The Merchant of Vengance - Shakespeare and Smythe Book 4 of 4
By Simon Hawke
(AKA J.D.Masters)/(AKA S.L.Hunter)/(AKA Nicholas Yermankov)
Also by Simon Hawke
A Mystery of Errors
The Slaying of the Shrew
Much Ado About Murder
A Tom Doherty Associates Book
New York
1st Edition
For Bill Fawcett With thanks for being there
The Merchant of Vengance
Shakespeare and Smythe Book 4 of 4
Chapter 1
The Dag and Dirk was tucked away within a row of buildings on a narrow, cobbled street down by the docks, its entrance a heavy, scarred, and weathered wooden door beneath a painted hanging sign depicting a flintlock pistol and a dagger. Although it had not rained that day, the paving stones were slick and wet, partly from the river mist and partly from the waste and offal thrown out into the street. The acrid odour of the refuse mingled thickly with the briny breeze coming in off the Thames, evoking the noisome stench of rotting fish. And once inside the tavern, the smell was not much better.
“Methinks that this was ill considered, Tuck,” said Shakespeare, as he looked around apprehensively at their surroundings. “Half the men in here look as if they would gladly cut our throats for the contents of our purses, whilst the other half look as if they would simply do it for a lark.”
“‘Tis just a tavern, Will, much like any other,” Smythe replied, though he did not feel quite as certain as he sounded as he glanced around at all the patrons, most of whom were certainly a surly-looking lot. Many of the men sitting at the well-stained wooden tables over pots of ale were wherry-men, brawny and weather-beaten, grizzled men with skin like old leather. They made their living rowing small boats on the Thames, ferrying the residents of London up and down the river. With the streets often congested by all the carriages and carts and coaches, to say nothing of pedestrians and riders on horseback all vying for the right of way, travelling by river was often the fastest way to get around the city. Most likely the safest, as well, thought Smythe, given the steady increase in crime. And in this dockside tavern, there was a good chance that a fair number of alley-men and cutpurses were intermingled with the crowd, not to mention cut-throats.
The city constables were, for the most part, ineffective, since they were too few and far too mindful of their own self-preservation to do very much about the problem of rapidly increasing crime. The sheriff’s men confined themselves largely to dealing with the riots, now almost a daily occurrence in the city with all the gangs of roaring boys roaming the streets and looking for trouble. Every now and then, some malefactor would find himself—or herself—placed under arrest and thrown into one of London’s prisons, such as the Marshal-sea, the Newgate, or the Clink, and there were always fresh heads to be placed upon the spikes along the bridge. For the most part, though, crime in London went unpunished, something of which Smythe and Shakespeare were all too uncomfortably aware as they gazed around at all the grim and sullen faces that stared back at them in the dim light of the tavern.
“A tavern much like any other, eh? Methinks not,” Shakespeare said uneasily. “There is little of the Toad and Badger’s merriment in here, Tuck. I have been to wakes that were more filled with cheer. There is a grim smell of foreboding in the very air of this place.”
“‘Tis because they have not changed the rushes in at least a week,” said Smythe.
“Aye, well, that, too,” said Shakespeare, wrinkling his nose. “Be wary where you tread. Look to your purse, as well. ‘Strewth, I should be grateful if we manage to leave this infernal place in one piece.”
“If it truly makes you feel so apprehensive, Will, then let us depart forthwith,” said Smythe.
“Nay,” said Shakespeare with a sigh, “we have come this far, we may as well go on and see it through. Although, I must admit, I cannot quite comprehend why meeting this fellow seems so terribly important to you. He wrote some decent poetry, and his plays were well received once, but he is now down on his luck, by all accounts, just another poor and dissipated poet. And ‘tis not as if there is a shortage of such men in London, you know.”
“Aye, I do know. I have one for a roommate,” Smythe replied wryly.
“Watch it…
“In truth, Will, neither his plays nor his poems interest me so much as do his pamphlets about crime,” said Smythe.
“I know, I know. You have been cluttering up our room with all his cautionary scribblings. ‘Tis a most peculiar fascination.”
