Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

She stared at Mayhew with a look to freeze the soul, her voice trembling with emotion. “If we are like you in the rest, then we will resemble you in that,” she said. She stood and raised her hand, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “The villainy you teach me I will execute,” she cried. “Thou stick’st a dagger in me! I shall never see my son again!”

Mayhew’s face was white. He sat stiffly, facing her, and yet he did nor look away. And Shakespeare wondered, could a guilty man have faced such a gaze unflinchingly?

She closed her cyes and turned away, struggling to keep from breaking down. There was not a sound within the chamber. She won her struggle and managed to compose herself. Then she straightened, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and slowly left the room. For a moment that seemed to stretch on and on, no one spoke. Then Shylocke looked at Shakespeare and said, “And now ‘tis your turn to speak for the accused.”

Shakespeare stood, thinking it would be impossible to follow on the heels of such a speech. He cleared his throat and faced the dais. “With respect to this court, I would like to request a pause in the proceedings to see if my friend has arrived with all of our witnesses, so that we may plead our cause.”

Locke stared at him, clearly not wanting to grant the request, but at the same time not seeing any compelling reason to deny him. He could easily have done so anyway, thought Shakespeare. It was his guild and his court, after all. The fact that he was hesitating was encouraging, indeed. It showed that for all that he might be a thief, he was a fair one.

“Granted,” Locke said after a moment’s consideration. “Fifteen minutes. And then you must proceed.” He slammed the hammer on the table.

Shakespeare glanced around, not certain where to go. After all, he had been brought to this place blindfolded. Fortunately, someone came to his rescue.

“This way,” a young man said, coming up beside him. “Moll has just returned with your friend and the last of the people that you sent them for.”

“They are all here?” Shakespeare asked as he followed the man down a narrow corridor, scarcely able to believe it. “However did you manage it?”

The man simply shrugged. “We persuaded them all to come.”

“Indeed,” said Shakespeare, partly to himself. “I do hope that you did not persuade too strenuously.”

The man shrugged once more. “Well, some required a bit more persuasion than others. But they were all agreeable in the end.”

“I am quite sure they were,” muttered Shakespeare as they entered a small room. As he came in, he saw Tuck and Moll Cutpurse, together with Elizabeth Darcie, a distraught-looking young woman who had to be Portia Mayhew, and an older woman whom he did not know. He frowned.

“And who is this lady?” he asked.

“Madame Winifred Fitzwalter,” Smyrhe replied. “Henry Mayhews intended.”

“But I did not ask you to bring her,” said Shakespeare, turning with a puzzled look from Smythe to Moll Cutpurse.

“They were all together,” Moll replied with a shrug. “And after all, if Mayhew is the man that she intends to marry, then why should she not be present at his trial? I shall leave you to make your preparations. I should be getting back out to the hall.”

“Trial?” asked Winifred, after Moll left the room. “What do you mean? What trial? What has Henry done?”

“He is being tried for the murder of Thomas Locke,” said Shakespeare.

Winifred gasped.

“Tried by whom?” Elizabeth asked. “And by whose authority?

Where are we? What is this place?“

“As to where we are,” Shakespeare replied, “I cannot say, for we were brought here blindfolded, as I surmise were you. As to what this place is, I would venture to say ‘tis an inn, either within the city walls or perhaps across the river, in the Liberties. In either case, we are certainly close by the city, if no longer within its boundaries. As to by whose authority the trial is conducted, ’tis not so much a matter of authority as of main force, though I suppose that one could argue they are much the same. Wherever this place may be, ‘tis the meeting hall of the Thieves Guild, and the trial is being held by them, under the direction of Charles Locke, Thomas’s father, also known as Shy Locke.”

“Dear God,” Winifred said, bringing her hands up to her mouth. “They are going to kill him!”

“I would say that there seems to be an excellent chance of that, unless somehow I can do something to dissuade them,” Shake speare replied.

“What is your role in this?” Elizabeth asked.

“Tuck and I were brought here to give testimony, it seems, to lend an air of credence to this trial. Wc were the ones who had brought Shy Locke the news that his son was planning to elope, and ‘tis for that reason, Locke believes, his son was killed.”

“And now Will is defending Mayhew,” Smyrhe said, “because he does not believe him to be guilty of the crime.”

“But this is madness!” said Elizabeth, glancing from Smythe to Shakespeare. “This is not a real trial or a real court! There is no legal authority here! These people are criminals!”

“Be that as it may,” said Shakespeare, “they are very serious in their intent. And ‘twould also appear, strange as it may seem, that they are seeking justice and, in so doing, are actually striving to be fair.”

“Fair!” said Elizabeth.

“Aye, believe it or not,” Shakespeare replied. “‘Tis curious. They are a rough and raucous bunch, and yet, for all that, this is a serious matter to them and, in their own way, they are approaching it as seriously as they know how. And ’twould appear that they are striving to be fair, perhaps because fairness has so often been denied them. And therein lies Henry Mayhew’s only hope.”

“What do you intend to do?” Elizabeth asked.

“I must do my best to find the truth,” said Shakespeare. Elizabeth frowned. “How?”

Shakespeare sighed. “By seeking to discover lies, perhaps. I do not yet know for certain. But I must do it now, tonight.” He turned to Smythe. “I am told the others are all here, as well?”

Smythe nodded. “They are being kept waiting in separate rooms.”

“What others?” asked Elizabeth.

“You shall find out in due course,” said Shakespeare. He turned to Portia, who had been listening to it all without saying a word. “Mistress Mayhew, you shall shortly be brought out into a hall that is filled with people, people of a rather rough sort that may frighten you, but you must not be frightened. I shall have to put some questions to you, questions that you may not find very pleasant, but you shall have to answer them. I have every confidence chat you can do that.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Will! She has been out of her wits with grief!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“You shall not be able to speak for her out there, Elizabeth,” said Shakespeare. “So I suggest you do not try to do so here.” He turned back to Portia, who simply stared back at him. “All I am asking is that you speak the truth,” he said to her. “And if you will not do it for me, or even for your father, do it for Thomas. You shall honor his memory in doing so.”

The door was flung open. “Right,” said the man who had brought Shakespeare from the hall. “Time to go.”

They were led back to the hall.

The masters of the guild were all at their places on the dais.

Moll Cutpurse had rejoined them. Mayhew sat where Shakespeare had left him, at the table. He looked a little haggard, but someone had brought him a pitcher of ale and some bread and cheese. He had not touched the bread and cheese, but he had partaken liberally of the ale. His tankard was half full and the pitcher was half empty.