Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

Smythe felt his stomach knotting at the thought. The Clink. was notorious for being one of the worst prisons in London, and from all that he had heard and read, none of London’s prisons could boast conditions that were anything less than nightmarish.

“Who do you suppose killed the poor fellow?” asked John Hemings, as he cut off a thick slice of the hearty Banbury cheese they were all enjoying, tore off a large chunk of barley bread, took a big bite out of each, and then washed it all down with beer, a relatively new beverage that had recently become available in London. It was not quite as rich tasting or as hearty as ale, but it had the virtue of being considerably cheaper. Between the wheel of cheese upon the table, loaves of rye and barley bread baked with beans and oats mixed in, and several large clay pitchers full of beer, the players were having themselves a filling and satisfying supper, spiced now by news of the murder.

“I have not the foggiest notion who murdered the poor lad,” Shakespeare replied after taking a long drink. “I am just grateful that we were able to convince the sheriff’s men not to blame the devilish deed on us!”

“Do you suppose the girl’s father may have had it done?” asked

Augustine Phillips. “To prevent the elopement, I mean.”

“‘Twould not have been much of an elopement had the girl’s father known about it in advance, now, would it, Gus?” Will Kemp observed sarcastically.

“Well… he could have found out about it, somehow.”

Phillips replied defensively.

“Oh, really? How?” asked Kemp. “As Shakespeare tells the tale, there was not even any plan of an elopement until sometime late this morning, when Smythe here put the foolish notion into the unfortunate boy’s head.”

‘Thank you so much for the thoughtful reminder, Kemp,“ said Smythe with a sour grimace. ”It makes me feel ever so much better about how everything turned out.“

“Well, it serves you right for poking your nose into other people’s business,” Kemp replied testily. “Instead of coming to rehearsal, as you were supposed to have done, you chose to spend the day in profitless and pointless gallivanting about town, dragging our book holder to some low-class alehouse only to have him be insulted by some drunken lout of a poet, and then convincing some poor lad you did not even know that he should run off with some wench you also did not know, only to have this boy turn out to be the son of a man who could easily have both of you sewn up into sacks weighted down with stones and then thrown into the river… which he might very well do when he discovers his beloved son was murdered. Does that about sum it up, you think?”

Smythe pressed his lips together and nodded glumly. “Aye, ‘twould about sum it up, indeed.”

“Well done, Kemp,” Shakespeare said dryly. “Now if you could only manage to remember your lines as well as you recalled every last detail of our story, then we would all be infinitely better off.”

“Perhaps if you wrote lines that were more memorable, I

might find that I remembered them more easily,“ riposted Kemp.

“‘Strewth, I do not know if I would be capable of writing anything that you would find easy to remember,” Shakespeare said. “Perhaps if I were to rhyme it with some sound that is cherished by thine ear. Speed, old fellow, pray tell, what rhymes with fart?”

“Art,” Bobby Speed replied at once, and belched profoundly. “Hark, methinks we have here the makings of some truly memorable poetry for Kemp,” said Shakespeare. “Indeed, ‘tis a veritable epic. Now then, what rhymes with belch?”

“Smelch,” said Thomas Pope, with his mouth full.

“Smelch? Smelch?” Shakespeare frowned. “Preposterous! There is no such word.”

“Is so.”

“Is not!” said Shakespeare. “You are being quite ridiculous, Pope. Go on and use it in a sentence, then, you knave.”

“Kemp farted and the smelch was terrible,” said Pope.

“Odd’s blood! You know, I do believe I rather like the sound of that,” said Shakespeare. “Pity there is no such word. Perhaps there ought to be.”

Go on and use it, then,“ said Pope. ”Put it into one of your plays.“

“Indeed! The very thought of it! And by what right would you have me take such license with our language?”

“The right of every bard and poet to coin whatever words or phrases please him,” Pope replied.

Shakespeare raised his eyebrows. “The devil you say! And what do you call this marvellous right of linguistic libertinage?”

“Urm I call it.. poetic license,” Pope mumbled around a mouthful of bread and cheese.

Shakespeare simply stared at him.

“What, no clever rejoinder” Kemp asked archly. Shakespeare shook his head. “Nay, Kemp, I have none. He leaves me quite speechless.”

“Good,” said Pope, his mouth still full. “Now pass the beer.”

“About this poor lad’s murder,” Gus Phillips said once more, getting back to the subject at hand, “you do not suppose that this Shy Locke will hold the two of you to blame I mean, with what Kemp said and all… you do not suppose he will?”

“I most certainly hope that he shall not,” Shakespeare said uneasily. “Truly, I do not see how he can. after all, we did not have anything at all to do with poor Thomas’s murder!”

‘That may not be how he shall see it,“ Kemp replied.

“Well, I doubt very much that he shall even remember our names,” said Shakespeare.

“Only You did tell him that we were players with Lord Strange’s Men,” said Smythe.

Shakespeare frowned. “I did?”

“You did.”

“Bollocks. Well, perhaps he shall not remember it. In any event, we were able to convince the sheriff’s men that we had nothing to do with it, so I am sure we shall be able to convince him likewise, if need be.”

“You had best hope so,” Kemp replied. “Else we may be in need of a new book holder, as well as a new…” he waved his hand dismissively, “whatever ‘tis you are, Smythe.”

“‘Hired man,’ I believe, is the proper term for my position with the company,” replied Smythe tartly.

“‘Strewth! Do you mean to say that we actually pay you?”

Kemp replied with mock astonishment.

“‘Why not?” asked Pope, masticating furiously as he shoved a wedge of cheese into his mouth, immediately followed by a large chunk of barley bread. “He remembers his lines at least as well as you do.”

“Methinks he has you there, Kemp,” said Shakespeare.

“You are both impertinent,” Kemp said with a disdainful sniff.

“Oh, good Lord,” said Smythe, staring toward the tavern entrance with dismay. “As if this day has not brought ill tidings enough.”

Shakespeare followed his gaze, looking at the man who had just walked in and now stood just inside the doorway, glancing around the tavern. “I say, Tuck, ‘tis your father, is it not?” he said.

“Tuck’s father?” Hemings said with surprise. He turned around on the bench, looking over his shoulder. “Truly?”

At once, everyone else turned toward the door. Smythe sighed wearily and brought his hand up to his forehead, which had suddenly begun to ache fiercely. “Oh, this can bode no good,” he said. “No good at all.”

Symington Smythe H swept the tavern with an aristocratic gaze, then spotted his son, tossed his dark brown cloak back, and started toward them with a regal air.

“Tuck, you never mentioned having any family in London.” Hemings said, turning back toward him. “Did you not tell us that you came from a small village in the country?”

“Aye, I did,” Smythe replied. “Unfortunately, my father chose to follow me to London.”

“Ah, Symington, my boy, there you are!” his father said in a tone that sounded so jovial, Tuck knew that it was forced.