In as few words as possible, because he could clearly see that Locke would not have any patience for long-winded explanations, Smythe described how it happened that he advised Thomas to dope with Portia if he truly believed that he could not bear to live without her. Locke listened impassively. When Smythe was finished, he took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. He looked down at the ground for a moment, as if digesting everything that he had heard and considering it carefully, then he looked up once again, fixing Smythe with a very direct, unsettling gaze. The wind from the river had picked up, and as it blew the old man’s hair back, away from his face, and plucked at his dark, coarse woollen cloak, Smythe thought he looked for all the world like some biblical prophet, an angry Moses about to cast his staff down before the pharaoh.
“Methinks you are a man who does not shy from the consequences of his actions,” he said to Smythe. “I respect that. But there is one thing that you have not yet told me, and that is why you saw fit to offer your opinion on this matter to my son, who was essentially a stranger to you.”
“I suppose ‘twas meddlesome of me,” said Smythe, with a self-conscious grimace. “But in truth, at the time we spoke, I did not truly realize why I had done so. My friend here helped me to comprehend my motives, which I myself had not considered. Like your son, I also am in love, but sadly, with one who is much above my station. And whilst my own situation is not quite the same as that of your son, in that this woman’s father, owing me a debt of gratitude, does not forbid our friendship, yet that friendship is the only sort of bond he can permit. In hearing your son’s anguish over being forbidden to wed or even see the girl he loved so deeply, I took it much to my own heart and counselled him to do that which, perhaps under different circumstances, I wished that I could do myself.”
Locke nodded. “I see,” he said. “Well… I can understand that, perhaps better than you know.” He looked off into the distance for a moment, in reflection, and then continued. “I must ask your pardon, gentlemen. I would invite you both to come inside, but I do not wish to distress my dear wife with this most untimely and unfortunate news.”
“We understand completely, sir,” said Smythe. “Would there be anything more that we… or that I could do to be of service to you in this matter?”
“I am tempted to say that you have already done more than enough,” said Locke dryly, “and yet, young Master Smythe, I shall not hold you entirely to blame, for I know my own son. He is possessed of a passionate temper, much like his mother, and what he feels, he feels most deeply. I believe that had you not mentioned elopement as a possible course for him to take, then he would doubtless have come to it on his own. And knowing what my reaction would have been, to say naught of how his mother would respond, he never would have told us. Nor would Mayhew have sent any word to us concerning his decision, so I would have continued on in ignorance of how things stood until ‘twas much too late.” He nodded to himself. “There is one thing you can do for me, and I would be indebted to you for that favour.”
“You have but to name it, sir, and if ‘tis within my power, then it shall be done,” said Smythe.
“Find my son,” said Locke. “I do not wish to see him throw away everything that he has worked for all these years. In time, I believe, he would regret doing so himself: although now, impassioned as he is, doubtless he cannot think so clearly. There are certain things that I can do to prevent him from making such a costly error if he should choose to continue on this course regardless of my wishes, but I shall need some time to make arrangements. In the meantime, find him for me, and communicate to him my feelings on this matter. Remind him also of my love for him, and in particular that of his mother, and bid him consider the effect that this would have upon her.”
“I should be glad to do so,” Smythe replied.
“I shall tell you of some places where he may be found,” said
Locke. “He is most regular in his habits, and with luck you shall not take long in finding him. The first place you must seek him is the tailor shop of Master Leffingwell…”
“Well, here is another fine mess you have got us into,” Shakespeare grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and huddling in his cloak as the small boat bobbed up and down in the choppy current of the Thames. “Pray tell, why is it that you always have to go sticking your nose into other people’s business?”
Smythe sighed. “I am sorry, Will. You are quite right, of course. The entire matter was really none of my concern. Thomas is Ben’s friend, not ours, and I should, indeed, have kept my foolish mouth shut. I apologise. I truly do.”
“Well… we still have some time before our next performance,” Shakespeare said, although he sounded a bit dubious. “With any luck, we shall find Thomas at his master’s shop, pass on his father’s message, and then make it back across the river to the theatre by the first trumpet call.”
