Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“I do not seem to remember who this fellow is, do you?” he asked Smythe, as he contemplated the wet and rotting head, all but unrecognizable now after the ravages of the crows, the elements, and decomposition.

“It looks a bit like Kemp, methinks,” said Smythe.

“‘Strewth, and so it does! Ah, alas, poor Kemp! I knew him, Tuck. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy! Where be your gibes now, Kemp? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the groundlings in a roar, eh! What, nothing to say? Or have you forgot your lines again? Speak up!”

Smythe laughed. “I do not think. he can hear you, Will.”

“What, drunk. and senseless once again? Dead to the world?

Pah! You are of no use to me, Kemp! Nay, none at all! Stay here and rot, then. Let the crows pick ant your eyes.“ He peered closer at the head. ”Oh. I see that they already have. Well, never mind, then.“

Smythe laughed once more. “Come on, then, Will, before we get soaked through to the skin. ‘Tis a warm fire and a heady brew for me.”

“You hear that, Kemp? We are going now to drink with men who know how to hold their grog. No room for the likes of you, you old reprobate. Go back to the Lord Admiral’s Men, for we have had our fill of you.”

In good spirits, they passed through the gate together, entering upon the main thoroughfare of the bridge, which was lined with buildings on both sides. These were shops and houses constructed on the bridge itself of timber frames with wattle-and-daub walls. The wooden counters that folded down and out from the shops front windows were now folded up and shut against the weather, of course, which made the bridge appear like a residential block that spanned the Thames, rather than the marketplace it more closely resembled on a sunny day.

There were several galleries that spanned the bridge from one side to the other, connecting the third stories of some of the buildings and allowing residents to cross over. And as in many of the streets throughout the city, the upper floors of many of the houses hung out over the thoroughfare. With the exception of the drawbridge, it looked just like many another street running through the city, save that it was straighter than most.

On this day, with the weather as beastly as it was, there was not as much traffic on the bridge as usual, and there were only a few pedestrians moving along quickly through the rain. Each year, it seemed, the traffic in the city continued to grow worse and worse. Sometimes, the streets became so congested that traffic came to an absolute standstill and fights broke out. On a day like this, however, even Londoners long accustomed to the rain and cold had hurried to find shelter somewhere inside.

“Ah, ‘tis a marvellous day, Will, a marvellous day!” said Smythe, spreading out his arms as if to embrace the weather.

“‘Tis a very wet day, if you ask me,” Shakespeare replied. “’Tis a marvellous day if you are a turtle.”

“Well, then I must be part turtle, for I love walking in the rain.” said Smythe. “It reminds me of walks I took through the forest in my childhood. On such days as this, Will, do you not find yourself missing your home in Stratford?”

“I seldom find myself missing my home in Stratford,” Shakespeare replied. “My wife is at my home in Stratford. And I suspect she seldom finds herself. missing me, either.”

“Well, marriage is not for everyone, perhaps,” said Smythe with a shrug.

“Happiness is not for everyone,” said Shakespeare. “Marriage, on the other hand, is a most democratic institution.”

“One that not all people live to experience,” said Smythe.

“I see that you are thinking of Thomas Locke again.”

“Aye. Regardless of my disposition, he keeps returning to haunt my thoughts, like some poor, benighted ghost.”

Shakespeare shook his head. “‘Twill do you no good to dwell upon it, you know,” he said.

“Perhaps. But arc you not in the least bit curious what will come of it all?” asked Smythe.

“I have found, in general, that such curiosity can be decidedly unhealthy,” Shakespeare said. “I have found so in particular since meeting you. In truth, I would have been perfectly satisfied to have remained completely in ignorance of the entire affair.”

“And yet ‘twas your curiosity, in a manner of speaking, that led to it,” said Smythe.

“My curiosity? However so?”

“You wanted to learn something of the Jews,” said Smythe. “‘Twas why we went to visit Ben Dickens in the first place, if you will recall.”

“I was merely trying to learn something about them as a people, the better to enable me to write about a Jew, so that I would not do quite as laughable a job as Marlowe did.”

“The audiences at The Jew of Malta were not laughing.”

“Well, they should have been,” Shakespeare replied. “That they were not merely goes to prove that they do not know any better.”

“Be that as it may,” said Smythe, “‘twas still your curiosity that took us to Ben Dickens’s shop, where we met Thomas, which was where this whole thing began.”

“Aye, when you decided to stick your fine, peasant Saxon nose where it most certainly did not belong,” countered Shakespeare.

“What, so then you are saying that ‘twas all my fault?”

“‘Twas merely your fault that we became involved,” said Shakespeare with a sigh. “’Twas not your fault that Thomas Locke was killed. That, in all likelihood, had nothing at all to do with us and would have happened anyway. However, had you never spoken with him, or sought to counsel him, we could have gone on about our business in blissful ignorance of the poor lad’s fate.”

“Save that you would probably have spoken to him as soon as you had heard him say he was a Jew,” said Smythe.

“Under the circumstances, I doubt very much I would have spoken to him,” Shakespeare protested. “The poor lad was much distressed. ‘Twould scarcely have been seemly for me to have subjected him to questions at such a time, much as I might have wished to.”

“Nonsense. I know you, Will. You would have been unable to resist.”

“Oh, I like that!” said Shakespeare, stopping in the middle of the drawbridge and placing his hands upon his hips. “Was I the one, then, who went running off at my mouth about love and elopement and what all?”

Several pedestrians brushed past and went around them quickly, hurrying with their heads down and the hoods of their cloaks up against the rain.

“Will, come on! ‘Tis raining cats and dogs out here!”

“But I thought you loved walking in the rain?” said Shakespeare, still standing motionless with his hands upon his hips. “I thought the rain reminded you of your native bogs or some such thing.”

“Forest,” Smythe said. “‘Twas a forrest not a bloody bog! And the trees provided a deal more shelter from the rain than do these buildings on this windswept bridge.”

“Well, then I am simply going to stand here just like these bloody buildings until you admit that ‘twas you who could not resist prattling away at Thomas and that therefore ’twas not my curiosity but your utter inability to keep your busy little mind on your own business that got us involved in all this in the first place!”

“Will….”

“Forget it! Save your breath! I am deaf to your protestations! I am not moving until you admit that you are in the wrong and being absolutely bullheaded about it!”

“Will….”

“And do not tell me again how hard it is raining! It may be raining hippogriffs and unicorns for all I care, but I am not going anywhere until you confess that you are-aüyeeee!”

He cried out as Smythe suddenly reached out with his left hand, seized him by his cloak, and yanked him forward roughly, nearly pulling him off his feet as he swung him around behind him. In almost the same motion, Smythe drew his rapier.