“Nay, this is not looking good at all,” murmured Shakespeare. “Hush, Will,” Smythe replied. “All is not yet lost.”
Locke continued speaking. “You may imagine my surprise,” he said, ‘When I heard this news from two men who were strangers to me, when my own son had said nothing. And ’twas this very fact which lent credence to their tale, you see, for if my son truly had intended to elope with this young woman, then both he and she would have intended to keep this knowledge secret from their respective parents. There yet remained the question… why? Why would the father of this girl at first give his consent, only to withdraw it soon thereafter? Why would he at first look upon the match with favour, only to look upon it later with revulsion? What could have brought about so profound a change in his affections? What could bring him to despise my son, whom he had but lately loved as a prospective son-in-law? And so I asked these men that very question… why? And there came the answer, ‘Because his mother is a Jew.’“
The crowd began to murmur once again. Smythe looked around at them, but in the dim light, he could not dearly make out many faces. They all sat in the shadows, like some dreadful court that sat in judgment of their fate. And that was exactly what they were, thought Smythe. A court. A thieves’ court, if such a thing could be. And what appeal could be made to such a court, he wondered? How could one sway a court that did not recognize any law except its own? How could he plead that he was not guilty of any crime to a court whose members were guilty of nearly every crime? What would he say to them? And would they even offer him a chance to speak before they reached their judgement?
“Some of you may be surprised to learn that my wife is a Jewess,” Locke continued. “And some of you already knew. Those of you who did not know might ask, ‘How could he be married to a Jew?’ And ‘Why would any Christian man make such a marriage?’ To those, I say that I did not marry a Jew; I married a woman. And for each Jew that you may show me who is not a Christian, I can also show you a Christian who is not a Christian. If the Lord truly said that thou shalt not steal, then each and everyone of us has disobeyed tile Lord. And if the Lord truly said that thou shalt not kill, then every soldier who has ever fought and killed an enemy has disobeyed the Lord. And if the Lord truly said that thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, then there is scarcely anyone among us who has not, at one time or another, likewise disobeyed the Lord, for the sin would be in the desire as much as in the act.”
There was some general laughter at this last remark, and to his dismay and disbelief, Smythe actually heard Shakespeare mutter, “That was a good line, that one. Would that I had my pen.” He quickly shushed him.
“It would not have mattered to me if my wife were Protestant or Catholic,” said Locke, “and so it did not matter to me if she came from Jewish stock. Her parents had accepted Christianity, because they had no other choice, as their parents had accepted Christianity, because they had no other choice, for that was what most Jews who remained in England had to do, or else be driven out. Yet even so, they were reviled by many Englishmen, good Christians all, who burned their homes and beat them and abused them.
“My wife, Rachel, lived among us as a Christian,” he continued, “but if she was not a true Christian because she did not go to church each Sunday, then neither arc many among us true Christians for the selfsame reason. And if she honoured the traditions of her ancestors, without doing dishonour to the traditions of anybody else, then where lies the fault in that? Yet I am not here to defend my wife this night; I am here to prosecute the one who killed her son. Our son, who was a Christian, and who attended church each and every Sunday, and who never stole, and never killed, and never coveted anyone save for the girl he truly loved and hoped to marry. He honoured the traditions of his mother, although he did not follow them himself, because we had raised him as a Christian. And yet . and yet, in the traditions of his mother’s people, one is a Jew if one’s mother is a Jew. And ironically, this one tradition of the Jews… alone among all of their traditions .. was the one that Henry Mayhew chose to recognize when he refused to let my son marry his daughter.”
“Odd’s blood!” said Shakespeare softly. “‘Tis not us he holds to blame, but Henry Mayhew! And yet if that is so . what does he want with us? Why have we been brought here?”
Smythe shook his head. “I do not know, Will. Perhaps, in part, he does believe we are to blame. Or at least I am to blame, for ‘twas I who had advised Thomas to elope. The fault in that was mine and mine alone. I shall tell them you are not to blame for that.”
“‘Tis not right to blame you, either,” Shakespeare replied. “You were only trying to help. The one who bears the blame for young Locke’s death can only be the one who killed him. Surely, they must see that!”
An undertone of conversation suddenly broke out as three men came into the room. Two of them were leading the third between them, one holding each of his arms, while a sack covered his face and head. They led him to a stool that had been placed in the centre of the room, roughly twenty feet in front of Smythe and Shakespeare, between them and the dais where Charles Locke and the other masters of the thieves Guild sat. They sat him down upon the stool, and as they did so Smythe could see that his hands were tied behind him.
“Do you suppose…” Shakespeare began, but then his voice trailed off as one of the men reached out and pulled the sack off their captive’s head.
“Your name is Henry Mayhew, is it not?” Locke demanded. The murmuring grew louder as the man glanced around apprehensively, and Locke picked up the mallet and struck it on the table several times to restore silence.