“I hope so, but I am not so certain,” Smythe replied. “We may be cutting it a bit too close. For certain, we shall miss rehearsal.”
“Never fear,” said the grizzled wherry-man, in a gruff and raspy voice, without missing a stroke as he rowed them across. “‘Twill rain cats ’n‘ dogs within the hour. Ye won’t be havin’ any show this night, ye can be sure O‘ that.”
Smythe glanced up at the sky. “‘Tis a bit gray, indeed,” he said,
“but how can you be so certain?”
The wherry-man spat over the side. “I can feel it in me bones, lad. I been scullin‘ this ’ere river since afore yer birth. If’n I say’tis gonna rain, ‘strewth ’n‘ ye count on rain. Wager on it, if ye like.”
He pulled hard and steady on the short oars of the sharp-prowed wherry as they cut through the choppy water. About twenty feet in length and narrow in the beam, the wherry could carry up to five passengers. On this short cross-river journey, though, only Will and Tuck were being rowed by the sole wherry-man, whose powerful arms pulled on the sculls with strong and purposeful strokes.
The Company of Watermen consisted of several thousand wherry-men much like him, a rough-and-tumble lot who plied the waters of the Thames in boats of various sizes, rowing the citizens of London across and up and down the river. With all the traffic on the narrow, crowded, and muddy city streets, many of which still remained unpaved, it was often easier to get around London by travelling the river. Thus, the Company of Watermen was one of the largest companies in the city.
The weather-beaten boatmen, known as watermen or wherry-men or scullers, made their living ferrying the citizens of London on the Thames for the very reasonable fare of about one pence per person. On any given day, their boats dotted the surface of the river like water-flies upon a country pond. There were even Royal Watermen, who rowed solely in service to the queen and her court. A veteran such as the old wherry-man who rowed them had very likely also spent some time serving in the Royal Navy, which often turned to the Company of Watermen for impressment. Consequently, there was little point in questioning his knowledge of the river and the weather. If he said he knew that it would rain, then it would surely rain.
“Well, ‘tis a pity that we shall not be able to perform tonight,” said Shakespeare, “but all the same, it serves us just as well. I should not have liked hastening back for our performance before we could have done Locke’s bidding properly. He is not a man to be trifled with, methinks.”
“Ye mean Shy Locker” the wherry-man asked. “You two on a job for ‘im, are ye?”
“Shy Locker” said Shakespeare. “Nay, one Charles Locke, a Southwark tavern-keeper, was the man I meant.”
“Aye, ‘tis ’im,” the wherry-man replied. “Shy Locke, they call
‘im.“ He grinned. ”Ye want’t’ know why?“
“Somehow I have the distinct impression that you are going to tell us,” Shakespeare said wryly, drawing his cloak about him against the chill.
“‘E’s an important man in ’is own way, ‘e is,” the wherry-man replied from somewhere behind his thick and bushy beard as he bent to t
he oars. “But ye would never know it to see ’im in ‘is tavern, mind. ’E ‘ides ’is light under a bushel, ye might say, like a shy sort. Never acts important. Never puts on airs. An‘ yet, not a thief or alley-man in the city plies ’is trade without ole Shy Locke’s permission, if ye please.”
“There, you see?” Smythe said. “What did I tell you? Greene was right.”
“Robby Greene, what writes them pamphlets?” asked the wherry-man.
“Robby?” Shakespeare said, raising his eyebrows. Somehow, the familiarity did not seem to fit the bitterly resentful ruin of a man that they had met.
“Aye, ‘e knows whereof ’e speaks, ole Robby does,” the wherry-man continued as he rowed. “A regular chronicler of the underworld,‘e is.”
“One might think people like that would resent his writing all about them and telling all the world their business,” Shakespeare said.
“Aye, one might think that, indeed,” the wherry-man replied. “And yet, strange as it might be, they seem to like it. I often ‘ear ’em talk about it in the taverns or when I ‘ave ’em in me boat. Robby Greene makes ‘em famous, see? Get yer name in one o’ those pamphlets’e writes an‘ then yer cock o’ the walk in that lot.”
