For himself, Shakespeare did not feel afraid. He had at first, but now he understood that he and Smythe did not really have anything to fear from this assemblage. They had committed no offense against the Thieves Guild, or even against Shy Locke himself. They had had no hand in the death of Thomas Locke, and his father understood that. Locke wanted his revenge, and they were merely there to be part of the process. But Shakespeare was convinced that in this case the process was misguided.
“Why are you helping me?” Mayhew had asked him, after Smythe had left upon his errand together with Moll Cutpurse and her men and the “trial” had stood in recess for a time. “Truly, why? You do not know me and I do not know you. We are nodding to each other. Why should you take this chance for me?”
“I do not believe that I am taking any great chance in rising to defend you,” Shakespeare had replied. “‘Tis not me they wish to harm. Shy Locke believes you killed his son, or else ’twas done upon your orders, one way or the other. For that, he hates you with all of his embittered soul and wishes nothing more than to cut out your heart and have his pound of flesh, to drink hot blood to give cold comfort to his desire for vengeance. I have very little import to his plan.”
“So where do you fit in?” asked Mayhew, puzzled.
“I understand now that my friend and I were brought here to give testimony as to how he learned you had withdrawn consent for your daughter and his son to marry,” Shakespeare answered. “We were the ones who brought him the news, for we had heard it from your son.”
“You knew my son?” asked Mayhew. “You were his friends?”
Shakespeare shook his head. “We had but met that very morning,” he said, “and we did not speak above half an hour. Perhaps not even that.”
Mayhew looked even more perplexed. “I do not understand. Why, then, did you become involved in this?”
Shakespeare rolled his eyes and sighed. “I have asked myself that very question upon more than one occasion since this started,” he replied.
“And what answer have you arrived upon?”
Shakespeare grimaced. “When I arrive upon an answer, I shall let you know.”
“You play at words and speak in riddles,” Mayhew said impatiently.
“I am a poet and a player. What would you have of me?”
“A straight answer, sirrah!”
“Very well, then, I shall trade you like for like. Did you kill Thomas Locke, or order the deed done?”
“Nay, sir, I did not.”
Shakespeare stared into Mayhews unflinching gaze. “‘Strewth, it seems I do believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because, sir, you have the manner of a lout, but not a murderer.” .
“You do not care for me.?”
“Not in the least.”
“Yet you defend me.”
“To the utmost.”
“A straight answer, then, as you had promised. Why?”
“Because I do not think you did it.”
“And that is why?”
“Aye, that is why.”
“That does not seem reason enough to me,” said Mayhew. “Yet ‘tis all the reason that I need,” said Shakespeare.
“I do not understand,” said Mayhew.
“Aye, I know. And more’s the pity.”
And so the trial began. One after another, the witnesses came forward, men and women not known to Shakespeare but apparently well known to the assemblage. Each of them gave testimony to the character of Thomas Locke, how they had known him as he grew from a child into a boy, and from a boy through his apprenticeship and into a young journeyman, how he had loved and honored both his father and his mother, and how a life of promise and success had seemed spread out before him. There was nothing there with which Shakespeare could take issue, and so he did not try. Through it all, Mayhew sat stonily, listening to all, apparently resigned to whatever fate they had in store for him. And as Shakespeare watched him, he decided that Mayhew was, indeed, afraid, but that to the very end, come what may, no matter what, he would not show it, for that would be the ultimate indignity for him. He was a puzzling man, detestable in many ways, and Shakespeare did not like him. But he did not wish to see him dead.
And then the prosecution called forward its last witness.
“The court calls Rachel Locke!‘
Shakespeare sat forward on the edge of his seat. The boy’s mother, he thought. And ironically, it struck him suddenly that all of this had started when he had told Smythe that he would like to meet a Jew. And now, finally, he would have his chance.
Chapter 12
In her youth, thought Shakespeare, Rachel Locke must have been very beautiful. She was beautiful still, though in a different way. The thick, long, braided hair that was once as black and lustrous as a raven’s wing was heavily silvered now, though traces of the old hue still remained. The body that once was lithe and supple, with sensual, curvaceous hips, long legs, and ripe young breasts, was heavier and thicker now, yet still feminine and graceful in its carriage. Her dark, Mediterranean skin, once taut and smooth, now bore the lines of age, but they spoke less of time and toil than of experience and character. And the eyes, dark as chestnuts and wide as a fawn’s, were still striking and exotic, although they spoke now of weariness and pain. She was dressed plainly, in a simple homespun gown, and did not attempt, as many women did, to compensate for lost youth with accumulated finery. The average man, perhaps, would not look twice at Rachel Locke now, Shakespeare thought, but the observant, thoughtful man would notice her… and stare.
The room fell silent as she came in and took her place upon the improvised stand, a small table and stool that had been placed before the dais. There had truly not been any silence in the room at all at any point during the proceedings, Shakespeare thought. It was like trying to conduct a trial in the middle of a tavern, which in effect was exactly what was being done. However, as Rachel Locke took her place, silence reigned supreme. The serving wenches stopped and watched her. No one spoke and no one moved. This was the grieving wife of one of their own, a mother who had lost her son. And the weight of her grief was palpable upon the entire assemblage.
