Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“Well, if Speed ever sobers up, no doubt his head shall burst,” Shakespeare replied. “But he seems to maintain an even strain upon his constitution, having apparently learned the fine art of balancing his inebriation through long experience. If he were an alchemist with such precision, then he would have long since turned lead into gold, though doubtless he would have drunk up all the profits from it. Are you feeling any better yet?”

“Not really,” Smythe replied.

“Here, have a little more. If you feel the need to spew or pluck a rose, then I shall bring the chamberpot.”

“Nay, there is no need,” said Smythe, shaking his head, and then instantly realizing his mistake as the room began to move. He shut his eyes and brought his hands up to his head. “Oh, Lord. ‘Tis a right worthy penance I receive now for a night of folly.”

“‘Twill get a little worse, I fear,” said Shakespeare, handing him a note. “This came for you by messenger a little while ago. ’Tis from Elizabeth.”

“Have you read it?”

“I did take that liberty, considering your indisposition, since I thought that it might have some bearing upon recent events.”

“And?” said Smythe, still holding the message with its broken seal of red wax. He almost didn’t want to read it.

“And it did, indeed,” said Shakespeare. “‘Twould seem the sheriff’s men came by her house early this morning.”

Smythe groaned and put his hand over his eyes. “Oh, I am fortune’s fool. What said her father?”

“She did not say,” Shakespeare replied. “You may read it for yourself, but she writes little more than that. She wishes to meet you at Paul’s Walk this morning.”

“This morning?” Smythe quickly opened the note and read it.

“‘What is’t o’clock?” he asked.

“Nearly ten 0‘ the clock,’” said Shakespeare.

“Zounds! I shall be late!”

“Not if you run,” said Shakespeare.

“You villain. I believe you are enjoying this,” Smythe accused him.

“Rather a great deal,” Shakespeare said with a smile. “For a change, the shoe is on the other foot. Next time, perhaps you may have more sympathy for a man in this condition.”

“A man who allows himself to fall into this condition deserves no sympathy,” said Smythe, hopping about as he got dressed. “And nor do I deserve it. But just the same, I shall endeavour to be more tolerant in the future.”

“Good luck,” said Shakespeare. “And do not forget rehearsal!”

It had felt hellish to run at first, but the brisk pace he forced himself to maintain and the cool air rushing over his face had improved the way he felt. Although the headache had not completely gone away by the time he reached St. Paul’s, the intensity of it was greatly diminished, much to his relief.

The churchyard was a bustle of activity, as usual. Still an impressive edifice, even after its tall spire had been destroyed by lightning, the cathedral of St. Paul had nevertheless seen better days. Since the Dissolution, no incense was permitted, organ music was prohibited, and candles could not be used at all except at Christmas. What statuary had not been removed was broken. Overall, the majestic cathedral was in a sad state of disrepair.

Morning prayer service was usually held between seven and eight o’clock, with evening prayer held from two to three. Following the separation from the Church of Rome during King Henry’s time, the Act of Uniformity had decreed that the Book of Common Prayer was to be used for services, and all recusants were severely punished. The harbouring of priests had been declared high treason, punishable by death. It was unlawful for shops to be open during the time of common prayer, on Sundays, or on holy days, though the enforcement of these laws was entirely another matter. Wednesdays had been set aside for abstaining from meat, although it was said that this was less for spiritual reasons than to help the fishing industry. And in a similar manner, there was a great admixture of the sacred with the profane in the cathedral of St. Paul.

There was much demand among the citizens of London for “good books,” such as the Geneva Bible and the Bishop’s Bible , of course, as well as collections of prayers, sermons, aphorisms, and religious stories, such as Foxe’s Book of Martyrs , or translations from the French of Calvin’s commentaries, or the popular devotional works of Thomas Bacon. All of these and more were for sale in the bookstalls, along with more prosaic and sensational matter, not only outside in the churchyard, but inside the cathedral itself, as well.

St. Paul’s School had been established on the grounds to give a grammar school education to young boys, but if they happened to venture out of the school and down the main aisle of the cathedral, known commonly to one and all in London as Paul’s Walk., then they could quickly receive a different sort of education altogether. Since the Dissolution, Paul’s Walk. was less a quiet and sombre aisle in a church than it was a busy thoroughfare, where the citizens of London came to hear the latest news, as well as meet with lawyers, many of whom kept more or less permanent stations at certain pillars in the cathedral where they could conduct business with their clients. Men in search of work often loitered in the Walk., hoping to find someone who would hire them for endeavours either legal or illegal. Merchants set up their stalls at the tombs and at the font, where they sold such commodities as ale and beer, bread and fruit, and even fish.

For a time, there were even horses ridden through the cathedral, as well as carts drawn along the Walk by either mules or oxen, though a law was finally passed prohibiting such traffic. Nevertheless, from time to time, some young bravo on a prancer would still take a trot along the Walk, enjoying the sound his horse’s hoof-beats made as they echoed above the general din. Paul’s Walk was also known as a place of assignations, and London’s lovers, either married or unmarried, often met there. And related activities, although of a considerably less romantic nature, were also conducted at the pillars and in shadowed corners. Many religious houses had been taken over following the Dissolution and converted to other uses, but perhaps none served quite as many or as varied uses as St. Paul’s.

For Smythe, once he overcame his initial shock at the spectacle of what St. Paul’s had become, Paul’s Walk served two primary purposes. It was a place he often came to purchase books and pamphlets, and it was also where he came to meet Elizabeth Darcie now and then.

His friendship with Elizabeth — for it was truly little more than that-was a source of both joy and misery to him. He was hopelessly in love with her, and had been ever since the day he met her at the Burbage Theatre, where he and Will had gained employment as ostlers upon first coming to London. From the very beginning, there had seemed to be a spark between them, but she had arrived in a fine black coach to meet a gentleman to whom she was betrothed. And, he had thought at the time, even if she were not already spoken for, she was still too far above him for him to entertain any serious thoughts of courtship.

She was the beautiful daughter of a wealthy merchant who was also a partner in the Burbage Theatre, while he was a lowly working-class ostler whose greatest hope in life was to become a player. With such a daughter, a wealthy man like Henry Darcie could easily arrange a marriage that would advance his family both socially and financially. Shakespeare, who had quickly realised his friend was smitten, had vainly pointed out to him that someone like himself had about as much chance of courting Elisabeth Darcie as a player had of being knighted. And it might have ended there had fate not brought Elizabeth to seek his help in freeing herself from a betrothal to a man who turned out in the end to have been an impostor, a murderer, and a spy.