“I have seen you reading them, as well,” said Smythe, defensively.
“Out of simple curiosity and nothing more. They are somewhat edifying, I suppose, but hardly make compelling reading and certainly contribute nothing new to man’s understanding of his fellow man.”
“Perhaps not in the grand literary scheme of things,” said Smythe, “but they do contribute a great deal to my understanding of this criminal ‘underworld’ in London, as he calls it. I find it all quite fascinating. Consider the way they speak, as an example, their so-called ‘criminal cant.’ Why, they have a language all their own. Take the way they call their victims ‘coneys,’ as in ‘coney-catching,’ likening them to rabbits they can snare. There is much practical advice to be found in these writings, Will, particularly for one ,who comes from the country, like myself, and knows little of the ways of criminals in the city.”
Shakespeare sighed again. “Well, I shall grant you that, for I have learned a thing or two from reading him myself. Nevertheless, I cannot help but feel a little sorry for him. He is a university man, once well regarded and respected, who has had his poems published and his plays produced upon the stage. We have staged a number of them ourselves, even if they were a little dated and needed a bit of sprucing up here and there. ‘Tis a pity to see him fall to such a state.”
“You mean reduced to pamphleteering?”
“Oh, not at all. I never decry good, honest work. A poet has to eat, like any other man. I meant reduced to such a state as this… He indicated their surroundings with a gesture and grimaced with distaste. ”If this be not the filthiest place in London, then I should not like to behold one filthier.“
“Soft, Will, here comes the tavern-keeper, I believe,” said
Smythe.
A large and bearded man with a girth like a dray horse approached them, wiping his hands on his greasy brown leather apron. “What will ye gentlemen be wantin‘?” he asked gruffly.
“We are looking for Master Robert Greene,” said Smythe. “We were told he maybe found here.”
“He owe ye money?”
“Nay, good sir, we have not come here to collect a debt. We are but admirers of his work,” said Smythe.
The tavern-keeper looked as if he could not have cared less. He simply jerked his head toward the back of the room. ‘That’s ’im in the corner there,“ he said. ”Stand ‘im to a drink an’ ‘e might talk to ye. An’ then again, ‘e might not. Suit yerselves.“
“Well, then bring him some more of whatever he is drinking.”
Smythe said. “And we shall have some, too.”
The tavern-keeper merely grunted and moved away, the floorboards creaking ominously with every step. They turned their attention to the object of their quest, the man seated at the table in the corner, hunched over his pot of ale, which he clutched firmly with both hands.
“Master Greener” said Smythe as they approached.
Robert Gre
ene looked up at them slowly, as if the mere act of raising his head were a laborious task. Despite what Shakespeare had said about how Greene had fallen into dissipation, the sight of him still took Smythe aback. The man was bloated. He looked swollen, as if he were about to burst. His skin was pale and blotchy, in sharp contrast to his thick, unkempt red hair and beard. His eyes were rheumy, and it seemed to take a moment for his gaze to focus.
It took less than a moment, however, for the lean and rat-faced man who sat beside him at the table to bound to his feet and draw his dagger. “Who wants to know?” he demanded in a sneering tone.
“Sit the bloody hell down, Ball,” the tavern-keeper said, coming up behind him with the ale. “These two gentlemen just bought ye both a drink. An‘ they say they don’t want any money, mind ye.”
“Eh? That so?” said Ball, gazing at them sceptically. He made no move to put away his dagger.
“They have not the look of debt collectors, Ball,” said Greene, with a glance at them before his attention became fixed upon the fresh pot of ale the tavern-keeper set before him. The one he had been clutching so possessively turned out to have been empty. He wrapped his hands caressingly around the full one and slowly raised it to his lips, drinking from it deeply. He set it back down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Please sit down, gentlemen,” he said heavily. “You shall have to pardon Cutting Ball. He is my brother-in-law, in an informal sort of way, and has a tendency to be somewhat protective of me. I have of late been plagued by debt collectors, who have hounded me unmercifully and threatened me with grievous harm. Ball, here, would not wish to see his sister left without support and his little nephew left an orphan. Therefore, he looks after me when he is not otherwise engaged, for which kindness I am, indeed, profoundly grateful.”
