Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“Well, thank goodness for that, at least,” Elizabeth replied. “I must say, you have been very brave through all of this.”

“Brave?” Winifred snorted. “I was terrified out of my wits. I feel like sitting down and having a good long cry, but there is not time for that. I must try to think how to help Henry.” She balled her hands up into fists. “I cannot, I must not, be weak now. I must keep my wits about me. These were no ordinary robbers, to be sure. They kept wanting to know where Portia was. I can only suppose they meant to abduct her and hold her for ransom, and failing to find her, they took Henry, instead, thinking to make me pay for his safe return.”

“Perhaps not,” said Elizabeth tensely.

Winifred gave her a sharp look. “What do you mean? What other reason could there be?”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “These men sound like ruffiers,” she replied. “Men who knew what they were about. And unless there were things stolen from your house, ‘twould seem to me that they came specifically for Portia and her father. If they truly meant to abduct Portia and hold her for ransom, then when they failed to find her here, why take her father? Why not take you in her place, and thus force him to pay for your safe return instead?”

“Indeed, why not?” Winifred replied. She shook her head. “I do not know. But why else would they have done what they did?”

“Perhaps because someone seeks revenge for the murder of Thomas Locke,” Elizabeth told her. “Namely, his father, Who I have been told is one of the masters of the Thieves Guild. Thus, ‘tis fortunate that you told them you did not know where Portia,vas. However, they may not have believed you when you said that she ran away, and now that they have taken her father, they may try to force it out of him.”

“Then before anything else is done,” said Winifred, ‘we must get Portia out of your house and hide her somewhere.“

“I have a coach waiting outside,” Elizabeth said.

“Then we must go there straightaway,” said Winifred. “Henry is a strong-willed man, but he is no longer young, and if they put him to the question, he may not long hold out against them.”

Hastings came back into the room at that moment, looking somewhat perplexed. “Mistress Winifred, ‘tis a most curious thing!” he said. “The house is not in any disarray, and it does not appear as if they have taken anything!”

“Then you were right, Elizabeth,” said Winifred. “‘Twas Portia they were after all along! Let us make all haste! We must get to her before they do!”

Things were looking rather grim, indeed. As Smythe looked up toward the dais where the masters of the Thieves Guild sat, he desperately tried to make eye contact with the one person in the room who could be in a position to help them.

Moll Cutpurse was unique among women in the status she had achieved in her profession. There was not a foist or a pickpocket in all of London who could ply his or her trade without answering to her. It was said-by Robert Greene, among others-that she operated a school for pickpockets and cut-purses, training them in the arts that she had mastered. Many of her pupils were small children, often orphans with no homes, whom she taught to fend for themselves in London’s streets and alley-ways. Others were people like Smythe himself, who came to London in search of work after the enclosures had driven them from their lands but found, when they reached the city, that work was scarce and difficult to come by. Those who, unlike Smythe and Shakespeare, were not fortunate enough to find work were often left with little choice but to resort to begging or else turn to crime, and these, too, found a friend in the unusual woman who dressed like a man and fought like a man and was known by a variety of names, the most infamous of which was Moll Cutpurse.

Her real name was Mary Flannery, which was a secret few men knew. Smythe just happened to be one of them. And he knew it because he also knew another secret about Moll Cutpurse, one she guarded closely. He knew she had a younger sister by the name of Molly, who worked as a serving wench at the Toad and Badger. Just now, he was hoping very hard that this knowledge would stand him in good stead, for judging by the way things looked, they were going to be in great need of a friend among this crowd.

Shakespeare groaned beside him. “Now here is yet another-”

“Do not say it!” Smythe cautioned him. “Do not even attempt to blame all this on me or, so help me God, I shall box your ears right here in front of everyone.”

“Having my ears boxed would be the very least of my worries at the moment,” Shakespeare replied. “Looking around at this scurvy lot, I shall count myself fortunate if we manage to leave this place alive.”

‘Well, we are not dead yet.“

“Not yet,” Shakespeare said wryly. “Do you suppose your friend Moll Cutpurse remembers you and the kindness that you showed her sister?”

“I do most earnestly hope so,” Smythe replied. “I have been trying to catch her eye, but she has not yet looked toward us.”

“Mayhap she does not wish to see us,” Shakespeare said. “Depending upon how the wind is blowing, this may not be a convenient time for her to admit she knows us.”

“If that is so, then you may be sure I shall remind her at the very first opportunity,” said Smythe.

Shakespeare gave him an uneasy sidelong glance. “Just have a care,” he said. “She is the only one we know with any influence among this crowd.” He looked around with trepidation. “If, under the present circumstances, we should become inconvenient friends for her, then we are liable to wind up late, lamented friends.”

“We shall see,” said Smythe, still trying to catch her eye. But she did not look toward them. She seemed to be engaged in an animated conversation with the man upon her left.

“Here we go,” said Shakespeare.

Charles Locke picked up the wooden mallet that lay before him and struck the table with it three times. “This meeting shall come to order!” he called Out. The noise of the crowd around them gradually died away. He waited until there was complete silence before continuing.

“We shall dispense with our usual order of business on this day,” he said. “Many among you already know the reason why. And as for those of you who do not know, I pray, attend me.

“Oh, this does not look good,” said Shakespeare softly.

“Be quiet, Will.”

Locke continued. “I had a son,” he said. He paused and looked down at the table for a moment, attempting to compose himself, There was not another sound within the chamber. All ears hung upon his every word.

“I had a son,” he said once more, clenching his hand into a fist as he looked up. “A son by my wife, Rachel, who had very nearly died in birthing him and was afterwards pronounced unable to bear any more children. No matter, thought I, grateful beyond words that my dear wife should have survived the terrible ordeal of the birth. This one son would be enough. This one son would evermore be my contentment, for upon this one son my sun would rise and set. This one son I would cherish and raise up into a man to make a father proud. This one son would be my legacy and my ongoing purpose in this world. And so, throughout his young life,

I doted on him, and sought to provide him with every opportunity that I was myself denied. Thus, he grew into a fine young man, well known to many of those among you, a young man who became apprenticed to a tailor, Leffingwell by name, and who, upon completing his term of apprenticeship, became a journeyman in the shop of that same Leffingwell, who had considered him a credit to his business. Thus did a proud father look upon his son, who had grown into a man going out into the world upon his own, and who had become betrothed co a young woman of good family and would soon, no doubt, sire children of his own. I looked upon this one son and was both pleased and proud. Could any man ask for any more?“