Simon Hawke - A Mystery Of Errors

Worley raised his glass. “I see. Well, what shall we drink to, then? To… proper resting places? From each according to his ability to each according to his need? Hmm. In that event, paupers would be buried in Westminster and half the men at court would be thrown into Fleet Ditch.”

Smythe chuckled. He was finding it impossible not to like the man. “Why not drink to chance encounters?” he said.

Worley grinned. “Splendid! To chance encounters, then.”

They raised their glasses and drank.

“And ‘twas, perhaps, our chance encounter that you wanted to discuss?” said Smythe.

“Which encounter?” asked Worley. “You mean the first or the second?”

“The first, milord. That day in the country, near the crossroads and the inn known as The Hawk and Mouse.”

Worley smiled. “Ah. That encounter. Well, then. What of it?”

Smythe shook his head. “I… do not understand, milord,” he said. “Why?”

Worley simply shrugged. “Why not?”

“But… you have everything, milord. Everything that it seems to me a man could conceivably want. Wealth, position, power, and influence… ‘twould seem you lack for nothing. Why play at being some lowly highwayman?”

“I do it for the fun,” Worley replied, bluntly.

“Fun?” said Smythe, with disbelief.

“Aye, fun,” said Worley. “Is that so difficult to comprehend? That a man in my position might feel the need for some occasional stimulation? Some skylarking? A bit of fun? Besides, I am not just any highwayman, you know. I am the infamous Black Billy. Why, there are ballads and broadsheets written about me. You can pick them up in the stands down by St. Paul ’s. I have most of them here. I collect them. True, they exaggerate my exploits considerably, but I find them quite amusing.”

“But… what of the risk, milord?”

“The risk?” Worley shrugged. “Oh, I suppose there is some slight risk, but that only makes it part of the fun, you see.”

“Surely, you must realize that if they catch you, you shall hang.”

“You think? Well… I may hang, I suppose. And then again, I may not. The queen is rather fond of me, you know. But she is a bit of a stickler for form. She might be moved toward clemency, or else she might just have me beheaded. Bit quicker that way. Or so they say. In any event, I should think the odds are greater that I might be killed during a robbery, rather than be apprehended.”

“How can you discuss this with so little concern?” asked Smythe, amazed not only at the substance of their conversation, but at Worley’s casual tone about it.

“Because it does not concern me,” Worley replied.

“But… how can it not, milord?” Smythe asked, with exasperation.

“Look, sit down, Smythe, and stop standing there looking like some great self-righteous oak. If you will give me your attention for a few moments, I will endeavor to explain.”

Smythe obediently sat.

“Good,” said Worley, remaining on his feet, rather to Smythe’s discomfort. He did not feel that he should be sitting in the presence of a knight, but then again, sitting in the presence of a brigand certainly seemed permissible. The protocol of the situation seemed rather confusing, not to say unsettling.

“Now then,” Worley continued, pacing as he spoke, “as you have quite correctly pointed out, I am a very wealthy man. And I, indeed, have everything. Or so ‘twould appear, at least, to anyone such as yourself. I could easily sit back and rest upon my laurels, like the rest of the slothful, parasitic fools who make up the larger part of our blue-blooded nobility, but then, such is not my nature.

“You see, Smythe, I did not inherit the fortune I now possess. I earned it. Or else stole it, depending upon one’s perspective. Either way, 1 worked damned hard to get it. And I enjoyed getting it. Every damned bit of it. From my very first business venture, in which I risked every single penny I had earned since boyhood and parlayed it into my first ship, to the latest addition to my fleet, which is even now under construction in Bristol and promises to make Drake’s Golden Hind look like a river barge, I have played the game of risk and won. Well, occasionally I lost, but losing is just part of the game. And the ones who play it best are those who are not afraid to lose.

“Look about you, Smythe,” said Worley, indicating their surroundings with a sweeping gesture. “What do you see? Opulence. Grandeur. Elegance. Taste… Well, I am not so sure about the taste part, for some of this monstrosity I call a home is rather overdone, I must confess, but the point is, it is the refined and genteel residence of a knight of the realm, soon, perhaps, to be a lord, as strange as that may seem. And yet… and yet… how did I get here? How did I achieve all of this?”

Smythe simply stared at him, uncertain as to whether the question was rhetorical or not. Worley was looking at him as if he expected an answer, but Smythe had none to give. Or else, all he could do was repeat back what Worley had just told him.

“Through hard work, milord?”

Worley snorted. “Through piracy, my lad. Through piracy. I worked hard at it, to be sure, but it was piracy, nevertheless.”

“Piracy, milord?”

“Aye. Drake, Hawkins, Frobisher, the rest of them who either sail my ships or else have bought them from me… all pirates. A slightly better class of pirate, I will grant you, than your tarry-haired, rum-swilling, eyepatch-wearing, smelly buccaneer, but pirates, nonetheless. They attack ships and loot them, take them as prizes when they can and sink them when they cannot, and they are wined and dined as heroes here in England, instead of being strung up to dangle from the gallows. And why? Because they attack Spanish ships. And because the queen gets a share of all their booty. And that makes the queen no less a pirate than all the rest of them.”

“I cannot believe that you would call the queen a pirate!” Smythe said, with astonishment.

“ ‘Tis the truth,” said Worley, with a shrug. “And believe it or not, in private, she would even admit to it. Her Majesty is nothing if not practical. She always sees a thing for what it is, and not for what it should be or could be. And if she is not always honest with her ministers and courtiers and other heads of state, she is unfailingly honest with herself, which is why I rather like the old girl. She is a woman who has made her way in a man’s world without ever once submitting to a man, and she has done so with courage and intelligence, duplicity and guile, good-heartedness and malice, trickery and effrontery, and pure, unadulterated rapaciousness, God bless her great black heart, and I love her better than I loved my own sweet mother because I understand that wondrous royal bitch. She, young Smythe, is every bit as much a thief as I am. And what is more, she revels in it!”

“As do you,” said Smythe, as comprehension dawned. “Except that it sits ill with you to be so far removed from it as her. You cannot be a sea-going brigand, at least not anymore. It would ill suit a man of your position. But if you are going to be a thief, then you prefer to do the stealing with your own two hands, rather than have others do it for you. That way, at least, you own what you have done, and experience the thrill of it.”

Worley pointed a finger at him and shook it slightly. “Ah, there, you see? I knew you were a smart lad from the moment I laid eyes upon you.”

“You are most gracious, milord,” said Smythe. “But the one question which puzzles me above all others is… why me? Why take me into your confidence? Merely because you know that I could never be a threat to you?”

“In part, that,” admitted Worley. “But also because there was something about you that bespoke a difference from your usual, common sort of lout. ‘This one has promise,’ I said to myself. ‘This one, given half a chance, is going to amount to something.’ I always recognize talent when I see it. ‘Tis a gift. I felt the same sort of thing about young Marlowe when I met him.”