Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“I suppose ‘twas meddlesome of me,” said Smythe, with a self-conscious grimace. “But in truth, at the time we spoke, I did not truly realize why I had done so. My friend here helped me to comprehend my motives, which I myself had not considered. Like your son, I also am in love, but sadly, with one who is much above my station. And whilst my own situation is not quite the same as that of your son, in that this woman’s father, owing me a debt of gratitude, does not forbid our friendship, yet that friendship is the only sort of bond he can permit. In hearing your son’s anguish over being forbidden to wed or even see the girl he loved so deeply, I took it much to my own heart and counselled him to do that which, perhaps under different circumstances, I wished that I could do myself.”

Locke nodded. “I see,” he said. “Well… I can understand that, perhaps better than you know.” He looked off into the distance for a moment, in reflection, and then continued. “I must ask your pardon, gentlemen. I would invite you both to come inside, but I do not wish to distress my dear wife with this most untimely and unfortunate news.”

“We understand completely, sir,” said Smythe. “Would there be anything more that we… or that I could do to be of service to you in this matter?”

“I am tempted to say that you have already done more than enough,” said Locke dryly, “and yet, young Master Smythe, I shall not hold you entirely to blame, for I know my own son. He is possessed of a passionate temper, much like his mother, and what he feels, he feels most deeply. I believe that had you not mentioned elopement as a possible course for him to take, then he would doubtless have come to it on his own. And knowing what my reaction would have been, to say naught of how his mother would respond, he never would have told us. Nor would Mayhew have sent any word to us concerning his decision, so I would have continued on in ignorance of how things stood until ‘twas much too late.” He nodded to himself. “There is one thing you can do for me, and I would be indebted to you for that favour.”

“You have but to name it, sir, and if ‘tis within my power, then it shall be done,” said Smythe.

“Find my son,” said Locke. “I do not wish to see him throw away everything that he has worked for all these years. In time, I believe, he would regret doing so himself: although now, impassioned as he is, doubtless he cannot think so clearly. There are certain things that I can do to prevent him from making such a costly error if he should choose to continue on this course regardless of my wishes, but I shall need some time to make arrangements. In the meantime, find him for me, and communicate to him my feelings on this matter. Remind him also of my love for him, and in particular that of his mother, and bid him consider the effect that this would have upon her.”

“I should be glad to do so,” Smythe replied.

“I shall tell you of some places where he may be found,” said

Locke. “He is most regular in his habits, and with luck you shall not take long in finding him. The first place you must seek him is the tailor shop of Master Leffingwell…”

“Well, here is another fine mess you have got us into,” Shakespeare grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and huddling in his cloak as the small boat bobbed up and down in the choppy current of the Thames. “Pray tell, why is it that you always have to go sticking your nose into other people’s business?”

Smythe sighed. “I am sorry, Will. You are quite right, of course. The entire matter was really none of my concern. Thomas is Ben’s friend, not ours, and I should, indeed, have kept my foolish mouth shut. I apologise. I truly do.”

“Well… we still have some time before our next performance,” Shakespeare said, although he sounded a bit dubious. “With any luck, we shall find Thomas at his master’s shop, pass on his father’s message, and then make it back across the river to the theatre by the first trumpet call.”

“I hope so, but I am not so certain,” Smythe replied. “We may be cutting it a bit too close. For certain, we shall miss rehearsal.”

“Never fear,” said the grizzled wherry-man, in a gruff and raspy voice, without missing a stroke as he rowed them across. “‘Twill rain cats ’n‘ dogs within the hour. Ye won’t be havin’ any show this night, ye can be sure O‘ that.”

Smythe glanced up at the sky. “‘Tis a bit gray, indeed,” he said,

“but how can you be so certain?”

The wherry-man spat over the side. “I can feel it in me bones, lad. I been scullin‘ this ’ere river since afore yer birth. If’n I say’tis gonna rain, ‘strewth ’n‘ ye count on rain. Wager on it, if ye like.”

He pulled hard and steady on the short oars of the sharp-prowed wherry as they cut through the choppy water. About twenty feet in length and narrow in the beam, the wherry could carry up to five passengers. On this short cross-river journey, though, only Will and Tuck were being rowed by the sole wherry-man, whose powerful arms pulled on the sculls with strong and purposeful strokes.

The Company of Watermen consisted of several thousand wherry-men much like him, a rough-and-tumble lot who plied the waters of the Thames in boats of various sizes, rowing the citizens of London across and up and down the river. With all the traffic on the narrow, crowded, and muddy city streets, many of which still remained unpaved, it was often easier to get around London by travelling the river. Thus, the Company of Watermen was one of the largest companies in the city.

The weather-beaten boatmen, known as watermen or wherry-men or scullers, made their living ferrying the citizens of London on the Thames for the very reasonable fare of about one pence per person. On any given day, their boats dotted the surface of the river like water-flies upon a country pond. There were even Royal Watermen, who rowed solely in service to the queen and her court. A veteran such as the old wherry-man who rowed them had very likely also spent some time serving in the Royal Navy, which often turned to the Company of Watermen for impressment. Consequently, there was little point in questioning his knowledge of the river and the weather. If he said he knew that it would rain, then it would surely rain.

“Well, ‘tis a pity that we shall not be able to perform tonight,” said Shakespeare, “but all the same, it serves us just as well. I should not have liked hastening back for our performance before we could have done Locke’s bidding properly. He is not a man to be trifled with, methinks.”

“Ye mean Shy Locker” the wherry-man asked. “You two on a job for ‘im, are ye?”

“Shy Locker” said Shakespeare. “Nay, one Charles Locke, a Southwark tavern-keeper, was the man I meant.”

“Aye, ‘tis ’im,” the wherry-man replied. “Shy Locke, they call

‘im.“ He grinned. ”Ye want’t’ know why?“

“Somehow I have the distinct impression that you are going to tell us,” Shakespeare said wryly, drawing his cloak about him against the chill.

“‘E’s an important man in ’is own way, ‘e is,” the wherry-man replied from somewhere behind his thick and bushy beard as he bent to the oars. “But ye would never know it to see ’im in ‘is tavern, mind. ’E ‘ides ’is light under a bushel, ye might say, like a shy sort. Never acts important. Never puts on airs. An‘ yet, not a thief or alley-man in the city plies ’is trade without ole Shy Locke’s permission, if ye please.”

“There, you see?” Smythe said. “What did I tell you? Greene was right.”

“Robby Greene, what writes them pamphlets?” asked the wherry-man.

“ Robby ?” Shakespeare said, raising his eyebrows. Somehow, the familiarity did not seem to fit the bitterly resentful ruin of a man that they had met.