Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“What sort of bonds?” Elizabeth asked with concern.

Granny Meg shook her head. “I cannot say for certain. It could be the bonds of love or of friendship, perhaps, or else of family or marriage. It could be any of them, or it could even be more than one.”

“The sorrow and despair…” Elizabeth said with a nervous swallow. “Whose sorrow, Granny Meg? Shall it be mine?”

Granny Meg looked up at her briefly. “Perhaps. Once more, I cannot say for certain. It may mean yours, or not only yours. But sorrow there shall be. Much sorrow.”

She drew the next card. This one she placed to the right of all the others, closest to the lower part of the cross formed by the other cards. This card showed the image of a shining woman dressed in bright robes and holding what appeared to be a tall staff.

“The Queen of Wands,” said Granny Meg. “This card signifies yourself, a woman with a passionate nature and great vitality, one who has fondness for others, and who possesses a nature that is generous and practical.”

She drew the eighth card and placed it directly above the previous one. This one showed a man holding a scale and distributing coins to hands held out in supplication.

“The Six of Pentacles,” said Granny Meg. “This card represents the effect of your feelings upon what is unfolding. It signifies gratification, the return of a favour, perhaps, or else the desire to help another.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Indeed, I do so wish to help her, if I can,” she said. “I am just not certain how.”

“The ninth card…” said Granny Meg, drawing it and placing it directly in line above the eighth. Elizabeth saw the image of a juggler or perhaps an acrobat, attempting to balance upon a tightrope. “The Two of Pentacles,” said Granny Meg. “This card signifies your hopes and fears. You seek balance; you wish for harmony amidst change and conflict. Perhaps you seek to juggle a number of things all at the same time, thus making your balance more precarious. You hope to find a harmony and balance, but fear that you may not achieve or maintain it.”

She drew the final card.

“Justice,” she said, as she laid the tenth card down directly above the ninth. The card depicted a robed woman with a laurel wreath, holding a sword in one hand and the scales of justice in the other. “This card represents the final outcome,” Granny Meg said.

Elizabeth exhaled, suddenly aware that she had been holding her breath. “Justice,” she repeated. “That is encouraging, surely. But justice for whom? For Thomas, the young man who was slain? Or for my friend?”

Granny Meg merely shrugged. “The cards do not say. They speak merely of the resolution. The card of Justice signifies fairness and equality, balance restored, and rightness achieved. What may seem like justice to some may seem unjust to others. But however it may seem, in the end, justice will be served.”

“‘Tis a hopeful resolution, then,” Elizabeth said.

“If one’s hope is for justice,” Granny Meg replied.

“Well, ‘tis clear to me what I must do, then,” Elizabeth said, getting up from the table. She took a gold sovereign from her purse and laid it down upon the table. “Thank you, Granny Meg.”

“Give my regards to your young man,” said Granny Meg, drawing yet another card and turning it face up as she placed it on the table, to one side of the ten-card spread. It was the Seven of wands, and it depicted a young man armed with a staff, taking a stand against others.

Elizabeth glanced at her with a slight frown. “My young man?”

“The one who first brought you to see me,” Granny Meg replied. “Tuck is his name, is it not?”

“Oh,” Elizabeth replied, looking down. “Oh, I.. well, that is to say… I… I am not certain when I shall be seeing Tuck again.”

“I have a feeling that you shall be seeing him quite soon,” said Granny Meg with a smile.

“Well… then I shall be sure to give him your regards,” Elizabeth replied, a trifle awkwardly, as she turned to leave.

Granny Meg drew another card and placed it crosswise on top of the Seven of Wands. It depicted a moon with a woman’s face rising above a desolate land from which rose two stone towers, with a dog and a wolf howling up at the night sky. She frowned. “Tell him to beware the moon,” she added.

As she rode across town in her coach, Elizabeth kept thinking about what Granny Meg had said. She was both fascinated and frightened by the mysterious cards that Granny Meg used to divine the future. She wished the strange cards could have been more specific. They spoke of misery and sorrow and destruction, but they also spoke of justice. And then when Granny Meg had told her that she would be seeing Tuck again soon-“your young man,” she had called him-Elizabeth had felt herself blushing and had looked away. Doubtless, it had been a pointless thing to do, for it did not seem possible to hide anything from the wise old cunning woman. Nevertheless, she had felt embarrassed and had already started for the stairs leading down to the shop when she had heard Granny Meg add, from behind her, “Tell him to beware the moon.”

That strange and cryptic warning had brought her up short. Whatever had Granny Meg meant by that? But when Elizabeth had turned to ask her, the room was empty. Granny Meg was gone.

For a moment, Elizabeth had just stood there, stunned and speechless. How was it possible for Granny Meg to have simply disappeared? Except for the stairs leading down to the shop, there was no way in or out of the room. It was as if she had never even been there in the first place. Elizabeth had swallowed hard, thinking once again what she had thought only a short while before: What if the old cunning woman had never really been there at all? What if she truly was a ghost? Elizabeth turned and nearly ran downstairs.

The overcast sky had turned dark, and it began to thunder as the coach drove through the London streets, taking her toward Henry Mayhew’s house. She did not really know Portia’s father very well. They had only met on a few occasions, and then just briefly. For that matter, until recently, she had not known Portia Mayhew much better.

Henry Mayhew had struck her as a man who had a great deal in common with her own father. They shared the same first name, and they were both men who had not been born to money, but had worked hard and achieved success later in life, which made them value what they had achieved all the more. Like her own father, Henry Mayhew had seemed almost entirely preoccupied with business and was probably not the sort of man who had very much time for women. To such a man, as to her own father, a woman was merely a sort of accoutrement, one that served a specific purpose, much like a prized mount or a sporting hound. Elizabeth chuckled to herself at the unintentional and ribald pun implicit in the thought. A “prized mount,” indeed.

She tried to imagine if there had ever been a time when her own father had thought of her mother that way. Clearly, there must have been, for she was living proof of that; however, it seemed impossible to imagine. Perhaps they had merely procreated because it was what married couples were supposed to do. She could not believe her father ever could have acted anything even remotely like the characters in the romantic poems she had read. Indeed, he had expressed his scorn for such pursuits on more than one occasion. He believed that poetry was idle nonsense, fit only for players, bards, and gypsies, not “serious” people. To him, the very idea of romance was foolish. And her mother certainly did not seem like the sort of woman to inspire it. Her parents seemed merely to share the same house and the same bed. Each had his or her own duties to perform, and neither seemed to spend very much rime even speaking to the other. It seemed like such a pointless way to live. Had they ever even been in love?