“Urm I call it .. poetic license,” Pope mumbled around a mouthful of bread and cheese.
Shakespeare simply stared at him.
“What, no clever rejoinder” Kemp asked archly. Shakespeare shook his head. “Nay, Kemp, I have none. He leaves me quite speechless.”
“Good,” said Pope, his mouth still full. “Now pass the beer.”
“About this poor lad’s murder,” Gus Phillips said once more, getting back to the subject at hand, “you do not suppose that this Shy Locke will hold the two of you to blame I mean, with what Kemp said and all… you do not suppose he will?”
“I most certainly hope that he shall not,” Shakespeare said uneasily. “Truly, I do not see how he can. after all, we did not have anything at all to do with poor Thomas’s murder!”
‘That may not be how he shall see it,“ Kemp replied.
“Well, I doubt very much that he shall even remember our names,” said Shakespeare.
“Only You did tell him that we were players with Lord Strange’s Men,” said Smythe.
Shakespeare frowned. “I did?”
“You did.”
“Bollocks. Well, perhaps he shall not remember it. In any event, we were able to convince the sheriff’s men that we had nothing to do with it, so I am sure we shall be able to convince him likewise, if need be.”
“You had best hope so,” Kemp replied. “Else we may be in need of a new book holder, as well as a new…” he waved his hand dismissively, “whatever ‘tis you are, Smythe.”
“‘Hired man,’ I believe, is the proper term for my position with the company,” replied Smythe tartly.
“‘Strewth! Do you mean to say that we actually pay you?”
Kemp replied with mock astonishment.
“‘Why not?” asked Pope, masticating furiously as he shoved a wedge of cheese into his mouth, immediately followed by a large chunk of barley bread. “He remembers his lines at least as well as you do.”
“Methinks he has you there, Kemp,” said Shakespeare.
“You are both impertinent,” Kemp said with a disdainful sniff.
“Oh, good Lord,” said Smythe, staring toward the tavern entrance with dismay. “As if this day has not brought ill tidings enough.”
Shakespeare followed his gaze, looking at the man who had just walked in and now stood just inside the doorway, glancing around the tavern. “I say, Tuck, ‘tis your father, is it not?” he said.
“Tuck’s father?” Hemings said with surprise. He turned around on the bench, looking over his shoulder. “Truly?”
At once, everyone else turned toward the door. Smythe sighed wearily and brought his hand up to his forehead, which had suddenly begun to ache fiercely. “Oh, this can bode no good,” he said. “No good at all.”
Symington Smythe H swept the tavern with an aristocratic gaze, then spotted his son, tossed his dark brown cloak back, and started toward them with a regal air.
“Tuck, you never mentioned having any family in London.” Hemings said, turning back toward him. “Did you not tell us that you came from a small village in the country?”
“Aye, I did,” Smythe replied. “Unfortunately, my father chose to follow me to London.”
“Ah, Symington, my boy, there you are!” his father said in a tone that sounded so jovial, Tuck knew that it was forced.
“‘Allo, Father,” Smythe said, rising to his feet politely. “Allow me to introduce my father, everyone… Symington Smyrhe II, Esquire. Father, permit me to present the company of Lord Strange’s Men.” They rose and he quickly introduced them all, noting as he did so that his bluff and hearty, hail-and-well-met manner notwithstanding, his father did not really have the slightest interest in meeting any of them. “And, of course, Father,” he added at the end, “you remember my good friend Will Shakespeare.”
“A pleasure, sir,” said Shakespeare with a slight bow.
“Indeed,” replied the senior Smythe, barely even glancing at him. “Son, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private for a moment?”
“Of course,” said Tuck, somewhat awkwardly. He excused himself and allowed his father to lead him away to an empty table in the corner. He sighed as they took their seats. “‘Twas rather rude of you to treat them so curtly, Father, if I may say so. These are my friends. The very least you could have done was to exchange a pleasantry or two, instead of treating them all as if they were nothing but dirt underneath your feet.”