She glanced up at her husband, and he merely nodded gravely. She folded her hands in her lap, and then her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath and began.
“I shall not speak long,” she said, the timbre of her voice dear and strong. She paused, considering a moment, then began again. “Many of you know me. And if you do not know me, then you know who I am… or at least what I am. I am a woman, and I am a wife. I am a mother, and I am a Jew. And but for that last, I would be thought as good as anyone among you. And yet for that last, I know that there are many who think me something less, even as this man —” she turned to stare straight at Henry Mayhew “—thinks me something less.
“This is not new to me,” Rachel Locke continued. “I had grown accustomed to it throughout the years. I am what I am, nor would I be aught else. My people, for the most part, were driven from this country before I was ever born. Some were permitted to remain, however… so long as they kept their place and accepted the faith of Christianity. And yet, although their own faith was denied them and they were ordered to accept another, neither were they truly accepted as Christians by other Christians. So then, if they were not accepted by that faith which they were ordered to accept, what were they to accept themselves.”
“If, in my heart, I have always remained true to the faith of my people, neither have I ever been false to the faith of others. I have never dishonored Christianity, nor have I ever dishonored any Christian. I have never hated any other faith, nor have I ever hated anyone for having a faith other than my own. And yet there are those who would profess that theirs is a faith of love who yet seem to have no love for those who do not share their faith.
“My son was a Christian.” Her voice caught slightly, and Shakespeare saw that she had unclasped her hands and now gripped the folds of her gown tightly. “‘Twas his father�
�s faith, and thus he was raised a Christian. But to this man —” she turned once more toward Mayhew with a gaze of anthracite “—to this man he was a despised Jew, because his mother was a despised Jew. Indeed, to a Jew, descent is passed on through the mother. Yet how convenient was it for this one aspect of the Jewish faith to be accepted by this man, who did not accept or honor any other aspect of it? Until he knew that my son had been born of a Jewess, he had considered my son a fit mate for his daughter. He had been pleased to have him at his home, to sup with him at his table, and to introduce him to his friends. He gave his consent for his daughter’s marriage to my son, and told Thomas that he would be proud to have him for a son-in-law. And then . he discovered that Thomas’s mother was a Jew.
“The consent for the marriage was at once withdrawn, and Thomas was forbidden by Henry Mayhew ever to see or speak with his daughter again. And now…” She swallowed hard, having difficulty speaking, but she gathered herself together and continued. “And now my son is dead, because he was in love with Portia Mayhew and dared plan to elope with her. And there before you this man sits. the architect of a mother’s grief and devastation, and the utter ruin of her life, angrily demanding to know who she is to judge him. After all, who is she but a heathen Jew? And yet, ‘tis not only a woman, a wife, a mother, and a Jew who is crying out for justice.” She turned to gaze at her husband on the dais. “’Tis also a man, a husband, a father, and a Christian who has likewise lost his son and cries out for revenge. Yet who is he to judge him, this man asks? Indeed, who are any of us to judge him? Who are any of us, after all, compared to the likes of him? We are poor, and he is rich. We are of the humble working class, and he is of the vaunted gentry. We are those whose duty is to serve, and he is one whose due is to have servants. We are very different in his eyes. And yet have we not eyes to see with for ourselves? Have we not hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Can we not be fed with the same food and hurt with the same weapons? Are we not subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as he is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us… shall we not revenge?”
She stared at Mayhew with a look to freeze the soul, her voice trembling with emotion. “If we are like you in the rest, then we will resemble you in that,” she said. She stood and raised her hand, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “The villainy you teach me I will execute,” she cried. “Thou stick’st a dagger in me! I shall never see my son again!”
Mayhew’s face was white. He sat stiffly, facing her, and yet he did nor look away. And Shakespeare wondered, could a guilty man have faced such a gaze unflinchingly?
She closed her cyes and turned away, struggling to keep from breaking down. There was not a sound within the chamber. She won her struggle and managed to compose herself. Then she straightened, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and slowly left the room. For a moment that seemed to stretch on and on, no one spoke. Then Shylocke looked at Shakespeare and said, “And now ‘tis your turn to speak for the accused.”
Shakespeare stood, thinking it would be impossible to follow on the heels of such a speech. He cleared his throat and faced the dais. “With respect to this court, I would like to request a pause in the proceedings to see if my friend has arrived with all of our witnesses, so that we may plead our cause.”
Locke stared at him, clearly not wanting to grant the request, but at the same time not seeing any compelling reason to deny him. He could easily have done so anyway, thought Shakespeare. It was his guild and his court, after all. The fact that he was hesitating was encouraging, indeed. It showed that for all that he might be a thief, he was a fair one.
“Granted,” Locke said after a moment’s consideration. “Fifteen minutes. And then you must proceed.” He slammed the hammer on the table.
