by Simon Hawke
Corwin greeted everyone politely, yet without the same warm enthusiasm as did Dickens. True, these were not old friends of his, thought Smythe, but at the same time, he marked how Corwin’s gaze held a touch of condescension in it that he either disguised poorly or else made a poor effort to disguise. And there was a smug superiority in his manner for which Smythe did not much care. His recent elevation from an apprentice to a journeyman must have made him dizzy, so much so that the height seemed rather greater to him than it was.
At that moment, Molly came out from the back. She saw Dickens and her step faltered for a moment, though Smythe did not think that anyone but he had noticed, and then she swept into the taproom, carrying her tray, her manner blithe, carefree, and a touch sardonic, as usual.
“Hark, I thought I heard the door fly open and a great wind come blowing through,” she said, without even glancing at Dickens.
Dickens turned and saw her, cocked his head, and smiled. “What, my dear Lady Disdain,” he said, insouciantly. “Are you still living?”
“Now how could disdain die with such abundant food as you to feed it, Ben?” she countered, as she went about her work.
“Oh, marry, that was well struck!” said Shakespeare. “Would that I had thought of that!”
“Never fear, doubtless you shall,” replied Smythe, with a smile.
“Burbage, strike him for me,” Shakespeare said. “He sits too far away, I cannot reach him.”
“Not I,” said Burbage, shaking his head. “He would make two of me.”
“Two of you? He looks more like three of you,” said Speed.
“I am not too far away to reach you, Bobby,” Smythe cautioned him good naturedly.
“Then I shall bestir myself and get me hence,” said Speed, changing his seat to a nearby table. “Here, Ben, take my old seat, next to this stout infant.”
“I shall, indeed, afore yon lady’s lashing tongue doth trip me up,” said Dickens.
“It takes no tongue lashing from the likes of me to do that, Ben,” Molly said. “I must have seen your own tongue trip you up a thousand times.”
“A thousand! Zounds, a thousand, you say?”
“Well, at least a hundred, surely.”
“Look how she retreats from her first estimate,” he said to the others.
“But never from my first impression,” Molly added, to the amusement of the others.
“Tart,” said Dickens, with a wry grimace.
“What speech is this?” asked Molly, rounding on him, her eyes flashing.
“I said that I do believe your wit has grown more tart.”
She grimaced. “As yours has grown more stale.”
“Have a care,” said Smythe. “Another moment and they shall come to blows.”
“Oh, not I,” said Dickens, shaking his head emphatically. “I fear I may be overmatched.”
“You need fear no match for bluster, nor yet for arrogance,” said Molly.
“The lady would seem to bear you little love,” said Corwin to his friend.
“Bear you a mountain, sir,” she said to him, “then I assure you, ‘twould be as a kernel next to the love he bears for his own self.”
“I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, Molly,” said Dickens, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I know you of old, and I see now you have not changed.”
“Aye, nor have you, and more’s the pity,” she said, as she picked up the empty tankards and departed.
Dickens looked after her and sighed. “Go as you will, Molly,” he said. “Keep your way, for I have done.”
“And well done, I should think,” said Corwin. “The lady’s temper is as fiery as her hair.”
“Ah, you noted that, did you?”
“I did, indeed. As I did also note that Master Leonardo has a daughter of surpassing beauty. I meant to ask you about her. Did you mark her when they left together in his carriage?”
Dickens shrugged. “I recall a dusky-looking wench with long, dark tresses, but beyond that, I did not mark her in any one particular. In truth, she did not strike me as any great beauty.”
“Then you must not have marked her well,” protested Corwin, “for to me she was the sweetest lady that ever I had looked on, a girl with a temperament as modest as your Molly’s is tempestuous.”
“Think you so?” He turned to the players with a smirk. “How do you like my friend here? So astute a judge of character and nature is he that he may deduce a lady’s temperament merely by observing how she sits inside a carriage! Faith, and I would swear that she did never utter but one word, modestly or otherwise, in the brief time that we saw her!”
“You may jest, Ben,” said Corwin, “but her demeanor was demure and sweet, ‘twas clear and evident to me. I tell you that I have never seen such a rare jewel.”
“You speak as if this were a jewel you would possess,” said Dickens.
“Indeed, I would, if there were a way to make her mine,” said Corwin, “for after seeing her, I do not believe that I could suffer to have any other man but me possess her.”
“This lady must be a jewel of great rarity, indeed, to make a man so covet the possession of her,” Smythe said.
“Had you but seen her, sir, then you would have had no doubt upon that score, despite what my friend Ben says. He sees no special virtue in any one woman, as he loves all the fair sex equally. Or so he claims.”
“Well, some better than others,” Dickens said, with a grin. “Or at least more often.”
“Again, you jest, but I remain in earnest,” Corwin said. “I was hoping that you would speak on my behalf to Master Leonardo.”
“Odd’s blood, but you must truly be in earnest! Do you mean to turn husband, then?”
“Though I had often sworn the contrary, I daresay I would forswear myself if sweet Hera would agree to be my wife.”
“Good Lord! Has not the world but one man who will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again? Why do you come to me with this? Why not ask Master Peters to speak on your behalf, instead?” asked Dickens.