“They arc nothing but dirt underneath my feet,” his father replied with a disdainful grimace. “Bounders, louts, and scallywags, every last man jack of them. Gypsies, moon-men, vagabonds.” He snorted. “A fine lot you have taken up with, I can see that.”
“They are my friends, Father.”
“Indeed. You know that one may judge a man by the company he keeps.”
“Well then, if I be judged now, I must surely stand condemned,” said Tuck dryly.
“Do not be insolent with me, young man.”
“Or else what?” said Smythe wearily. “You shall disown me?
That old and tired hound simply shall not hunt, Father. You have naught left of which you can disown me, not that it would make the slightest bit of difference to me if you did, one way or the other. Do as you please.“
“Oh, how very bravely said, now that you know I have suffered some reverses,” his father said wryly.
“Reverses, is it?” Smythe replied. “‘Strewth, sir, you have lost everything you had, including that saucy young tart who had the presumption to call herself my stepmother when she was scarcely older than myself. You shamefully cheated Uncle Thomas out of his share of the inheritance, foolishly squandered it all, and then fastened on to him like a leech until even he could no longer tolerate your abuses and gave you the boot. Now, at long last, you come to me, your unloved and long-neglected son who had disgraced you by joining a company of players. So, then . what is it you wish of me? More money to spend on clothes and carriages? How much this time?”
“My word, how very high and mighty we seem to have become,” his father said scornfully. “Such a lofty, noble, moral tone for a mountebank in motley! I see now what comes of having sent you to be raised by my good brother. You have become as insufferable a prig as Thomas ever was. On you, however, the mantle of morality does not sit quite as well, considering the company you keep.”
“Did you come here merely to trade barbs with me, or was there something that you wanted?” Tuck said curtly.
His father glared at him for a moment, looked as if he were about to launch into a sharp rejoinder, and then abruptly changed his tack. He smiled and said, “I was going to ask if you would consider acting as the best man at my wedding.”
Tuck simply stared at him, speechless with astonishment.
“Of course, if ‘twould be asking too much, then I suppose that I could find someone else to stand beside me when the time comes, although I have no idea who in London I would know well enough to ask,” his father said.
Tuck finally found his voice. “You are getting married? But how? When?” He shook his head in confusion.
“As to when, I am not yet quite certain. There are yet some small details that need to be worked out. As to how, well, ‘tis quite a simple matter, really. One stands before a minister in church and speaks some nonsense and ’tis done.”
“But .. but you are already married!”
His father shrugged. “The ungrateful wench ran off.”
“God’s wounds! You think that makes a difference?” Smythe replied, astonished at his father’s arrogant presumption. “You cannot simply marry once again! ‘Strewth, not that I have any fondness for that miserable, smug, and grasping woman you had the poor judgement to marry after Mother died, but ’tis not as if she were a horse that bolted and ran off and you simply went and bought yourself another! For God’s sake, ‘twould be bigamy if you married someone else! ’Twould be a sin!”
“A minor matter,” said his father dryly, with a dismissive wave. “‘
Tis of no consequence. However, if ’twould make you feel any better, I suppose I could arrange to have the first marriage annulled.”
“Annulled? Upon what grounds?” asked Smythe with disbelief. His father shrugged. “‘What difference does it make? Doubtless, a suitable justification can be found. She never bore me any children. I suppose I could claim that the marriage was never consummated. And ’tis not as if precedent did not exist. After all, King Henry had it done, you know.”
Smythe was absolutely speechless. His mouth worked, but no words would come out. However, his father continued speaking blithely, as if completely unaware of how casually and lightly he had placed himself on the same level as the monarch who had placed himself above the Church of Rome and presided over the Dissolution.
“In any event, ‘twould be seemly for someone of my family to be present at the wedding; after all, one must consider appearances, and since my good, dear, sanctimonious brother Thomas has seen fit to wash his hands of me, well, I suppose that leaves only you.”
