Simon Hawke - Shakespeare and Smythe 04 - Merchant of Vengeance (v1. html).

by The Merchant of Vengeance (v1. 0) (mobi)

  “You truly permit your unmarried daughter to associate with players?” she could imagine Mayhew saying to her father. “Good Lord, man, what can you possibly be thinking? ‘Strewth, she has not compromised her virtue so much as dragged it through the mud! Have you taken leave of all your senses?”

  She could imagine such a conversation all too easily. And in that event, if he were forced to deal with her relationship with Tuck in a way that would publicly embarrass him, she had no doubt that not only would he put his foot down and forbid it, but he would once again resume his efforts to get her married off… except that next time, he might not be so particular about to whom.

  She sighed and chewed her lower lip nervously. There was simply no escaping it. Warning Henry Mayhew about Symington Smythe meant telling him about her relationship with his son. And no matter how inconsequential she could try to make it seem, there was no way to make it appear proper and acceptable. Inescapably, trying to help Portia any further meant endangering her relationship with Tuck. But then, revealing the truth to Mayhew went beyond merely trying to help Portia . it meant saving her from a disastrous and appalling marriage. And she had already been through enough pain and suffering. To add to it by saying nothing and thus allowing her to fall into Symington Smythe’s clutches would be simply unforgivable. And what was more, Elizabeth had no doubt that Tuck would see it that way, too.

  It was still raining very hard and the wind had picked up by the time the coach pulled up in front of Henry Mayhew’s home. As the coachman came down off the box to open the door for her, Elizabeth pulled up the hood of her cloak and then carefully stepped down onto the slick, wet cobblestones. She quickly climbed the steps up to the house on tiptoe, hoping that it would not take long for someone to answer the door. She did not relish the idea of waiting very long out in this storm. Much more of this, she thought, and her light shoes were going to be ruined. To her surprise, when she went to knock upon the door, she found that it had not been completely closed. Her first knock pushed it open slightly. She frowned as she opened it and went inside, thinking that it was rather careless of the servants not to close the door properly.

  “‘Allo” she called out, as she stood just inside the doorway. “’Allo, is anybody home?”

  There was no reply forthcoming. It was dark inside. The storm had made the night come early, but there were no candles burning in the hall. That seemed rather peculiar. Even if Mayhew was not at home, surely the servants were. What could they be thinking, leaving the house so dark? It certainly looked as if they were being derelict in their duties.

  “‘Allo, ’allo?” she called out once again.

  There was no answer. A moment later, she heard what sounded like a soft moan.

  “ ‘Allo, is someone there?” she called out again, frowning. It was difficult to see well in the dark. She wished she had a candle. She took several steps forward and suddenly tripped over something large lying at her feet and fell to the floor, crying out in alarm.

  Someone groaned quite dose to her, and a man’s voice said,

  “Oh, my God‘!”

  Elizabeth gasped and sat up on the floor. “Merciful Heavens!

  Who is there?“

  She suddenly felt a hand close around her ankle, and instinctively she cried out and jerked her foot away, scuttling backward.

  “Ow… help me, please…” someone said.

  Whoever it was, she realized, was on the floor alongside her. She had tripped over someone, someone who was obviously hurt and in pain.

  She took a deep breath. “Steady now,” she said, steeling her nerves. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, and she could now make out someone stretched out on the floor nearby. “I shall try to help you. Here, hold out your hand.”

  She crawled over to the prostrate figure and saw a hand reaching out, unsteadily. She took hold of it. “Right, I have you. Now you shall have to help me. Can you stand? I cannot lift you up all by myself.”

  “I… shall try…

  They struggled to their feet, Elizabeth trying to hold him steady. Fortunately, he was not a large or heavy man. It took a moment or two, but they managed to stand up together.

