to learn that my wife is a Jewess," Locke continued. "And some of you already knew. Those of you who did not know might ask, 'How could he be married to a Jew?' And 'Why would any Christian man make such a marriage?' To those, I say that I did not marry a Jew; I married a woman. And for each Jew that you may show me who is not a Christian, I can also show you a Christian who is not a Christian. If the Lord truly said that thou shalt not steal, then each and everyone of us has disobeyed tile Lord. And if the Lord truly said that thou shalt not kill, then every soldier who has ever fought and killed an enemy has disobeyed the Lord. And if the Lord truly said that thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, then there is scarcely anyone among us who has not, at one time or another, likewise disobeyed the Lord, for the sin would be in the desire as much as in the act."
There was some general laughter at this last remark, and to his dismay and disbelief, Smythe actually heard Shakespeare mutter, "That was a good line, that one. Would that I had my pen." He quickly shushed him.
"It would not have mattered to me if my wife were Protestant or Catholic," said Locke, "and so it did not matter to me if she came from Jewish stock. Her parents had accepted Christianity, because they had no other choice, as their parents had accepted Christianity, because they had no other choice, for that was what most Jews who remained in England had to do, or else be driven out. Yet even so, they were reviled by many Englishmen, good Christians all, who burned their homes and beat them and abused them.
"My wife, Rachel, lived among us as a Christian," he continued, "but if she was not a true Christian because she did not go to church each Sunday, then neither arc many among us true Christians for the selfsame reason. And if she honoured the traditions of her ancestors, without doing dishonour to the traditions of anybody else, then where lies the fault in that? Yet I am not here to defend my wife this night; I am here to prosecute the one who killed her son. Our son, who was a Christian, and who attended church each and every Sunday, and who never stole, and never killed, and never coveted anyone save for the girl he truly loved and hoped to marry. He honoured the traditions of his mother, although he did not follow them himself, because we had raised him as a Christian. And yet . and yet, in the traditions of his mother's people, one is a Jew if one's mother is a Jew. And ironically, this one tradition of the Jews… alone among all of their traditions .. was the one that Henry Mayhew chose to recognize when he refused to let my son marry his daughter."
"Odd's blood!" said Shakespeare softly. "'Tis not us he holds to blame, but Henry Mayhew! And yet if that is so . what does he want with us? Why have we been brought here?"
Smythe shook his head. "I do not know, Will. Perhaps, in part, he does believe we are to blame. Or at least I am to blame, for 'twas I who had advised Thomas to elope. The fault in that was mine and mine alone. I shall tell them you are not to blame for that."
"'Tis not right to blame you, either," Shakespeare replied. "You were only trying to help. The one who bears the blame for young Locke's death can only be the one who killed him. Surely, they must see that!"
An undertone of conversation suddenly broke out as three men came into the room. Two of them were leading the third between them, one holding each of his arms, while a sack covered his face and head. They led him to a stool that had been placed in the centre of the room, roughly twenty feet in front of Smythe and Shakespeare, between them and the dais where Charles Locke and the other masters of the thieves Guild sat. They sat him down upon the stool, and as they did so Smythe could see that his hands were tied behind him.
"Do you suppose…" Shakespeare began, but then his voice trailed off as one of the men reached out and pulled the sack off their captive's head.
"Your name is Henry Mayhew, is it not?" Locke demanded. The murmuring grew louder as the man glanced around apprehensively, and Locke picked up the mallet and struck it on the table several times to restore silence.
"You already know my name," Mayhew replied in an affronted tone, "for you have abducted me by force from my own home. And yet I know not yours. 'Who are you, and what is this place? 'Why have I been brought here?"
"I shall ask the questions here," said Locke, "and you shall answer them forthrightly, or else face the consequences. But so that you may know why you are here and who I am, I shall tell you that this
is a meeting of the Thieves Guild, and that my name is Charles Locke, and that you are here to answer for the murder of my son." Conversation broke out once again, and this time Locke allowed it to continue for a while, as if to let it all sink in for Mayhew.
"'Strewth!" said Smythe softly. "They are going to hold a trial for him! And we must have been brought here to testify!"
Shakespeare shook his head. "They cannot do this," he murmured. "This is not a trial, but a mockery! There is no justice in this!"
"'Tis their justice," Smythe said, "according to their law."
"And 'twould seem they have already reached their verdict."
Shakespeare said. "The poor sod. He shall have no chance, no chance at all."
Locke hammered upon the table once again to restore order.
"'What say you to the charge?" he demanded.
"So you are Thomas's father?" replied Mayhew. "How ironic we should meet like this. I must say, you look remarkably well for a man who was supposed to have been dead."
Locke frowned. "Dead? What nonsense is this? 'What do you mean? Who told you I was dead?"
"Your son," Mayhew replied.
Locke leaned forward. "What? You expect me to believe that my own son told you I was dead?"
"Believe what you like," Mayhew replied derisively. "It makes no difference to me, one way or the other. I have nothing to gain here, and nothing left to lose. 'Tis dear to me that you have already determined my fate. But your son, when I first met him, told me that he was an orphan, that both his parents had died when he was very young. Considering that his father was a criminal and his mother was a Jew, then I suppose that would explain why he chose to lie."
Mayhew's remarks provoked an immediate outburst among the crowd. Locke simply stared at him with cold fury, his hands balled into fists upon the table.
"He is sealing his own fate," said Smythe.
"Nay, his fate is already sealed," said Shakespeare. "He was right about that. But he is acquitting himself bravely."
