Simon Hawke: The Merchant of Vengeance

There was not a sound within the room. No one spoke. Nobody moved.

“And what happened then?” asked Shakespeare softly.

“I felt as if my world had crumbled all around me,” she said wearily. “I turned away from him… my head was spinning… and then I saw his dagger where he had laid it down upon the table… there was a roaring in my ears, a terrible roaring, like the wind… a sound so loud… so very, very loud… oh, I hear it still… I hear it still… It will not go away!” She brought her hands up to her ears to block out a sound that only she could hear.

“Make it go away! Please, make it go away!”

She sank to her knees upon the floor, rocking back and forth, her hands covering her ears.

“Make it go away!” she whimpered. “Please, make it go away!”

“Oh, Portia!” Mayhew cried, crouching at her side and putting his arms around her. “My poor Portia!”

Charles Locke rose to his feet, staring down at her, holding the hammer clutched tightly in his fist. Then he looked down at it, dropped it on the table, and walked out of the room without a word.

Antonia still stood there, as if rooted to the spot, staring at Portia with horror and dismay. Mayhew sobbed quietly as he held his daughter, who seemed no longer able to hear him. Or anything else.

Smythe came up to Shakespeare and took him by the arm.

“However did you guess that she had done it?” he asked.

Shakespeare shook his head. “I had no idea,” he said.

“‘Strewth, I thought Antonia had killed him.”

“And so we were all blindfolded once again, and then taken back to where they found us,” Shakespeare said. “Tuck and I were dropped off on London Bridge. Elizabeth and Winifred were taken to their homes, as were all the others, I would assume.”

“And what became of Portia Mayhew and her father” asked John Hemings.

“Well, Portia will likely live out the remainder of her days in Bedlam,” Shakespeare said. “And as for Mayhew… Shy Locke could not truly blame him for the death of his son. He knew that what happened to Henry Mayhew’s daughter shall haunt him evermore. Rachel Locke had lost her son. And now, in a different way, Mayhew has lost his daughter. Mayhap Winifred shall be of some comfort to him.”

“‘Tis a tragedy worthy of the Greeks,” Gus Phillips said, shaking his head.

“Indeed,” said Shakespeare. “No one was truly blameless in this sad affair. ‘Tis one of those tales where in the end, the stage is littered with victims.”

“Truly, not even Marlowe could have penned a more dramatic tale,” said Tom Pope.

“I am beginning to grow rather tired of hearing about Marlowe,” Shakespeare replied testily.

“Indeed, he does seem to vex you. It does not seem as if the Rose Theatre is big enough for both of you,” said Smythe with a smile.

“It does rather make one miss the good old days at our old theatre with the Burbages,” said Shakespeare.

“Hark! Did I hear someone mention my name?” a ringing voice called out from behind them.

“Dick!” said Smythe.

They all turned as Richard Burbage came up to their table, grinning from ear to ear. “Well met, my friends! Well met!”

“Well met, Dick!” Hemings exclaimed, jumping up and clapping him upon the back. “‘Tis good to see you once again, old friend! How goes it at the Theatre?”

“Well, ‘tis funny you should ask,” said Burbage. “I shall tell you how goes it at the Theatre. The Theatre goes, is how it goes!”

‘The Theatre goes?“ said Pope, raising his eyebrows. ”What do you mean it goes?“

“It goes is precisely what I mean,” said Burbage with a big grin.

He winked at them. “It goes straight across the river!”

“What goes across the river” Smythe asked with a frown.

“The Theatre does!” said Burbage, slapping him on the back with a laugh. “Listen well, my friends. Are you all up for a bit of mischief?”

“Always,” Speed replied. “What did you have in mind?”

“Just this: You will recall, no doubt, our old adversary, our money-grubbing landlord? Well, after all of his repeated threats, the rascal has finally decided not to renew our lease. And so, since he owns the land upon which the Theatre sits, he thinks in this way to seize the Theatre for himself, the bounder! But whilst he may own the land, my father and lawn the building. And so, my friends… we are going to move it!”

“What?” said Shakespeare. “Move the entire theatre, do you mean?”

“Precisely!” Burbage said.

“But… how the devil do you plan on doing that?”

“We are going to tear it down completely, and then move the timbers by boat across the river to Southwark, where we shall use them to build a brand-new theatre, even better than the first!”

“You mean the one you told us you had planned?” asked Smythe.

“The very one,” Burbage replied. “I had told you that the day would come when we would all play upon the same stage once again, did I not? Well, that day is here! And that very stage is now going to be built! We are going to construct the Globe, my friends!”

“When?” asked Shakespeare.

“It begins tonight!” said Burbage. “Tonight?” they all said at once.

“We must move swiftly, like the wind!” Burbage said. “We must have the building completely torn down by the morning, and the timbers loaded up on boats and floated ‘cross the river afore our landlord can seize the property! The carpenters are standing by! What do you say, my friends? Are you with me?”

“We are with you!” Smythe replied at once, getting up from his seat.

“We are your very men!” said Shakespeare, rising to join him.

“Come then, my friends, and let us all away!” said Burbage.

“And together we shall confound the landlord come the break of day!”