Shakespeare glanced around, not certain where to go. After all, he had been brought to this place blindfolded. Fortunately, someone came to his rescue.
“This way,” a young man said, coming up beside him. “Moll has just returned with your friend and the last of the people that you sent them for.”
“They are all here?” Shakespeare asked as he followed the man down a narrow corridor, scarcely able to believe it. “However did you manage it?”
The man simply shrugged. “We persuaded them all to come.”
“Indeed,” said Shakespeare, partly to himself. “I do hope that you did not persuade too strenuously.”
The man shrugged once more. “Well, some required a bit more persuasion than others. But they were all agreeable in the end.”
“I am quite sure they were,” muttered Shakespeare as they entered a small room. As he came in, he saw Tuck and Moll Cutpurse, together with Elizabeth Darcie, a distraught-looking young woman who had to be Portia Mayhew, and an older woman whom he did not know. He frowned.
“And who is this lady?” he asked.
“Madame Winifred Fitzwalter,” Smyrhe replied. “Henry Mayhews intended.”
“But I did not ask you to bring her,” said Shakespeare, turning with a puzzled look from Smythe to Moll Cutpurse.
“They were all together,” Moll replied with a shrug. “And after all, if Mayhew is the man that she intends to marry, then why should she not be present at his trial? I shall leave you to make your preparations. I should be getting back out to the hall.”
“Trial?” asked Winifred, after Moll left the room. “What do you mean? What trial? What has Henry done?”
“He is being tried for the murder of Thomas Locke,” said Shakespeare.
Winifred gasped.
“Tried by whom?” Elizabeth asked. “And by whose authority?
Where are we? What is this place?“
“As to where we are,” Shakespeare replied, “I cannot say, for we were brought here blindfolded, as I surmise were you. As to what this place is, I would venture to say ‘tis an inn, either within the city walls or perhaps across the river, in the Liberties. In either case, we are certainly close by the city, if no longer within its boundaries. As to by whose authority the trial is conducted, ’tis not so much a matter of authority as of main force, though I suppose that one could argue they are much the same. Wherever this place may be, ‘tis the meeting hall of the Thieves Guild, and the trial is being held by them, under the direction of Charles Locke, Thomas’s father, also known as Shy Locke.”
“Dear God,” Winifred said, bringing her hands up to her mouth. “They are going to kill him!”
“I would say that there seems to be an excellent chance of that, unless somehow I can do something to dissuade them,” Shake speare replied.
“What is your role in this?” Elizabeth asked.
“Tuck and I were brought here to give testimony, it seems, to lend an air of credence to this trial. Wc were the ones who had brought Shy Locke the news that his son was planning to elope, and ‘tis for that reason, Locke believes, his son was killed.”
“And now Will is defending Mayhew,” Smyrhe said, “because he does not believe him to be guilty of the crime.”
“But this is madness!” said Elizabeth, glancing from Smythe to Shakespeare. “This is not a real trial or a real court! There is no legal authority here! These people are criminals!”
“Be that as it may,” said Shakespeare, “they are very serious in their intent. And ‘twould also appear, strange as it may seem, that they are seeking justice and, in so doing, are actually striving to be fair.”
“Fair!” said Elizabeth.
“Aye, believe it or not,” Shakespeare replied. “‘Tis curious. They are a rough and raucous bunch, and yet, for all that, this is a serious matter to them and, in their own way, they are approaching it as seriously as they know how. And ’twould appear that they are striving to be fair, perhaps because fairness has so often been denied them. And therein lies Henry Mayhew’s only hope.”
“What do you intend to do?” Elizab
eth asked.
“I must do my best to find the truth,” said Shakespeare. Elizabeth frowned. “How?”
Shakespeare sighed. “By seeking to discover lies, perhaps. I do not yet know for certain. But I must do it now, tonight.” He turned to Smythe. “I am told the others are all here, as well?”
Smythe nodded. “They are being kept waiting in separate rooms.”
“What others?” asked Elizabeth.
“You shall find out in due course,” said Shakespeare. He turned to Portia, who had been listening to it all without saying a word. “Mistress Mayhew, you shall shortly be brought out into a hall that is filled with people, people of a rather rough sort that may frighten you, but you must not be frightened. I shall have to put some questions to you, questions that you may not find very pleasant, but you shall have to answer them. I have every confidence chat you can do that.”
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Will! She has been out of her wits with grief!” Elizabeth exclaimed.
“You shall not be able to speak for her out there, Elizabeth,” said Shakespeare. “So I suggest you do not try to do so here.” He turned back to Portia, who simply stared back at him. “All I am asking is that you speak the truth,” he said to her. “And if you will not do it for me, or even for your father, do it for Thomas. You shall honor his memory in doing so.”
The door was flung open. “Right,” said the man who had brought Shakespeare from the hall. “Time to go.”
They were led back to the hall.
Simon Hawke - Shakespeare and Smythe 04 - Merchant of Vengeance (v1. html). Page 21