“You already know my name,” Mayhew replied in an affronted tone, “for you have abducted me by force from my own home. And yet I know not yours. ‘Who are you, and what is this place? ’Why have I been brought here?”
“I shall ask the questions here,” said Locke, “and you shall answer them forthrightly, or else face the consequences. But so that you may know why you are here and who I am, I shall tell you that this is a meeting of the Thieves Guild, and that my name is Charles Locke, and that you are here to answer for the murder of my son.” Conversation broke out once again, and this time Locke allowed it to continue for a while, as if to let it all sink in for Mayhew.
“‘Strewth!” said Smythe softly. “They are going to hold a trial for him! And we must have been brought here to testify!”
Shakespeare shook his head. “They cannot do this,” he murmured. “This is not a trial, but a mockery! There is no justice in this!”
“‘Tis their justice,” Smythe said, “according to their law.”
“And ‘twould seem they have already reached their verdict.”
Shakespeare said. “The poor sod. He shall have no chance, no chance at all.”
Locke hammered upon the table once again to restore order.
“‘What say you to the charge?” he demanded.
“So you are Thomas’s father?” replied Mayhew. “How ironic we should meet like this. I must say, you look remarkably well for a man who was supposed to have been dead.”
Locke frowned. “Dead? What nonsense is this? ‘What do you mean? Who told you I was dead?”
“Your son,” Mayhew replied.
Locke leaned forward. “What? You expect me to believe that my own son told you I was dead?”
“Believe what you like,” Mayhew replied derisively. “It makes no difference to me, one way or the other. I have nothing to gain here, and nothing left to lose. ‘Tis dear to me that you have already determined my fate. But your son, when I first met him, told me that he was an orphan, that both his parents had died when he was very young. Considering that his father was a criminal and his mother was a Jew, then I suppose that would explain why he chose to lie.”
Mayhew’s remarks provoked an immediate outburst among the crowd. Locke simply stared at him with cold fury, his hands balled into fists upon the table.
“He is sealing his own fate,” said Smythe.
; “Nay, his fate is already sealed,” said Shakespeare. “He was right about that. But he is acquitting himself bravely.”
“There is a difference between arrogance and bravery,” said Smythe. “The man is acting like a fool”
“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare. “But an innocent fool, methinks.” Smythe frowned and glanced at him. “Innocent?”
“Aye,” Shakespeare replied. “He may be an arrogant fool, and he may have refused to let his daughter marry Thomas Locke, but I do not believe he is a murderer. I do not think he did it.”
Chapter 11
The coach wheels clattered loudly over the wet cobblestones as the driver whipped up the horses to a canter, giving Elizabeth and Winifred a jarring ride over the streets of London. Although the horses were not going at a full gallop, it was nevertheless a risky speed to be driving in the rain, with the slickness of the streets and the poor visibility from the mist and darkness. Fortunately, there was scarcely any traffic, due to the severe weather; otherwise they would almost surely have suffered an accident. Despite the relatively empty streets, however, Winifred was apprehensive.
“Should we not tell the driver to go a little slower?” she asked nervously.
“I am quite sure he would be happy to,” Elizabeth replied.
“But I would not forgive myself if we arrived too late.”
“I suppose you are right,” Winifred replied, holding on to the seat grimly.
“Perhaps ‘twould have been best had you not come,” Elizabeth said to her apologetically.
Winifred shook her head. “Nay, I had to come,” she said. “I could not have borne simply sitting there all alone, wondering what would become of Henry, to say naught of worrying about poor Portia.”
“How long do you suppose it has been since they took him?”
Winifred shook her head. “‘Twould be difficult for me to say for certain. It felt as if I had been lying there tied up for hours and hours, but I do not think it could have truly been that long.”
“What would you guess?”
“An hour, perhaps? I cannot say. I do not think it could have been much longer, although ‘tis possible, I suppose,” Winifred replied.
“An hour,” Elizabeth repeated. “Well, if so, then that is somewhat encouraging. They would have needed to take Master Mayhew to wherever they were taking him, and then they would have needed to have time to question him some more…” She stopped when she saw Winifred close her eyes and shudder. “Forgive me. But we must set aside our delicate natures and screw our courage to the sticking point if we are to be of any use to Portia and her father.”
Winifred nodded. “Of course, you are quite right, Elizabeth. Please, go on. Continue. I shall bear up as best I can.”
“Very well, then. ‘Twould have taken them time to make whatever arrangements they were going to make regarding Portia’s father, and then…” She took a deep breath. “Well, then ’twould depend upon whether or not he could convince them that he truly did not know where Portia was. If he could do that, well, then I am not sure what they would do. On the other hand, if they did not believe him… then I fear ‘twould be a matter of how long he could hold out before he told them that she was staying at my house.”
Winifred bit her lower lip and clasped her hands together tightly, but said nothing.
“Either way,” Elizabeth continued, “we should still have some time to reach Portia, if we hurry.” She frowned, recalling something. “I remember that of late I wrote to Master Mayhew concerning Portia staying at my house. Do you suppose he may have left that letter where they could have found it?”