“How kind of you to think of me,” said Tuck dryly.
And, apparently unaware of how he had just slighted his own son, the senior Smythe continued by adding insult to injury. “Of course, ‘twould never do for anyone to know you were a lowly player, so I have ”Said you are a joumeyman armourer. After all, between hammering shoes onto plowhorses and what all, Thomas did teach you to make knives and such, so ’tis not entirely a falsehood, is it? Come to think on it, perhaps you could see your way clear to forging up some trinket as a gift for the father of the bride. You could do it at the shop of that blacksmith friend of yours, what was his name? Well, no matter. ‘Twould be a nice gesture, I should think. An ornamental sword or some such thing. How soon do you suppose you could have it ready?“
Smythe stared at the man sitting across from him, the man who he knew beyond a doubt was his father and yet, in almost every other respect save that accident of birth, was nearly a complete stranger to him. He had often felt that in his childhood, but never more so than at that very moment. They shared the same name, but otherwise he could not imagine what the two of them could possibly have in common. He did not even wish to speculate upon the matter. How in God’s name, he thought, could I possibly be related to this man?
“Father,” he began, somehow managing to find the words, “I fear that I could not possibly comply with your request.”
“Well, ‘twould not have to be something as fancy as an ornamental sword,” his father said. “If that would be too difficult, then I suppose a dagger would do nicely, mayhap with some engraving on the blade—”
Smythe felt the throbbing in his temples building to a point that seemed unbearable. “Father, I do not think you understand,” he interjected. “I cannot, and shall not, be a party to any of this duplicitous coney-catching.”
“Coney-catching!” said his father. “Now, see here—”
“Nay, sir, you see here,” Smythe interrupted him with a fierce intensity. It was only through great force of will that he was able to refrain from shouting. “I shall not do it. Can you understand that, sir? ‘Tis important to me that I make my meaning very clear to you. I shall not have anything to do with this at all. What you plan to do is wrong, sir. ’Tis immoral and outrageous, unlawful in the eyes of God and man, and I cannot believe that you would think, even for one moment, that I could ever go along with it. ‘Tis a vile scheme that you propose, and knowing what I know of you, I can only think that there is but one purpose to it. You seek to enrich yourself through this marriage so that you might regain all the money you have squandered, and, in the process of so doing, you shall ruin and bring shame upon some poor and blameless woman and her family who have never done aught to you save given you their trust. I am appalled, sir, that you would even consider such a shameful course, much less come to me with this request.”
“Do you mean to say that you would refuse your own father?”
Smythe stood up so quickly and so forcefully that the bench he sat upon went crashing to the floor. “My God, sir, have you heard nothing that I said?”
An irritated and rather put-upon expression came over his father’s face. He gave one of his characteristic disdainful sniffs, a gesture that he presumed made him appear aristocratic. “Well, I see that you are determined to be quite unreasonable about this,” he replied, as if what he was asking were a perfectly reasonable thing. “I would have thought that a son would see it as his duty to support his father in seeking some solace and companionship in his old age and embarking upon a new course in life, but ‘twould seem that you do not care about such things. So be it, then. I shall trouble you no longer.”
“Would that I could have that surety in writing,” Smythe replied.
His father stood and drew himself up stiffly, throwing one side of his cloak back over his shoulder in a cavalier manner. “I will have you know tint this marriage should set me up quite well, quite well, indeed. You might do well to consider that, Symington. You might do well to consider that, indeed. I am still a gentleman, whatever you may think of me, and despite having suffered some misfortune of late, a knighthood is not yet beyond my grasp.”
“Oh, Father, you are dreaming,” Smythe replied, shaking his head. “You could have been satisfied with what you had. Methinks most men would have gladly traded places with you. You had a small yet very comfortable estate, a goodly amount of money, a young and pretty wife— who married you for that money, although you did not seem to mind that very much—and you had finally managed to obtain your precious escutcheon and become a proper gentleman.”
