Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“And what is that, pray tell?”

“I have discovered that waiting till I have written something to my final satisfaction is but a means to keep from ever finishing a thing,” he said. “For in truth, there is no final satisfaction. At least, not for me. A much better way to work, ‘(Would seem to me, would be to treat a play as if it were a gemstone and I a patient and painstaking jeweller who makes my cuts, thus faceting the stone, and then submits the cut gem to the company so that we may all then proceed to polish it together, just as we did when I rewrote some of the Queen’s Men’s repertoire, do you recall?”

“Aye, but then you did it thus because you had no other choice,” said Smythe. “You had to write and then rewrite as flaws were made manifest in the production, because there was no time to do it any other way.”

“Quite so,” said Shakespeare, “and as a result, ‘twas needful to put on the finishing touches in rehearsal, and then revise again after one performance, and once again after the next, and so forth and so forth… just as you said to Greene back in the tavern, when you spoke about a play being a crucible in which the intent of the poet and the interpretation of the player comingle with the perception of the audience. ’Twas most excellent, most excellent, indeed! I recall being very taken with that line, even as that vile souse upbraided me, and thinking that I must remember it. ‘Twas a memorable turn of phrase, indeed. And much more than that, Tuck, ’twas a rare insight into the alchemy of the crafting of a play!”

“Well, I was but repeating something that you said once.”

Smythe replied.

“What! I said that?” asked Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows with surprise.

“Or else something very like it,” Smythe replied.

“The devil you say! ”When did I say that?“

“I do not remember when just now,” said Smythe. “But I do seem to recall that you were rather deeply in your cups when you said it.”

“Zounds! I shall have to ask you to start setting down these things I say so that I may remember them,” said Shakespeare.

The crashing sound of thunder interrupted them, booming so loudly that it seemed to shake the rafters up above them. The first crash was almost immediately followed by the next, and then a third hot on its heels.

“Oh, dear,” said Smythe. “That sounds like a rather nasty storm is brewing.”

The next clap of thunder was deafening, and lightning seemed to split the sky as they stepped out of the tiring room. The wind had picked up suddenly, and moments later a torrential rain began pelting down, bringing an immediate end to the rehearsal.

“Well, so much for that,” said Shakespeare, watching as the other players scrambled for their hats and cloaks. “We have been rained out nearly every night this week.”

“This bodes ill for the companies’ already meagre purses,” Smythe replied, as he buckled on his sword belt. He had of late been trying to cultivate the habit of wearing his rapier everywhere he went, although he still found it rather cumbersome and had an unfortunate tendency to keep catching it on things. His uncle had taught him how to fence, but until he came to London, he had never even owned a sword. He always carried the dagger that his uncle made for him, but wearing a sword had simply seemed like too much trouble, despite the fact that it was much the fashion and, given the steady increase in crime, also seemed very practical.

“Well, this does not appear as if ‘twill soon blow over,” Shakespeare said, gazing up glumly at the dark sky. “I fear that we shall have no play today.”

“Much like the day that we set out in search of Thomas to deliver him his father’s message,” Smythe replied.

“That troubles you still, I see,” said Shakespeare.

“Would that it did not,” said Smythe, “but I keep thinking on it.”

“‘Twas not really your fault, you know, the way that things turned out,” said Shakespeare. “You must not blame yourself.”

“Do you suppose they have arrested Mayhew?”

Shakespeare snorted. “Not bloody likely, I should say, unless they caught him standing over the poor lad’s corpse with a bare bodkin in his hand. Rich men do not often get themselves arrested, you know. ‘Tis bad for the economy.”

“Well, quite likely, you are right,” said Smythe, “else we should have heard something by now.”

“Now, if you are asking me if I think that Mayhew was responsible,” said Shakespeare, “then I would have to say that on the surface, the odds seem much in favour of it… that is, from what we know. Remember, we do not know for a certainty that Thomas was killed because of his relationship with Portia. His murder could have been completely unrelated to that. For all we know, he had some enemy who wished him dead. More than one, perhaps. Or else it could have been a thief who had been trying to rob his room when he walked in, thus setting off a confrontation that ended in his death.” He shrugged. “We simply do not know, Tuck. And chances are that we shall never know.”

“So what are you saying, then? That because we do not know, we should not care?”

“Nay, I did not say we should not care,” said Shakespeare, “for that would make us callous and hard-hearted, and I should not like to think that we were that. But people die in London every day, of many causes and for many reasons. We cannot seek justice for them all, however much we may wish that justice could be served. We did not really know young Thomas Locke. Our paths happened to cross but once, during which time you gave him some advice. Whether ‘twas wise advice or not does not make any difference in the end, for ’twas his choice whether or not to take it. In any event, before he could act upon it, he was killed. And there’s an end to it.”

“He could have been your Jew, you know,” said Smythe. “Or else, as it appears that he was raised a Christian, perhaps his mother could have served your purpose and acquainted you with their ways and their beliefs.”

“Perhaps,” said Shakespeare. “But ‘(Would be crass of me indeed to ask her now. And I rather doubt we would find welcome at her husband’s house.”

“Aye, to be sure. Well, ‘twould seem the others have all repaired to Cholmley’s,” he said, referring to the small, one-story, thatch-roofed building attached to the theatre and operated by John Cholmley, Henslowe’s partner, as a tavern and victualing house for the patrons of the Rose. “Shall we go and join them?”

Shakespeare sighed. “Cholmley overcharges scandalously, quite aside from which, I have about had my fill of Ned and Kit for one day. But we can go and join the others, if you wish.”

“Or else we could make our way back home to the Toad and Badger and see Dick Burbage,” Smythe said. “And then you could go upstairs and write, which would give you an excuse to avoid Cholmley’s.”

“An excellent idea, I must say!” Shakespeare responded, clapping him upon the shoulder. “I would much rather spend some time with Dick, sweet Molly, and that old bear Stackpole at the Toad than overpay at Cholmley’s and listen to Ned and Kit attempt to outbark each another like a pair of hounds and lay the blame for every flaw in the production on Lord Strange’s Men. Forsooth, I have had enough of that rot. To the Toad, then!”

“To the Toad it is,” said Smythe. “What say you, shall we chance it with a wherry in this infernal downpour, or shall we go the long way, by the bridge?”

“In this wind, there should be quite a chop,” said Shakespeare, somewhat dubiously. “And many of the boats will have pulled in, though a good wherry-man would not be frightened by the weather. Just the same, methinks I would prefer to take the bridge. Either way, we shall get soaked.”