  “Come on, now, lean on me,” she said. “My name is Elizabeth

  Darcie. I am Portia’s friend. Who are you, fellow?“

  “I am Hastings, mistress… the… the steward of this house…”

  “What happened, Hastings? Are you ill or injured?”

  “Ohh… my head. They dubbed me down, the base villains…” He gasped suddenly, though not so much with pain apparently, as with alarm. “Oh, good God! Master Henry and Mistress Winifred! Oh dear, oh dear, I fear what has befallen them! They were at home when those scoundrels broke in!”

  “How many of them were there?” asked Elizabeth, alarmed that they might still be in the house.

  “I… I am not certain. At least three or four, methinks. Perhaps more… oh, alas, I fear for Master Henry and poor Mistress Winifred!”

  “We shall find them, Hastings,” Elizabeth replied. “Calm yourself. Think now, was it already raining when these men attacked you and broke in?”

  “Nay, mistress,” he answered without hesitation. “‘Twas not raining.”

  “Good. ‘Twas a while ago, then, and with luck they may already have fled. You must fetch a candle or a lantern. And a weapon, if you have one. Quickly, if you can.”

  “At once, mistress… perhaps you had best wait here…

  But Elizabeth did not wait. “While Hastings went to get a light, she reached inside her cloak and pulled out the small bodkin that she carried with her whenever she went out. It was not a large dagger, but it was very well made, double edged and exceedingly sharp. It had been a present from Tuck, and she prized it because he had made it especially for her. He had given her some lessons in the proper use of it, and although it hardly made her feel invincible, she thought that if she had to use it, she could do so without any hesitation and with a fair degree of competency.

  As she moved cautiously through the dark house, she held the bodkin ready in her hand and listened carefully for the slightest sound. She thought that it was likely those men were no longer in the house, but just the same, she moved slowly and tried to keep her footsteps as soft as possible. She felt a tightness in her stomach, and her breaths were quick and shallow. She felt afraid, but she refused to let that stop her. Somewhere in the house, there could be injured people who would need her help.

  As she came toward the end of the hall, she heard a thumping sound and froze, the hairs prickling at the back of her neck. She held her breath. Where was it coming from? Could it be the robbers coming back down the stairs?

  “Mistress Elizabeth!” she heard Hastings call out from behind her. It nearly made her jump. “Mistress Elizabeth, where are you?”

  “Here, Hastings! Hurry!”

  A moment later, she saw a light approaching. Hastings came toward her with a lantern and what appeared to be a battle-ax.

  “Good Heavens!” she exclaimed. “Where did you get that?”

  “Master Henry had it hanging upon the wall,” said Hastings, who had recovered somewhat, although he still looked a bit unsteady. She could see now that he was not a young man. He was about her height, thin as a rake, bald at the crown, with wispy white hair that stuck out from the sides of his head. “Would that I had this in my hands when those misbegotten wastrels broke in here!” he said, giving the battle-ax a shake. “I would have shown them what for!”

  “Be quiet, Hastings! Listen!”

  He stopped. The thumping noises continued.

  “Do you hear?” she asked. “What is that?”

  “The other servants!” he said after a moment. “In the kitchen!” He led the way and she followed.

  They found them tied up in the kitchen. They quickly released the two women, who were frightened, but otherwise unharmed. They lit some candles and together all went in search of Henry Mayhew and Mistress Winifred, whom Elizabeth assumed
to be the woman that Portia had told her about not long ago, the one who was going to be her stepmother. They soon found her in an upstairs bedroom, tied up and gagged and stretched out on the bed.

  “Oh, my Lord!” cried Hastings when he saw her, and he nearly dropped the lantern. Elizabeth, however, ran immediately to her bedside with the two other women, and they soon had her untied.

  “Are you all right?” Elizabeth asked her, helping her sit up. She hesitated. “Did they hurt you?”

  Winifred shook her head as she massaged her wrists. “Nay, they did not molest me,” she replied with surprising frankness.

  “‘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 n
oise 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, grateful 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.”