They sat down, and Cutting Ball, somewhat reluctantly it seemed, put away his knife. However, his flinty, feral gaze remained firmly fixed on both of them, even while he drank. his ale. He had the look of an alley-man if Smythe ever saw one, and he made a mental note not to turn his back on him.
“So then,” Greene went on, “as I perceive you are not debt collectors, what is it you wish of me? Are you from some printers? Do you wish, perhaps, to engage me to pen a pamphlet you can publish?”
“Nay, sir, we are not printers,” Smythe replied, “although we do have an interest in your pamphlets. We are players with Lord Strange’s Men. I am called Tuck Smythe, and this is William Shakespeare.”
At the mention of Shakespeare’s name, Greene stiffened and his bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Shakescene?”
“Shakespeare,” Will corrected him. “William Shakespeare, at your service, sir.”
“Methinks I know that name,” said Greene. “You were lately with the Queen’s Men, were you not?”
“Indeed, we both were,” Shakespeare replied. “I am surprised that you would know that, Master Greene.”
“I hear things,” Greene replied, his manner very different suddenly. “So then… you fancy yourself a poet, do you?”
“Well, I do write some verses, as it happens…” Shakespeare began, but Greene interrupted him.
“Pray tell, Master Shakescene, what university did you attend?”
“I must confess that I am not a university man, sir,” Shakespeare replied, without correcting him about his name, though he gave a sidelong glance of annoyance to Smythe. “I did have some formal schooling back home in Stratford, but then —”
“Not a university man, then,” Greene interrupted him again. He nodded. “Indeed, I had heard as much. I had thought, however, that I might have been misinformed, that you were in truth a master of the arts and I had not been aware of it.”
“Nay, sir, I make no such claim,” said Shakespeare modestly. “I never went to university.”
“Indeed. An uneducated man. And yet, you seem to feel yourself somehow qualified to sit in judgement upon the writings of a master of the arts, and rearrange them to suit your fancy. You take painstakingly well-crafted literary verses and then have them jet about the stage in tragical buskins, styling yourself a poet like some upstart country crow beautifying yourself with the feathers of your betters. What do you have to say for yourself, sir?”
Shakespeare sat there stunned, completely taken aback. He looked as if the floor had suddenly dropped out from underneath him, and he could think of no reply. Smythe, too, was completely unprepared for this sudden vitriol and for a moment found himself absolutely speechless, but he recovered quickly and rose to the defence of his friend.
“Sir, I see you are offended,” he said. “Please let me assure you that such was never our intent. ‘Twas my idea that we come here to seek you out and meet with you, for I have read nearly all of your pamphlets and thought that—”
“My pamphlets?” Greene said with a snort. “For God’s sake. My bloody pamphlets. A lifetime spent in pursuit of mastering the arts, Ball, and all they truly care about are my bloody cautionary pamphlets written for the common man. Tell us, Master Greene, how to avoid being cozened by some sharper, how not to have our purses lifted, how to tell if someone is cheating us at cards, or how the alley-man plies his trade, so that we may avoid being waylaid in some alley whilst out looking for some whore to bugger. And in the meantime, we shall grow fat upon your plays, rewriting them howsoever we may choose, for what are a poet’s words, after all, but a lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing? Why not make a jig of them? Why must we respect an artist’s original intent? Why not add a little speech in the first act and cut out one in the second, put in a jest or two, perhaps a song, take a little sample here and a little sample there, rearrange it and call it all our own. Why, ‘tis brilliant, positively brilliant! What great artists we all are, eh, ’Master‘ Shakescene?”
Shakespeare had turned pale. He sat deathly still and speechless, a stricken look in his eyes.
“Sir,” said Smythe, “meaning no disrespect, but surely a poet such as yourself must understand that plays are a collaborative medium, a crucible in which the intent of the author and the interpretation of the player co-mingle with the perception of the audience to yield a new alchemical concoction with every new performance.”