Winifred shook her head. “I do not know. However, I do recall that letter. He had read it to me. But I do not know what he did with it.”
“Was he in the habit of saving such things?”
Again, Winifred shook her head. “I cannot say. In truth, it strikes me now that I had never paid very much attention to those things. He has a room in the house where he keeps his business papers, and he often works in there. I had never gone in to disturb him. A man needs to have his privacy. But on the other hand, I have never discussed any of his business matters with him and so know nothing of them, really. If something were to happen to him…” She paused, swallowed hard, and then went on. “Well, I would not know how to sort out any of his business matters. I would not know what to do.”
Elizabeth grimaced. “My mother is just the same,” she said. “That is to say, her circumstances are the same. Father takes care of everything. The house, the property, the business, all the money matters—Mother has naught to do with any of those things. She would say ‘twas not a woman’s province to concern herself with such matters, but to keep the house well and see to it that meals are on the table and servants do what they are told and that her husband is free from having to worry about those things. And yet, ’tis clear to me that she would not know what to do if anything were to happen to that husband. She would require some man to come and tell her. And that man could take advantage of her, and what is more, she would never be the wiser.”
“Perhaps,” said Winifred, nodding in agreement. “Yet, that is the way of things.”
“Nay, that is the way things are allowed to be,” Elizabeth replied vehemently. “And things are allowed to be that way because we tolerate them. You are fortunate, Winifred, because your late husband left you well taken care of. Before he died, Lord rest his soul, he had made arrangements for you, no doubt with trusted friends, so that you would be provided for and so there would be someone, a man, to take care of his estate and see to it that you were free from such mundane concerns, at least until you had found another husband. And now it seems you have. And if all goes well, Lord help us, and Henry Mayhew is returned to you unharmed, then you shall marry him, and your late husband’s estate shall become his estate, passed on to him, as it were, along with you. Then he shall take it over, and thus shall you continue to be kept free from those concerns. Well, I do not wish to be ‘kept free’ from concern. I wish to be concerned with my own welfare, to make my own choices, and to do what I choose to do, and not what some man, be it a husband or a father or a lover, tells me I should do!”
“‘Twould seem to me that some man has made you very angry, Elizabeth,” Winifred replied.
“Oh, all men make me angry,” she replied with a grimace. “Well, all save one, perhaps, and yet even he has the tendency to irk me now and then. I do not mean to offend you, Winifred, or cause you any more undue distress, but consider your own situation as it stands now. Consider that of my own mother, and that of nearly every woman that I know. mat happens to a woman when her whole world, her very firmament, is encompassed by a man? my, then he becomes her lord, her life, her keeper, her head, her sovereign, one that cares for her and for her maintenance commits his body to painful labor by both sea and land, to watch the night in storms, the day in cold, whilst she lies warm at home, secure and safe, and need offer no other tribute to him but love, fair looks, and tme obedience. And so one might well think ‘tis too little payment for so great a debt. And yet, what is the payment, truly? ’Tis this: Let a woman make a man her entire world, then take that man away, and she has lost her entire world. ”What, then, has she got left? “Where is her foundation and her firmament? What shall become of her when all that she is has been bounded by a man and she has lost that man? ”Why, then she has lost herself. Well, I have no wish to lose myself. And if that means living life without a man, why then, I am prepared to do so and accept spinsterhood without complaint. But I would much prefer to live life with a man whom I have chosen, and who lets me be myself, who does not compass all my borders, but understands that I need to set my own, who is my mate and works with me the way these horses work together so that they might pull this coach, thus sharing all the burden equally.“
“You wish for a great deal,” Winifred replied.
“I wish for no more than what many of the simple, common, working people have,” Elizabeth replied, “perhaps becaus
e they do not have aught else. Is that too much to ask?”
“Perhaps not,” said Winifred with a smile. “I hope you get your wish someday, Elizabeth. I truly do, for I should like to live in such a world. And if we do not have that opportunity, then perhaps someday our daughters will.”
The coach pulled up in front of the Darcie house.
“Right, we are here,” Elizabeth said, as the coachman climbed down and opened the door for them. “There is little time to lose. We must bundle Portia up and be off with her, as quickly as possible.”
“But where then shall we take her?” Winifred asked.
“I have already thought of that,” Elizabeth replied, as she got down out of the coach. “I know of a place where Portia shall be safe and they shall never think to look for her.”
“”What do you mean, you do not think he did it?“ Smythe asked.
Shakespeare shook his head. “I could be wrong,” he said, “but look at him. He is arrogant and angry, and proud, so very proud… indeed, just as you said. He is also frightened, surely, and yet he remains defiant. He is outraged that these common criminals should have dared to take such liberties with him. Aye, and he is a fool, too, I shall grant you that, for he truly does not seem to realise the danger he is in. But amidst all the violent emotions that play across his countenance, I still do not see guilt.”
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