“I shall, indeed, ask him to speak for me. But Master Leonardo knows you better, and I could see that he held you in high respect.”
“You flatter me from selfish motives. I see you are a knave, sir.”
“Nay, Ben, truly____________________”
“Oh, very well then, thrust your neck into a yoke and wear the print of it if that is what you wish. I shall speak to Master Leonardo for you.”
“Who is this Master Leonardo, Ben?” asked Burbage.
“He is a merchant trader with his own ship, lately come from Genoa,” Dickens replied. “I sailed from the Netherlands with him. He has made his fortune in voyages to the New World and has now come to make his home in London.”
Burbage looked as if he might have had another question, but at that moment, their attention was distracted by all the noise coming from outside. The sounds of people shouting, screaming, and running rose rapidly outside on the street, followed by the sounds of hoofbeats clattering on the cobblestones.
“Another bloody riot,” Courtney Stackpole said gruffly, coming out from behind the bar with a thick adze handle in his hand. “If they break my windows once again, so help me, I’ll have somebody’s guts for garters!”
“It sounds as if the sheriffs men are riding them down to break it up,” said Fleming.
No sooner had he spoken than the front door was flung open with a bang and two tough-looking young men came stumbling in, out of breath from running. They slammed the door behind them and leaned against it, as if to hold off pursuit. One of them, Smythe noticed, was brandishing a club, while the other held a good-sized dagger.
2
I‘LL BE THANKING YE TO turn right around and haul your carcasses back out into the street, afore I break both of your heads open,” Stackpole said, in a voice that clearly brooked no argument.
The two apprentices glared at him belligerently, but his imposing presence m
ade them think twice about making any rude retorts. “We want no trouble, see?” one of them said. He smiled and made a show of sheathing his knife. He put his hands out to his sides, then nudged his pockmarked friend to drop his club. “Nice and peaceful, eh? We have no quarrel with you, Innkeeper, nor would we be wanting one. We’d just like to buy ourselves a pint or two now, with your kind permission, and then be on our way, right?”
Stackpole pointed at them with the adze handle. “A pint apiece,” he said gruffly, “and then be off with ye. And mind, I’ll be remembering your faces. If I get me windows broken once again, ‘tis you that I’ll be looking for.”
“Well now, what if ‘twasn’t us who broke ‘em then, eh?” the pockmarked apprentice said. Smythe noted that he had one of those unpleasant, sneering sorts of faces that wore a perpetual expression of insolent aggression.
“I suppose ‘twould add incentive then for you to persuade the other Steady Boys you run with to leave Master Stackpole’s windows well enough alone,” said Dickens.
They glanced toward him sharply, then Smythe saw recognition dawn on both their faces. “Well, smite me, if it ain’t Ben Dickens!” the first one said. Unlike his pockmarked friend, he was rather handsome in a pugnacious sort of way, with a thick shock of black hair and deeply set, dark eyes that glinted with insolent amusement.
“ ‘Allo, Jack,” said Dickens. “ ‘Allo, Bruce.”
“When did you get back, then?” asked Jack, approaching him.
“Only just this morning,” Dickens replied.
“Come back to visit some of your old friends, I see,” said Bruce, who seemed to have a whiney, spiteful tone no matter what he said. “But there were some old friends I suppose ye couldn’t be bothered with, eh?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Dickens replied. “I first went to pay my respects to Master Peters, as ‘twas only right and proper. ‘Twas there I encountered my new friend, Will Shakespeare here. Upon discovering that he had joined the Queen’s Men, my old company, why I at once informed him that I would next be coming here to pay them my respects. Now, had I encountered you and Jack first, then I might well have stopped by at your shop before ever coming here, although ‘twould seem from what I heard outside just now that I would not have found you there. Either way, lads, never let it be said that Ben Dickens would slight any of his old friends. Not even you, Bruce.”
“Oh, and what’s that supposed to mean then, eh?” asked Bruce, taking a step towards him belligerently. However, his fellow apprentice quickly intervened.
“It means that he remembers his old friends, Bruce. Just as he remembers still how easily you can be baited. Don’t get your back up. It’s just our old friend Ben, see?”
“Well, ‘tis growing late and I really should be going,” Corwin said, getting to his feet. “You will speak on my behalf to Master Leonardo, won’t you, Ben? You did promise.”
“I promised that I would and so I shall, my friend,” said Dickens, holding out his hand. As Corwin took it, he added, “And if my word bears any weight, why then, you may soon receive permission to go courting your young goddess, Hera. After that, why ‘tis up to you, entirely.”
“I could never ask for more,” said Corwin with a smile. “Gentlemen, I bid you all good night.”
“Good night, Corwin,” Shakespeare said.
“And good luck in your suit,” added Burbage, with a grin. “Come and bring your pretty Hera to see us at the theatre when we open once again.”
“If her father proves agreeable, why then I may even spring for a box up in the galleries,” Corwin replied with a smile.
