Simon Hawke: The Merchant of Vengeance

“I never told you that I had been to see a cunning woman,” Antonia replied. “I said that you should go to see a cunning woman if you wished to fool a husband into believing that you were a virgin when you were truly not; I never said that I had gone to see a cunning woman myself!”

Elizabeth folded her arms and scowled at her friend. “Antonia, you purposely led me to believe that was just what you had done!”

“Well… perhaps I did,” Antonia replied, “but I did not lie!

And I did not mean to deceive you.“

“I think that was precisely what you meant to do,” Elizabeth said. “And I can see that I shall have to be more careful what I tell you in the future.”

“Oh, that was unkind!” Antonia said. “Elizabeth, I would never betray your trust! Surely, you must know that!”

“I am not certain that I do,” Elizabeth replied. “But I suppose that we shall see.

Time shall tell how well you keep a confidence.

“I shall never tell a soul, I swear it!”

“If you do, Antonia, then I may go see Granny Meg about another sort of charm,” Elizabeth replied.

Antonia brought both hands up to her mouth. “Elizabeth! You wouldn’t!”

“See if I would not!”

Antonia swallowed hard, her eyes very wide. “I shall be as silent as the grave, I swear!” She crossed her heart.

“Well, then we shall speak no more of it,” Elizabeth said, once more picking up her embroidery.

Antonia swallowed hard again and nodded, resuming her own needlework. A moment later, she gave Elizabeth a sidelong glance and softly said, “Was she very frightening?”

“”Who?“ Elizabeth asked, without looking up.

“You know. ”

“I thought that we agreed to speak no more of it.”

Antonia threw down her needlework. “Oh, Elizabeth, be reasonable, for mercy’s sake! You simply cannot tell me that you have been to see a fearsome witch and then not tell me what it was like! ‘Tis hardly fair!”

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. “Well, for one thing, she was not fearsome. ”

Antonia leaned forward eagerly. “You mean to say that you were truly not afraid?”

“Oh, I was afraid… at least a little,” Elizabeth replied, “but when I met her, I did not find her fearsome.”

“Was she very ugly?”

“‘Nay, she was beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Antonia asked with surprise. “But I had heard that she was old!”

“Well, beautiful in the way an old woman can be beautiful,” Elizabeth said. “Her hair was white and very long, and her face was aged, and yet nearly unlined by age. Her eyes were blue as periwinkles, clear and bright, and you could still see what a beauty she must have been when she was young.”

“I had thought that all witches were ugly old crones,” Antonia said. “Do you suppose ‘twas a spell? That she had made a pact with the devil?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “I could not say. But she did not seem evil in the slightest. Quite the contrary, she was very kind.”

Antonia pursed her lips and nodded knowingly. “‘Tis how they get you,” she said in a low voice.

“I do not think she got me,” Elizabeth replied. “After all, I am here, am I not?”

“I meant… your soul,” Antonia said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I do not recall pledging my soul or signing anything in blood,” Elizabeth said. “There was no talk of the devil, nor did she demand any tokens of me. ‘Twas nothing at all like what I had expected. ’Twas more like going to visit a kindly old maiden aunt or grandmother.”

“That must be how they fool you,” Antonia said, nodding. “I did not have the sense of being fooled,” Elizabeth replied.

“Well, of course not! For if you knew that you were being fooled, then you would not be fooled, for to be fooled, you must not know it, whereas if you knew that you were fooled, then you were never truly fooled, were you?”

Elizabeth glanced at her with an irritated expression. “I have absolutely no idea what you have just said. And in all likelihood, methinks, neither have you.”

“Well, at least it has taken your mind away from contemplating Portia’s wedding.”

Elizabeth grimaced. “Indeed, it had, until you just mentioned it once more.”

“Oh. Drat. Well then, let us speak of something else.”

“Aye, let us do so, by all means.”

“Have you heard what they say about her intended’s father?”

“I am glad to see that we are not speaking of Portia’s wedding any longer,” Elizabeth said wryly.

“I was speaking of Thomas Locke’s father, not Portia’s wedding.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Very well, then. What do they say? That aside from owning a tavern, he is also a brothelkeeper? That is hardly news, Antonia, we all knew that already. ‘Tis certainly no secret.”

“Nay, this is something different.” Antonia leaned closer and added in a conspirational tone, “They say he is a ruffler !”

“What, you mean a criminal? A thief?”

“Not just a thief,” Antonia said, pleased to see she had once more surprised her friend. ‘They say…“ She leaned still closer, looking around cautiously as if they could be overheard. ”They say that he is a master of a thieves’ guild!“

“A thieves’ guild!” Elizabeth frowned. “Antonia, that is absurd! How could thieves possibly have a guild? ‘Twould be against the law!”

“Nevertheless, they do,” Antonia insisted. ‘They meet in secret. And they say that Charles Locke is their master. Or one of them, at the very least. It seems that there are several masters in the guild, one for the alley-men, one for the pickpockets and the foists, one for the sturdy beggars, one for the sharpers, and so on. But they say that Charles Locke is one of the main leaders of them all.“

“Where in Heaven’s name do you hear all of these things, Antonia?” asked Elizabeth. “Who has been filling your ears with all this arrant nonsense? And pray do not tell me you got it from some cunning woman, for we know that is not true, either!”

“‘Tis the truth, Elizabeth!”

“That you got it from a cunning woman? Nonsense. Granny Meg would never have aught to do with the spreading of such rumours. And I know of no other cunning woman in the city.”

“Nay, I know ‘tis true because I read it,” said Antonia. “You read it?”

“Aye, here in this pamphlet, see?”

Antonia reached inside her embroidery basket and pulled out a slim pamphlet that was sharply creased from being folded. It had a crude black-and-white illustration on the cover, a woodcut depicting what appeared to be a room inside a tavern, with men seated at wooden trestle tables, smoking pipes and drinking from large tankards. There were a few bawdy-looking women in the crowd, some sitting on the men’s laps, others standing around in postures that did not seem very ladylike. And holding forth from ‘what appeared to be a sort of pulpit on one side of the room was a bearded man with long hair and dark clothing, one hand raised dramatically overhead, forefinger extended, the other also raised, but slightly lower and clenched into a fist. The title of the pamphlet was The Guild of Thieves , and the subtitle read, Bringing to Light the Notorious and Secret Practices of Divers Thieves and Scoundrels and their Underworld Guild of Cozeners and Coney-Catchers, Written by Robert Greene .

“Wherever did you come by this?” Elizabeth asked, examining it.

“I bought it at a bookstall in Paul’s Walk last Sunday,” Antonia replied. “It makes for most fascinating reading. And it mentions Thomas’s father by name.”

“By name, do you say?”

“Aye, right here, do you see?” Antonia indicated the passage.

“And Master Greene would never write it if ‘twere not true.”