Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“We are dead,” said Shakespeare flatly.

“Not yet,” said Smythe, for Moll Cutpurse had looked, for the first time, directly at him and had given him a nod.

Locke paused. A murmur went up among the crowd. Then it died away again as he continued. “Of late, it came to my attention that my son, Thomas, was planning to elope. The two men who had brought this news to me are the very men who sit before you now. Their names are Smythe and Shakespeare. They cold me that they were players with the company of Lord Strange’s Men. I found this rather curious, for I could not think what these two players would have to do with my son Thomas’s affairs. And so I inquired of them, how came they by this news? Why, I asked of them, would my son wish to elope when the father of his prospective bride had readily given his consent and blessing to the marriage? And upon being asked this, they then told me that the father of the bride had not only withdrawn his consent to the match, but had forbidden his daughter from ever seeing my son again, and that they had heard this from my own son’s lips during a visit to the shop of my son’s good friend Ben Dickens, the armourer.”

“Nay, this is not looking good at all,” murmured Shakespeare. “Hush, Will,” Smythe replied. “All is not yet lost.”

Locke continued speaking. “You may imagine my surprise,” he said, ‘When I heard this news from two men who were strangers to me, when my own son had said nothing. And ’twas this very fact which lent credence to their tale, you see, for if my son truly had intended to elope with this young woman, then both he and she would have intended to keep this knowledge secret from their respective parents. There yet remained the question… why? Why would the father of this girl at first give his consent, only to withdraw it soon thereafter? Why would he at first look upon the match with favour, only to look upon it later with revulsion? What could have brought about so profound a change in his affections? What could bring him to despise my son, whom he had but lately loved as a prospective son-in-law? And so I asked these men that very question… why? And there came the answer, ‘Because his mother is a Jew.’“

The crowd began to murmur once again. Smythe looked around at them, but in the dim light, he could not dearly make out many faces. They all sat in the shadows, like some dreadful court that sat in judgment of their fate. And that was exactly what they were, thought Smythe. A court. A thieves’ court, if such a thing could be. And what appeal could be made to such a court, he wondered? How could one sway a court that did not recognize any law except its own? How could he plead that he was not guilty of any crime to a court whose members were guilty of nearly every crime? What would he say to them? And would they even offer him a chance to speak before they reached their judgement?

“Some of you may be surprised to learn that my wife is a Jewess,” Locke continued. “And some of you already knew. Those of you who did not know might ask, ‘How could he be married to a Jew?’ And ‘Why would any Christian man make such a marriage?’ To those, I say that I did not marry a Jew; I married a woman. And for each Jew that you may show me who is not a Christian, I can also show you a Christian who is not a Christian. If the Lord truly said that thou shalt not steal, then each and everyone of us has disobeyed tile Lord. And if the Lord truly said that thou shalt not kill, then every soldier who has ever fought and killed an enemy has disobeyed the Lord. And if the Lord truly said that thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, then there is scarcely anyone among us who has not, at one time or another, likewise disobeyed the Lord, for the sin would be in the desire as much as in the act.”

There was some general laughter at this last remark, and to his dismay and disbelief, Smythe actually heard Shakespeare mutter, “That was a good line, that one. Would that I had my pen.” He quickly shushed him.

“It would not have mattered to me if my wife were Protestant or Catholic,” said Locke, “and so it did not matter to me if she came from Jewish stock. Her parents had accepted Christianity, because they had no other choice, as their parents had accepted Christianity, because they had no other choice, for that was what most Jews who remained in England had to do, or else be driven out. Yet even so, they were reviled by many Englishmen, good Christians all, who burned their homes and beat them and abused them.

“My wife, Rachel, lived among us as a Christian,” he continued, “but if she was not a true Christian because she did not go to church each Sunday, then neither arc many among us true Christians for the selfsame reason. And if she honoured the traditions of her ancestors, without doing dishonour to the traditions of anybody else, then where lies the fault in that? Yet I am not here to defend my wife this night; I am here to prosecute the one who killed her son. Our son, who was a Christian, and who attended church each and every Sunday, and who never stole, and never killed, and never coveted anyone save for the girl he truly loved and hoped to marry. He honoured the traditions of his mother, although he did not follow them himself, because we had raised him as a Christian. And yet. and yet, in the traditions of his mother’s people, one is a Jew if one’s mother is a Jew. And ironically, this one tradition of the Jews… alone among all of their traditions.. was the one that Henry Mayhew chose to recognize when he refused to let my son marry his daughter.”

“Odd’s blood!” said Shakespeare softly. “‘Tis not us he holds to blame, but Henry Mayhew! And yet if that is so. what does he want with us? Why have we been brought here?”

Smythe shook his head. “I do not know, Will. Perhaps, in part, he does believe we are to blame. Or at least I am to blame, for ‘twas I who had advised Thomas to elope. The fault in that was mine and mine alone. I shall tell them you are not to blame for that.”

“‘Tis not right to blame you, either,” Shakespeare replied. “You were only trying to help. The one who bears the blame for young Locke’s death can only be the one who killed him. Surely, they must see that!”

An undertone of conversation suddenly broke out as three men came into the room. Two of them were leading the third between them, one holding each of his arms, while a sack covered his face and head. They led him to a stool that had been placed in the centre of the room, roughly twenty feet in front of Smythe and Shakespeare, between them and the dais where Charles Locke and the other masters of the thieves Guild sat. They sat him down upon the stool, and as they did so Smythe could see that his hands were tied behind him.

“Do you suppose…” Shakespeare began, but then his voice trailed off as one of the men reached out and pulled the sack off their captive’s head.

“Your name is Henry Mayhew, is it not?” Locke demanded. The murmuring grew louder as the man glanced around apprehensively, and Locke picked up the mallet and struck it on the table several times to restore silence.

“You already know my name,” Mayhew replied in an affronted tone, “for you have abducted me by force from my own home. And yet I know not yours. ‘Who are you, and what is this place? ’Why have I been brought here?”

“I shall ask the questions here,” said Locke, “and you shall answer them forthrightly, or else face the consequences. But so that you may know why you are here and who I am, I shall tell you that this is a meeting of the Thieves Guild, and that my name is Charles Locke, and that you are here to answer for the murder of my son.” Conversation broke out once again, and this time Locke allowed it to continue for a while, as if to let it all sink in for Mayhew.