Simon Hawke: The Merchant of Vengeance

“Sit the bloody hell down, Ball,” the tavern-keeper said, coming up behind him with the ale. “These two gentlemen just bought ye both a drink. An‘ they say they don’t want any money, mind ye.”

“Eh? That so?” said Ball, gazing at them sceptically. He made no move to put away his dagger.

“They have not the look of debt collectors, Ball,” said Greene, with a glance at them before his attention became fixed upon the fresh pot of ale the tavern-keeper set before him. The one he had been clutching so possessively turned out to have been empty. He wrapped his hands caressingly around the full one and slowly raised it to his lips, drinking from it deeply. He set it back down and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Please sit down, gentlemen,” he said heavily. “You shall have to pardon Cutting Ball. He is my brother-in-law, in an informal sort of way, and has a tendency to be somewhat protective of me. I have of late been plagued by debt collectors, who have hounded me unmercifully and threatened me with grievous harm. Ball, here, would not wish to see his sister left without support and his little nephew left an orphan. Therefore, he looks after me when he is not otherwise engaged, for which kindness I am, indeed, profoundly grateful.”

They sat down, and Cutting Ball, somewhat reluctantly it seemed, put away his knife. However, his flinty, feral gaze remained firmly fixed on both of them, even while he drank. his ale. He had the look of an alley-man if Smythe ever saw one, and he made a mental note not to turn his back on him.

“So then,” Greene went on, “as I perceive you are not debt collectors, what is it you wish of me? Are you from some printers? Do you wish, perhaps, to engage me to pen a pamphlet you can publish?”

“Nay, sir, we are not printers,” Smythe replied, “although we do have an interest in your pamphlets. We are players with Lord Strange’s Men. I am called Tuck Smythe, and this is William Shakespeare.”

At the mention of Shakespeare’s name, Greene stiffened and his bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Shakescene?”

“Shakespeare,” Will corrected him. “William Shakespeare, at your service, sir.”

“Methinks I know that name,” said Greene. “You were lately with the Queen’s Men, were you not?”

“Indeed, we both were,” Shakespeare replied. “I am surprised that you would know that, Master Greene.”

“I hear things,” Greene replied, his manner very different suddenly. “So then… you fancy yourself a poet, do you?”

“Well, I do write some verses, as it happens…” Shakespeare began, but Greene interrupted him.

“Pray tell, Master Shakescene, what university did you attend?”

“I must confess that I am not a university man, sir,” Shakespeare replied, without correcting him about his name, though he gave a sidelong glance of annoyance to Smythe. “I did have some formal schooling back home in Stratford, but then — ”

“Not a university man, then,” Greene interrupted him again. He nodded. “Indeed, I had heard as much. I had thought, however, that I might have been misinformed, that you were in truth a master of the arts and I had not been aware of it.”

“Nay, sir, I make no such claim,” said Shakespeare modestly. “I never went to university.”

“Indeed. An uneducated man. And yet, you seem to feel yourself somehow qualified to sit in judgement upon the writings of a master of the arts, and rearrange them to suit your fancy. You take painstakingly well-crafted literary verses and then have them jet about the stage in tragical buskins, styling yourself a poet like some upstart country crow beautifying yourself with the feathers of your betters. What do you have to say for yourself, sir?”

Shakespeare sat there stunned, completely taken aback. He looked as if the floor had suddenly dropped out from underneath him, and he could think of no reply. Smythe, too, was completely unprepared for this sudden vitriol and for a moment found himself absolutely speechless, but he recovered quickly and rose to the defence of his friend.

“Sir, I see you are offended,” he said. “Please let me assure you that such was never our intent. ‘Twas my idea that we come here to seek you out and meet with you, for I have read nearly all of your pamphlets and thought that-”

“My pamphlets?” Greene said with a snort. “For God’s sake. My bloody pamphlets. A lifetime spent in pursuit of mastering the arts, Ball, and all they truly care about are my bloody cautionary pamphlets written for the common man. Tell us, Master Greene, how to avoid being cozened by some sharper, how not to have our purses lifted, how to tell if someone is cheating us at cards, or how the alley-man plies his trade, so that we may avoid being waylaid in some alley whilst out looking for some whore to bugger. And in the meantime, we shall grow fat upon your plays, rewriting them howsoever we may choose, for what are a poet’s words, after all, but a lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing? Why not make a jig of them? Why must we respect an artist’s original intent? Why not add a little speech in the first act and cut out one in the second, put in a jest or two, perhaps a song, take a little sample here and a little sample there, rearrange it and call it all our own. Why, ‘tis brilliant, positively brilliant! What great artists we all are, eh, ’Master‘ Shakescene?”

Shakespeare had turned pale. He sat deathly still and speechless, a stricken look in his eyes.

“Sir,” said Smythe, “meaning no disrespect, but surely a poet such as yourself must understand that plays are a collaborative medium, a crucible in which the intent of the author and the interpretation of the player co-mingle with the perception of the audience to yield a new alchemical concoction with every new performance.”

“ Concoction ? Concoct this, you infernal jackanapes,” said Greene, and dashed the remnants of his ale into Smythe’s face. “You dare to lecture me? Bloody leeches! Go fatten on some other beast and leave me well enough alone!”

Smythe got to his feet, ale dripping from his chin onto his spattered runic, and Cutting Ball was just as quick to rise pugnaciously and draw his dagger once again.

Smythe drew his own dagger. “Right, then,” he said grimly. “If that is how you want it, you scurvy rogue, I shall be more than happy to oblige you.” Then he felt Shakespeare take him firmly by the arm and pull him back.

“Nay, Tuck, let us be gone from this place, quickly,” he said. “Please, I beg of you. Let us be gone.”

Smythe kept his gaze locked on Cutting Ball, who looked somewhat undecided now, but still belligerent. For a moment, they held each other’s gaze, and then Cutting Ball’s eyes slid away.

“Bastards,” Greene was muttering to himself. “Bloody bastards.”

Slowly, Smythe backed away, keeping careful track of those around them until they had cleared the door and were once more outside in the cobbled street.

“I am truly sorry, Will,” he said, “for what just happened back there.”

“Why?” asked Shakespeare. “‘Twas not your fault, Tuck. You have done nothing whatever for which any apology is warranted.”

“I fear that I must disagree,” said Smythe. “‘Twas my idea that we come here to seek out Robert Greene in the first place. I should have left well enough alone. I should have listened when you told me you heard that he was dissipated and fallen on hard times. The man is deeply embittered and in a bilious humour. Yet there is simply no excuse for the foul manner in which he addressed you. And to think that I admired him.”

“You admired his work,” said Shakespeare. “But until now, you knew nothing of the man. And I repeat, you have done nothing for which any apology is warranted. You could not possibly have known he would have responded. thus to me. ‘Strewth, I never would have guessed it myself.”