“Concoction? Concoct this, you infernal jackanapes,” said Greene, and dashed the remnants of his ale into Smythe’s face. “You dare to lecture me? Bloody leeches! Go fatten on some other beast and leave me well enough alone!”
Smythe got to his feet, ale dripping from his chin onto his spattered runic, and Cutting Ball was just as quick to rise pugnaciously and draw his dagger once again.
Smythe drew his own dagger. “Right, then,” he said grimly. “If that is how you want it, you scurvy rogue, I shall be more than happy to oblige you.” Then he felt Shakespeare take him firmly by the arm and pull him back.
“Nay, Tuck, let us be gone from this place, quickly,” he said. “Please, I beg of you. Let us be gone.”
Smythe kept his gaze locked on Cutting Ball, who looked somewhat undecided now, but still belligerent. For a moment, they held each other’s gaze, and then Cutting Ball’s eyes slid away.
“Bastards,” Greene was muttering to himself. “Bloody bastards.”
Slowly, Smythe backed away, keeping careful track of those around them until they had cleared the door and were once more outside in the cobbled street.
“I am truly sorry, Will,” he said, “for what just happened back there.”
“Why?” asked Shakespeare. “‘Twas not your fault, Tuck. You have done nothing whatever for which any apology is warranted.”
“I fear that I must disagree,” said Smythe. “‘Twas my idea that we come here to seek out Robert Greene in the first place. I should have left well enough alone. I should have listened when you told me you heard that he was dissipated and fallen on hard times. The man is deeply embittered and in a bilious humour. Yet there is simply no excuse for the foul manner in which he addressed you. And to think that I admired him.”
“You admired hi
s work,” said Shakespeare. “But until now, you knew nothing of the man. And I repeat, you have done nothing for which any apology is warranted. You could not possibly have known he would have responded. thus to me. ‘Strewth, I never would have guessed it myself.”
Smythe sighed. “Nevertheless, I feel at least in part to blame. ‘Twas I who dragged you here, and more’s the pity.”
“And ‘twas Robert Greene who took it in his head to dress me down,” responded Shakespeare. “He could have greeted me in friendship as a colleague, but instead he chose to upbraid me for having the audacity to improve upon his work. Well, as it happens, his criticism was not entirely without merit. I am not a university man, and as such may indeed be regarded as ’an upstart crow‘ by the academic poets, his fellow masters of the arts. ’Beautified with the feathers of his betters.‘ I must say, Greene may have become a bloated old sot, but soused or not, he still knows how to turn a phrase.”
“‘Twas a vile phrase, a most vile phrase, indeed!” said Smythe as they walked. “And I must disagree with you that his criticism was not without merit. I say ’twas completely without merit! Why, how can you possibly say otherwise!”
“But I did rewrite some of his plays.”
“You rewrote some speeches here and there, and that only because the company had asked you to, for they were not working well on the stage,” said Smythe. “For God’s sake, Will, must I defend you to yourself? Greene’s plays are full of pompous posturings and pretentious speeches that tend to ridicule the very audiences to whom he purports to play. The truth of the matter is that he fancies himself a grand literary poet superior to all but others like himself, the so-called ‘masters of the arts,’ if you will. Masters of conceit, if you ask me! Well, unfortunately for Master Greene, a university degree does not, apparently, elevate one above the mundane task of eating, and so for sustenance he must write plays and publish pamphlets, not for other university men such as himself, whose patronage could not support him, but for the groundlings, common people like ourselves, for whom it seems he has nothing but contempt. But then we mere mortals are not quite so ignorant as he supposes, and when he continually ridicules us in his plays, we respond accordingly and begin to look elsewhere for our entertainments. Aye, even to ‘upstart crows’ who may lack the advantages of a university degree, but at least do not bite the hands that feed them!”
Simon Hawke - Shakespeare and Smythe 04 - Merchant of Vengeance (v1. html). Page 1