“How curious,” said Shakespeare. “Much as noblemen often have their pet poets who write sonnets to extol their virtues, so ‘twould seem that criminals in London have their own poet in Robert Greene. And, as such, I could see how ’twould be a measure of their status to be mentioned in his writings.”
“‘Twould help explain why he has a cut-throat like that Cutting Ball at his beck and call,” said Smythe.
“Oh, aye, ‘e’s a bad one, all right,” the wherry-man replied with a knowing nod. “I would be givin’ ‘im a right wide berth if I was you. One time, one o’ Robby Greene’s creditors sent a bill collector after ‘im. The man found ’im, all right, but Cutting Ball was with ‘im, and ’e gave the poor sod a choice to eat the bill or ‘ave his throat cut.”
“I imagine that he ate it rather promptly,” Shakespeare said dryly.
“Washed it down with ale, then took to ‘is heels like the devil ’imself were chasin‘ ’im,” the wherry-man replied with a chuckle.
“That sounds like just the sort of thing that ruffian would do,” said Smythe with a grimace. “I must admit, the more I learn about Master Robert Greene, the less and less I like the man.”
“Oh, ‘e’s an ’orrible man!” the wherry-man exclaimed. “Vile tempered and mean-spirited as they come!”
“And a university man, at that,” said Shakespeare. “A master of the am, no less.” He shook his head. “He was a good poet in his time. ‘Tis a pity what has become of him. A sad thing. A very sad thing, indeed.”
“A harbinger of things to come, perhaps?” asked Smythe with a smile.
“Perish the thought!” Shakespeare replied with a shudder. “I should sooner go back to Stratford than see myself reduced to such a state! Nay, I shall not be fortune’s fool, Tuck. Thus far, I have achieved some small measure of success, and I an) most grateful for it. I shall endeavour to make the most of it, you may be sure of that, but if I see that my run of luck has ended, then I shall know well enough to quit. I promise you. A wise guest knows not to overstay his welcome at Dame Fortune’s table.”
“‘Ere we be, good sirs,” the wherry-man said, as he shipped the oars and let the boat drift up to the flight of stone steps coming straight down the bank to the river. There were many such “pairs of stairs” along the riverside, built expressly for the purpose of small boats pulling up to them. ’Watch yer step, now!“
The warning was as traditional as it was unnecessary. Everyone knew how slick the steps could be, especially on a damp day. The rough-cut stones had been smoothed by both the elements and foot traffic over time and were often slippery. Smythe and Shakespeare stepped out gingerly, one at a time, while the wherry-man held the boat steady, dose to the steps.
“Look sharp, good wherry-man,” Smythe said, flipping him an extra coin. “For a swift passage and the benefit of your wisdom.”
“Thank ye, lad,” the old wherry-man replied, catching the coin. “Mind now, ye go muckin‘ about with the likes o’ Shy Locke and ‘tis fortune’s darlings ye will need to be to come out with your heads all in one piece. Do what ye please, but just remember old Puck the Wherry-man and what ’e told ye.”
“We shall do that, Puck, and thank you,” Smythe replied, as the wherry-man pulled away in search of another fare. “A right good fellow, that,” he said to Shakespeare.
“Aye. A good fellow, indeed. But did you happen to pay any mind to what he said?”
“He said ‘twould rain soon.”
“And that we would do well to avoid any dealings with the likes of this Shy Locke if we wanted to keep our heads from being broken,” Shakespeare said.
“We have already had some dealings with him,” Smythe replied, as they ascended the steps to the street, “and thus tar, we seem to have survived with our heads unscathed:”
‘Thus far,“ Shakespeare replied with a grimace.
“Oh, stop worrying so much, Will,” said Smythe with a grin. “‘Tis a simple enough matter. All we need do is deliver his message to Thomas Locke and there will be an end to it. ’Tis not as if we were embarking upon a precarious journey to some den of thieves!”
