Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“And what of all the years that he has spent in labouring at his apprenticeship?” asked Dickens. “If he runs off with Portia, he shall be throwing all of that away. Why, within a year, his term as an apprentice will have been completed and he would then be free to open his own shop. Already, his work has gained favour with a number of wealthy customers who would have helped his business grow and prosper. In a few years, he would have been successful on his own, perhaps even a wealthy man. And if this Portia was not deemed good enough for him right now, why, in a few years’ time, there would have been a plentiful supply of eager, marriageable young wenches all vying for his favour, without regard to questions of his lineage.”

“And if his heart were broken from losing the one woman that he loved!” Smythe asked. “Then what good would all those eager wenches be?”

“Forgive the lad,” said Shakespeare, “he knows not whereof he speaks.”

“If you believe that I was wrong in what I said to Thomas.”

Smythe said, “then why do you not go after him and tell him so?”

“Because I know Thomas well enough to know that once he sets his mind on something, he cannot be dissuaded,” Dickens replied. “And because, Tuck, I know all too well how foolish a young man in love can be. ‘Twas only a few years ago that I was that young man, and I had set my mind upon a course that took me off to foreign wars in the mistaken notion that I would return wealthy from the spoils. As it happened, I was fortunate to have returned at all, and in one piece. Yet back then, I turned deaf ears to all the prudent counsel I received, as now Thomas turns deaf ears to mine.”

“Then why does my counsel bear more weight with him than yours, a man who knows him better?” Smythe replied.

“Because you have shown him a way that he may achieve his heart’s desire,” Dickens said.

“Mayhap not so much his heart, methinks, as some vital organ lower down,” said Shakespeare wryly.

“Oh, that was base,” said Smythe. “Anyone can see that Thomas is very much in love.”

“Is it Thomas that you are truly thinking of or is it not yourself?” asked Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows.

“What? What do you mean?” asked Smythe.

“Methinks that Thomas finds himself in a situation not all that much unlike your own,” Shakespeare replied. “You are hopelessly moonstruck over Elizabeth Darcie, whose father, while he does not forbid your friendship, would never grant consent to proper courtship. She is much too valuable a piece of goods to waste upon the likes of you, when she might still attract and wed a wealthy gentleman or, better still, a nobleman. And because he knows that you are an honourable young man, and also because he is indebted to you, Henry Darcie permits you to see his pretty daughter, whom he trusts not to do anything foolish. Thus, you two have a friendship made piquant by the pain of exquisite frustration, where you both yearn for what you both know you cannot have. Now here comes young Thomas, plagued with another Henry, less tolerant than yours, and for that, perhaps, less cruel. You hear his story, and you are moved to counsel him to do that which you wish that you could do yourself, but know that you cannot. You counselled Thomas not for his sake, but for yours. He heard your counsel; and not Ben’s, because when one is in love, one hears only that which one wishes to hear. Now he has gone to do that which he wishes to do.”

“For that you lay the blame with me!” asked Smythe, glancing from Will to Ben and back again.

“Thomas is old enough to make up his own mind,” said Dickens with a shrug. “Still, ‘tis a young and reckless mind, and you need not have set spurs to it.”

“Mayhap some wise counsel from his parents could serve to give him pause and rein in unwise ambition,” Shakespeare said thoughtfully.

“And at the same time allow you the opportunity to meet a Jew?” asked Smythe.

“Is there any wrong in that?” asked Shakespeare.

“Perhaps not,” said Smythe. “For if I am wrong in what I said and you and Ben are right, then I must try to check Young Thomas in his headstrong flight.”

Dickens shook his head. “‘Why is it that you two seem to find trouble no matter where you go?”

“Methinks that trouble has a way of finding us,” said Shakespeare. “But then we are not the first who, with the best meaning, have incurred the worst. Come, Tuck, let us away, and see what other mischief we can accomplish on this day.”

The Wherry Ride across the choppy, windswept river took them to the area known as the Liberties, outside the city proper on the south bank of the Thames. They disembarked not very far from the Rose Theatre and the Paris Gardens, where the residents of London, or at least those with a taste for bloodier drama than they could see portrayed upon the stage, could watch the sport of bear-baiting in the ring or, on occasion, see a chained ape tormented by a pack of hounds. In this same area, close by the theatre, a number of thriving brothels could be found, as well as several taverns and gaming houses. A short walk in a South Easterly direction took them to the residence of Thomas Locke’s parents, Charles and Rachel Locke, on a tree-lined dirt street near the outskirts of Southwark.

“For a mere tavern keeper, Charles Locke lives in a rather large and handsome home,” said Shakespeare, observing the three-story, oak-framed house with its white plaster walls and steeply pitched thatched roof.

The timbers of the house had been tarred, blackening them so that they stood out dramatically against the white plaster of the walls. In between the upright timbers were shorter boards arranged in opposing diagonal directions, resulting in a dramatic herring-bone effect that made the house stand out from all those around it.

“Strange that we never should have heard of him before,” said Shakespeare. “I would have thought by now that we knew all of the taverns hereabouts.”

“Methinks that he is rather more than a mere tavern-keeper,” Smythe replied. “When Ben told us his, name, it seemed somehow familiar to me, although I could not then call to mind just why. Yet now it comes to me at last. If this is the same Charles Locke that I

am thinking of, and not just a coincidence of names, then he also owns a brothel and is a master of the Thieves Guild.“

Shakespeare glanced at him with surprise. “Now, how in the world would you know something like that?” he asked.

“Of late, I read it in a pamphlet that I bought in a bookstall in

Paul’s Walk,“ Smythe replied.

“Oh, no,” said Shakespeare, stopping in his tracks. “Do not tell me ‘twas one of Robert Greene’s works about the so-called ’dark and murky underworld‘ of London!”

“Well…”

“Good Lord, Tuck! You saw the man! He was living in his cups, for God’s sake, if you could even call that living. I had heard that he was fallen on hard times and dissipated, but the sight of him alone more than confirmed it, to say nothing of his bilious and caustic disposition. How could you possibly take anything he wrote seriously, considering the source?”

“If we were to dismiss the work of every writer ever known to take a drink,” said Smythe, “then there would be no literature left in all the world. And I might add, whilst we are on the subject, that you yourself have been known for your supine presence ‘neath the tables in many of the lesser alehouses of the city.”

“You infernal bounder!” Shakespeare sputtered. “Do you mention me in the same breath as that hopeless, rheumy-eyed, and bloated souse?”

“Not yet rheumy-eyed and not yet bloated, at the least,” said Smythe, “but if there be not a flask of brandy somewhere about your person even as we speak, then I shall herewith eat your bonnet!” He swiped the floppy velvet cap off Shakespeare’s head and held it underneath his nose. ‘Well? What say you now, Master Shakescene?“