“So speaks the prosperous new journeyman,” said Jack, with a heavy touch of sarcasm in his tone. “One might think that you could easily afford box seats at each performance with all of your success these days. Or perhaps ‘tis an apprentice’s frugality that still lingers out of force of habit?”
“Frugality is not a habit that I would discard as easily as some might discard a perfectly good cloak merely because it has gone slightly out of fashion,” Corwin replied, with an obvious reference to Jack’s brand new velvet cloak. “The habit lingers because it makes good sense, for either an apprentice or a journeyman, and ‘tis a habit, I might add, that you might do well to emulate. Good night, sir.”
“Do you presume, then, to instruct me?” Jack called after Corwin as he left. “You are not a master guildsman yet, sir! It ill behooves a man to put on airs above his station!”
“Oh, enough of that, now. Come sit down and have a drink, lads,” Dickens said, good naturedly. “Gentlemen,” he said, turning to the others, “allow me to present Jack Darnley and Bruce McEnery, old friends of mine from my apprentice days.”
“Well met, lads,” Burbage said jovially, moving over to make room for them, though Smythe did not think that he was truly eager for their company. Nevertheless, Burbage politely introduced himself and all the other players in their group. Stackpole brought the drinks himself, giving the two apprentices a wary eye in the process. Smythe had the distinct impression that they were no more eager for the company of players than the players were to sit with them. However, Ben Dickens seemed to provide a sort of buffer between them, acting as a conversational go between in a way that seemed to lessen the tension.
As they talked, Smythe could not decide if it was all a skillful display of diplomacy or merely a natural way that Dickens had of controlling the flow of conversation around him. The discussion centered, for the most part, on his experiences as a soldier and the things that he had seen while he was away in foreign lands. When he did not actually dominate the conversation, Dickens seemed to steer it in directions that were basically innocuous and safe, allowing the others to take part without ever losing his command of the discussion. Smythe could easily see why Ben Dickens had been so well liked by the members of the company. He possessed an easygoing charm and had a way of creating a sense of cameraderie around him. It was clear that he would have been a natural as a player. He had the way about him.
Not so Bruce and Jack, Smythe noted. They nursed their drinks, mindful that they would only be allowed the one pint each, and as they listened to Ben talk, the envy was clearly written on their faces. In the case of Bruce, it was more than merely envy; it was spiteful resentment, and ill-concealed at that.
Smythe thought it rather strange. Here they were, senior apprentices still enjoying their rowdy youth while on the threshold of becoming journeymen-which would bring them a good living and in time, with diligence and perseverence, would likely bring them wealth-while on the other hand, there was Ben Dickens, a mercenary soldier whose prospects, unless Fortune were to smile upon him, were very poor, indeed. He could only sell his sword arm to whoever needed fighting men at any given time, and while the world had not yet banished war, the employment of a soldier was often interspersed with protracted periods of peace. At present, there was no shortage of soldiers in the city searching for employment, not all of it gainful, nor even honest work. And few soldiers of fortune, a misnomer if Smythe had ever heard one, were fortunate enough to live to a ripe and whole old age. Of those who did not die in battle, many became maimed or crippled and were reduced to begging in the streets. He saw them every day, dressed in their worn-out soldier’s motley, many of them missing arms or legs. It was not a life for anyone to envy. And yet, as he watched Bruce and Jack listening to Dickens, he could see they envied him. True, he was still young and whole and healthy, but his future was as uncertain as their futures seemed assured. But perhaps they could not see that.
What they could see, though, was Molly. Perhaps because of the words she had with Dickens, or perhaps because Stackpole had chosen to serve them himself, so as to keep an eye on the troublesome twosome, Molly had not come near their tables since the pair came in. But they both noticed her, all right, and their gazes followed her everywhere she went. Smythe saw Shakespeare notice it, as well, but it did not seem as though anybody else did.
“So then,” Dickens said to them, as he f
inished off an anecdote, “if memory serves me, you lads should both be nearing the completion of your apprenticeships with Master St. John, is that not right?”
“Indeed, I have but a few months to go,” said Jack, “whilst Bruce, here, has a bit less than a year remaining. Then we shall both be journeymen, as you could have been by now, Ben, had you not run off to war.”
“Run off?” said Fleming, rising to the defense of his former protege. “By Heaven, I daresay I would scarce call putting life and limb at hazard ‘running off!’ Life in London poses fewer risks, by far, than what life as a soldier would entail. Now who could gainsay that?”
“Not I,” Jack hastily replied. “Do not mistake my meaning, good sirs. Odd’s blood, Ben always was the man you wanted at your back when things got nasty. Why, I remember that time we had a set-to with the Paris Garden Boys and that rotter, Mercutio, God curse his swarthy Roman forebears, slashed me with his stiletto. I still have the scar, see?” He pulled back the long hair from his forehead, revealing a livid scar that ran across his forehead to his temple. “Damn near took me ear off. He would’ve done for me for sure if Ben here hadn’t pulled him off and slammed his face into a wall. Blind me, you should have seen him! Mashed his nose right flat, he did, and knocked out his two front teeth. We dusted ‘em off right proper that night, didn’t we, Ben? Those were the days, eh? The Steady Boys owned the streets then, didn’t we?”
