Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“Aye, ‘e knows whereof ’e speaks, ole Robby does,” the wherry-man continued as he rowed. “A regular chronicler of the underworld,‘e is.”

“One might think people like that would resent his writing all about them and telling all the world their business,” Shakespeare said.

“Aye, one might think that, indeed,” the wherry-man replied. “And yet, strange as it might be, they seem to like it. I often ‘ear ’em talk about it in the taverns or when I ‘ave ’em in me boat. Robby Greene makes ‘em famous, see? Get yer name in one o’ those pamphlets’e writes an‘ then yer cock o’ the walk in that lot.”

“How curious,” said Shakespeare. “Much as noblemen often have their pet poets who write sonnets to extol their virtues, so ‘twould seem that criminals in London have their own poet in Robert Greene. And, as such, I could see how ’twould be a measure of their status to be mentioned in his writings.”

“‘Twould help explain why he has a cut-throat like that Cutting Ball at his beck and call,” said Smythe.

“Oh, aye, ‘e’s a bad one, all right,” the wherry-man replied with a knowing nod. “I would be givin’ ‘im a right wide berth if I was you. One time, one o’ Robby Greene’s creditors sent a bill collector after ‘im. The man found ’im, all right, but Cutting Ball was with ‘im, and ’e gave the poor sod a choice to eat the bill or ‘ave his throat cut.”

“I imagine that he ate it rather promptly,” Shakespeare said dryly.

“Washed it down with ale, then took to ‘is heels like the devil ’imself were chasin‘ ’im,” the wherry-man replied with a chuckle.

“That sounds like just the sort of thing that ruffian would do,” said Smythe with a grimace. “I must admit, the more I learn about Master Robert Greene, the less and less I like the man.”

“Oh, ‘e’s an ’orrible man!” the wherry-man exclaimed. “Vile tempered and mean-spirited as they come!”

“And a university man, at that,” said Shakespeare. “A master of the am, no less.” He shook his head. “He was a good poet in his time. ‘Tis a pity what has become of him. A sad thing. A very sad thing, indeed.”

“A harbinger of things to come, perhaps?” asked Smythe with a smile.

“Perish the thought!” Shakespeare replied with a shudder. “I should sooner go back to Stratford than see myself reduced to such a state! Nay, I shall not be fortune’s fool, Tuck. Thus far, I have achieved some small measure of success, and I an) most grateful for it. I shall endeavour to make the most of it, you may be sure of that, but if I see that my run of luck has ended, then I shall know well enough to quit. I promise you. A wise guest knows not to overstay his welcome at Dame Fortune’s table.”

“‘Ere we be, good sirs,” the wherry-man said, as he shipped the oars and let the boat drift up to the flight of stone steps coming straight down the bank to the river. There were many such “pairs of stairs” along the riverside, built expressly for the purpose of small boats pulling up to them. ’Watch yer step, now!“

The warning was as traditional as it was unnecessary. Everyone knew how slick the steps could be, especially on a damp day. The rough-cut stones had been smoothed by both the elements and foot traffic over time and were often slippery. Smythe and Shakespeare stepped out gingerly, one at a time, while the wherry-man held the boat steady, dose to the steps.

“Look sharp, good wherry-man,” Smythe said, flipping him an extra coin. “For a swift passage and the benefit of your wisdom.”

“Thank ye, lad,” the old wherry-man replied, catching the coin. “Mind now, ye go muckin‘ about with the likes o’ Shy Locke and ‘tis fortune’s darlings ye will need to be to come out with your heads all in one piece. Do what ye please, but just remember old Puck the Wherry-man and what ’e told ye.”

“We shall do that, Puck, and thank you,” Smythe replied, as the wherry-man pulled away in search of another fare. “A right good fellow, that,” he said to Shakespeare.

“Aye. A good fellow, indeed. But did you happen to pay any mind to what he said?”

“He said ‘twould rain soon.”

“And that we would do well to avoid any dealings with the likes of this Shy Locke if we wanted to keep our heads from being broken,” Shakespeare said.

“We have already had some dealings with him,” Smythe replied, as they ascended the steps to the street, “and thus tar, we seem to have survived with our heads unscathed:”

‘Thus far,“ Shakespeare replied with a grimace.

“Oh, stop worrying so much, Will,” said Smythe with a grin. “‘Tis a simple enough matter. All we need do is deliver his message to Thomas Locke and there will be an end to it. ’Tis not as if we were embarking upon a precarious journey to some den of thieves!”

“It seems to me that when all of this started, ‘twas merely a simple matter of going to a tavern so that you could meet your favourite pamphleteer,” Shakespeare replied dryly. “Your ’simple matters’ have a disconcerting tendency to become byzantine in their complexity.”

“And this from a man who cannot seem to get a single play finished before he begins a new one,” Smythe replied. “How many are you working on at present? Three? Or is it four?”

“A poet must follow his inspiration,” Shakespeare replied. “He might do better to generate some perspiration by applying himself to only one task at a time,” Smythe said.

“Oh, indeed? And where, pray tell, did you learn your mastery in the craft of poetry? Whilst apprenticing with your Uncle Thomas at his forge? Doubtless, you declaimed the classics to one another between hammer blows upon the anvil. Beat the verses into submission, I suppose. Iambic pentameter, if you will.”

“”I am a what?“

“Oh, never mind,” said Shakespeare, rolling his eyes. “To you, a heroic couplet probably suggests Greek ardor.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

‘“Your education, sirrah, or, more to the point, the lack of it.

‘Tis showing as brightly as a pinked sleeve. I shall take your lead when it comes to smithing or weaponry or knowledge of the criminal underworld, about which you have read so exhaustively and exhaustingly, but when it comes to poetry, my friend, I shall thank you to speak little, or, better yet, speak not at all.“

“Do you know, if you expended as much effort in your writing as you do in tongue lashing, then your productions would be hailed throughout the world,” said Smythe.

“And if you spent half as much time learning your lines as you do in finding fault with me, then London would forget Ned Alleyn and hail you as the greatest actor of all time!”

“Hark, methinks I hear a kite screeching,” Smythe said sourly. “”Whilst I hear a tiresome and rustic drone,“ Shakespeare replied.

“Rustic? Rustic, did you say? And this from a bog-trotting, leather-jerkined Stratford glovemaker! See how yon pot calls the kettle black!”

“Bog-trotting, leather-jerkined glovemaker? Oh, that was vile!”

“Well, if the muddy gauntlet fits…

“”Why, you base and timorous scoundrel! You call me a leather-jerkined bog-trotter whilst you lumber about London in country galligaskins and hempen homespun like some hedge-hopping haggard? You raucous crow!“

“Unmannered dog!”

“Rooting hog!”

“Yelping cur!”

“Honking goose!”

“Balding miscreant!”

“Balding? Balding? ”Why, you vaporous churl…

“Hey, you, down there! Shaddap!” A stream of odoriferous slop came pouring down from a second-story window above them as somebody threw out the contents of a chamberpot, just barely missing them.