He paused for a moment, thinking he could also have added that he had a son who had once wanted very much to love him, but whose love was never deemed important. However, he decided not to say that, because he knew that it would serve no purpose.
Instead, he said, “One would think. that all these things would have been enough to satisfy most any man. But not you. And in truth, Father, I have never understood why not. Uncle Thomas had ever so much less than you, and yet he always thought he had a great deal more. In time, I came to understand that he did have a great deal more, indeed, because he knew how to be grateful for all the things he had, rather than lust for all the things he lacked.” He shook his head. “Nay, I will not help you in this, Father. You were wise… or perhaps ‘crafty’ would be more appropriate, methinks to be careful not to tell me the name of this unfortunate woman upon whose estate you have designs, for if I knew her name, then rest assured that I would seek her out and warn her about you. And I would entreat her family most urgently to bar their doors against you, for you are a scoundrel, sir, and I am ashamed to call myself your son.”
His father gazed at him with scorn, his lips compressed into a tight and angry grimace. For a moment, they simply stared at one another, and then Smythe had to look away, for he could not bear to face that smug, superior, and unrepentant gaze. It was too painful. Finally, his father spoke.
“I see how matters stand between us, then,” he said in a tone of affronted dignity. “Apparently, it does not shame you to associate with scalawags and strumpets, but it shames you to be my son. Very well, then, I shall free you of that noisome burden.” He lifted his chin and uttered his next words as a pronouncement of the utmost gravity. “You may consider yourself disowned.”
Smythe sighed wearily. “You have already disowned me once before, Father, when I left home for London. Yet you conveniently managed to forget that when you came to me last time to ask for money and I gave you all I had. And I suppose, when all is said and done, that compasses it all between us. I gave you all I had, and I have naught else left.”
“I shall remember that,” his father said stiffly, “on the day you come to me with hat in hand, as I know one day you shall.”
“If you knew me at all, Father, then you would know that I do not wear hats,” said Smythe.
With a contemptuous sniff, his father turned on his heel and stalked out of the tavern without another word or back
ward glance. As Smythe turned to watch him go, he saw the other players all looking at him, their expressions ranging from curious to puzzled to, on at least one face, concern. The furrow was still present on Shakespeare’s brow as Tuck returned to their table.
“It did not go well?” he asked.
“Aye, Will, it did not go well,” said Smythe as he sat back down. “Thomas, pass that pitcher, will you? I have a mind to get good and drunk this night.”
“Suits me,” said Pope, passing him the pitcher.
“And me,” echoed Bobby Speed. “Stackpole, you old reprobate, more beer!”
And for a time, as other spirits flowed, Smythe’s sunken spirits were somewhat uplifted. For a time.
Henry Mayhew was very much displeased with his daughter. He had done her—and himself, he felt—a very great service by saving her from a marriage that would have brought disgrace upon her—and himself, of course— and in return, she was not only ungrateful, she was angry. It simply passed all understanding. Instead of thanking him profusely for preventing what would have been a truly horrible mistake, she had cried and sobbed and carried on and blamed him for ruining her happiness and then had fled the house, against his wishes. Now here it was, growing quite late, and Portia still had not come home. He was torn between feeling angry and concerned.
“I tell you, Winifred, I simply do not know what has become of young people these days,” he complained to his intended, the widow of a prosperous ironmonger who had left her quite well off when he had obligingly dropped dead the previous year. “Apprentices roaming the streets in unruly gangs and rioting, young women gallivanting about town unescorted and having assignations in Paul’s Walk… I tell you, Winifred, that sort of thing simply did not happen in my day!”
“I am certain it did not,” Winifred Fitzwalter replied, glancing up at him calmly from her embroidery, “as I am equally certain that grieving widows did not go unescorted to the homes of widowers at night and sleep under the same roof with them.”
Simon Hawke - Shakespeare and Smythe 04 - Merchant of Vengeance (v1. html). Page 9