“It seems to me that when all of this started, ‘twas merely a simple matter of going to a tavern so that you could meet your favourite pamphleteer,” Shakespeare replied dryly. “Your ’simple matters’ have a disconcerting tendency to become byzantine in their complexity.”
“And this from a man who cannot seem to get a single play finished before he begins a new one,” Smythe replied. “How many are you working on at present? Three? Or is it four?”
“A poet must follow his inspiration,” Shakespeare replied. “He might do better to generate some perspiration by applying himself to only one task at a time,” Smythe said.
“Oh, indeed? And where, pray tell, did you learn your mastery in the craft of poetry? Whilst apprenticing with your Uncle Thomas at his forge? Doubtless, you declaimed the classics to one another between hammer blows upon the anvil. Beat the verses into submission, I suppose. Iambic pentameter, if you will.”
“”I am a what?“
“Oh, never mind,” said Shakespeare, rolling his eyes. “To you, a heroic couplet probably suggests Greek ardor.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
‘“Your education, sirrah, or, more to the point, the lack of it.
‘Tis showing as brightly as a pinked sleeve. I shall take your lead when it comes to smithing or weaponry or knowledge of the criminal underworld, about which you have read so exhaustively and exhaustingly, but when it comes to poetry, my friend, I shall thank you to speak little, or, better yet, speak not at all.“
“Do you know, if you expended as much effort in your writing as you do in tongue lashing, then your productions would be hailed throughout the world,” said Smythe.
“And if you spent half as much time learning your lines as you do in finding fault with me, then London would forget Ned Alleyn and hail you as the greatest actor of all time!”
“Hark, methinks I hear a kite screeching,” Smythe said sourly. “”Whilst I hear a tiresome and rustic drone,“ Shakespeare replied.
“Rustic? Rustic, did you say? And this from a bog-trotting, leather-jerkined Stratford glovemaker! See how yon pot calls the kettle black!”
“Bog-trotting, leather-jerkined glovemaker? Oh, that was vile!”
“Well, if the muddy gauntlet fits…
“”Why, you base and timorous scoundrel! You call me a leather-jerkined bog-trotter whilst you lumber about London in country galligaskins and hempen homespun like some hedge-hopping haggard? You raucous crow!“
“Unmannered dog!”
“Rooting hog!”
“Yelping cur!”
“Honking goose!”
“Balding miscreant!”
“Balding? Balding? ”Why, you vaporous churl…
“Hey, you, down there! Shaddap!” A stream of odoriferous slop came pouring down from a second-story window above them as somebody threw out the contents of a chamberpot, just barely missing them.
“Why, that miserable, misbegotten—”
“Never mind, never mind,” interrupted Shakespeare, pulling on Smythe’s arm to hurry him along. “We really do not have time for this. I should very much like to complete our errand and return in enough time to attend at least part of today’s rehearsal. Henslowe has said that he would be fining us from now on if we did not attend.”
“Well, I suppose you are right,” Smythe grumbled, allowing himself to be led away. He shot a venomous glance back toward the building from whence the excrementory assault had come. ‘We should be nearing Leffingwell’s shop, in any event.“
“I believe ‘tis right around the corner,” Shakespeare said, as they came around a bend in the curving street and entered a small, cobblestoned cul-de-sac containing a number of shops with painted wooden signs hanging out over their doors.
Several of these shops had display windows in the front with one large wooden shutter that was hinged at the bottom, so that it swung down to open and swing up to close, then was latched from the inside. When swung down in the open position, this shutter, supported by chains or ropes, functioned as a display table upon which the craftsmen could show their wares to passers-by in the street. Of course, it was often necessary to fasten the goods down or have someone there to watch them; otherwise a thief could make off with something without even entering the shop. Here, however, such a snatch-and-grab would be rendered more difficult, since these shopkeepers had all joined forces to hire a couple of burly, rough-looking men armed with clubs and daggers to act as guards. They sat upon wooden kegs at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, leaning back against the building walls with their thick arms folded across their massive chests, giving everybody who came past them a close scrutiny.
Simon Hawke - Shakespeare and Smythe 04 - Merchant of Vengeance (v1. html). Page 7
