Simon Hawke - The Merchant of Vengeance

“I suppose we would,” Elizabeth agreed with a grimace. “And so what is the third choice?”

“The third choice is the practical alternative,” Antonia replied. “And that is to take Tuck as a lover, indulge your passion, allow it to run its course, and then, when it is spent, get on with your own life and let him get on with his. And ‘tis that choice which seems to me to be the best for you. If you think it over, and then discuss it plainly and honestly with Tuck, I suspect that in the end you will both see that I am right.”

Elizabeth was not quite sure how to respond to that, but before she could gather her wits to respond in any way at all, the sound of running footsteps accompanied by an anguished, sobbing cry made them both look up to see Portia come running in through the stone, ivy-covered arbour entrance to the garden. They both jumped to their feet as Portia came running up to them, holding up her skirts so that she would not trip, her hair in disarray, her face wet with the tears that were streaming down her cheeks. She came rushing up to Elizabeth and threw her arms around her, sobbing into her shoulder.

“ Portia!” Elizabeth exclaimed with concern, as she tried to comfort her. “Dear Heaven, Portia, ”What has happened? What is wrong?“

“Oh, woe is me, for I am the most miserable girl who ever lived!” Portia wailed. “My life is over! My one chance for happiness has flown! Father has called the wedding off!”

“He called it off?” Antonia said. “But ‘twas to take place within a fortnight! I thought that he approved of Thomas and gave all his blessings to the match! Whatever could have happened to make him change his mind and call it off?”

“A disaster has happened!” wailed Portia. “A most untimely, untoward, and unfair disaster! Father has discovered that Thomas’s mother was a Jewess, and so that means that Thomas is himself a Jew! He has called off the wedding and has forbidden me to see or ever speak with Thomas again! Oh, fie! Oh, unbid spite! I think that I shall die!” And with that she buried her head in Elizabeth’s shoulder and started sobbing once again.

Antonia met Elizabeth’s gaze and shook her head. “And you thought you had problems,” she said wryly.

The shop of Ben Dickens, the armourer, was one of the busiest in Cheapside. It was always full of hammering and clanging noises as the journeymen and apprentices worked at the forge and at the anvils on the heavy wooden trestle tables in the smoky room, bending and shaping metal into cuirasses and bucklers, leg harnesses and gauntlets, helms, visors and gorgets, elbow cops, and other pieces that made up heavy suits of armour, most of which, in all likelihood, would never see a real battle.

The advent of firearms had made the armoured, mounted knight all but obsolete, save for ceremonial tournaments largely staged for entertainment. And if a nobleman did not require a full suit of polished and elaborately engraved armour for competing in a tournament-although such tournaments were truly not so much competitions as exhibitions and parades-then he would most likely order one, or several perhaps, to stand in a conspicuous location in his home. There it would often become a part of an elaborate display of anus, including swords and shields, pikes and halberds, and maces and axes, all bejewelled or otherwise embellished and mounted on the walls, often over coats of arms, so that they might give ostentatious testimony to the noble aristocracy of their owner, who probably did not have the faintest idea how to employ any of them in combat.

Ben Dickens accepted all this philosophically. Unlike the vast majority of his customers, he had actually been to war and know from firsthand experience just what terrible damage such weapons could inflict. Consequently, he had no trouble will the fact that most of the weapons that he made were put primarily to passive, peaceful uses. Nevertheless, unlike some other armourers who did a brisk business in weapons that looked better than they functioned, Dickens prided himself on crafting weapons that could, if need be, serve their owners every bit as well upon the field of battle as they did upon the wall In some cases, they did, for while most of his clients were members of the aristocracy, more than a few were mercenaries or privateers. Though their weapons were generally plain and unembellished, they were no less well made for lacking ostentation.

As Tuck and Smythe came in, Dickens looked up, saw them, and waved. To one who did not know him, it would have been difficult to tell who the owner of the shop was, for Dickens looked as young as any of his journeymen. Tall, fit, and well formed, with chestnut hair and dark eyes, he was dressed simply in well-worn brown leather breeches and a matching doublet, over which he wore a leather apron. He spoke for a moment to several of his craftsmen, and then approached them with a smile, a very large and ornate war sword in his grasp.

“What do you think?” Dickens asked, holding up the two-handed great sword for Will and Tuck’s examination.

“Well. ‘tis very large,” Shakespeare ventured uncertainly. Dickens sighed and shook his head. “What do you think, Tuck?”

“‘Tis a very handsome sword, indeed,” replied Smythe. “Too bad about the flaw.”

“ Hah ? There, what did I tell you?” Dickens said triumphantly, turning back to several of his journeymen who were looking on. “Did I not say that he would see it straightaway?”

Shakespeare frowned. “What flaw?” he asked.

“There, in the blade, see?” Dickens pointed it out to him. “‘Tis a flaw in the metal.”

Shakespeare looked more closely. “Now that you point it out, I can see it,” he said, “but ‘tis barely noticeable.”

“Nevertheless, ‘twould make the blade fail in combat,” Dickens said, tossing it aside contemptuously. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Fail how?” asked Shakespeare.

“‘Twould break,” said Smythe, bending down and picking up the sword. “This cannot be one of yours, Ben.”

“It very nearly was,” Dickens replied. “One of my own journeymen tried to pass this off as being acceptable, since ‘twould only be employed for decoration. I gave him the boot. Some of the others thought that I was being too harsh. When you came in, Tuck, I told them that you would spot the flaw in an instant. They disagreed and wagered you would not.” He laughed. “Gentlemen,” he cried out, thumping the table, “pay up!”

With sour expressions, several of the journeymen placed their coins upon the tabletop.

“Consider it a lesson cheaply bought!” Dickens told them.

“Mark me well, for I shall not tolerate inferior craftsmanship!”

“Where shall I put this?” asked Smythe, holding the sword. “I care not,” said Dickens. “What good is it? Throw it out.”

“Why not hang it upon the wall back here, as a symbol of what shall not pass out of this shop?” asked Smythe.

“Now that is an excellent idea,” Dickens said. “I shall do just that. You should come and work for me, Tuck. You know your steel. You would make a splendid armourer.”

Tuck smiled. “You have asked me before, Ben, and I fear my answer has still not changed.”

“But why?” asked Dickens. “You do work for that cantankerous old smith Liam Bailey. What can he offer you that I cannot?”

“The freedom to come and go as I please, for one thing.” Smythe replied. “And I enjoy working in a small smithy, for another. It reminds me of my boyhood, working with my Uncle Thomas. Besides, my first loyalty shall always be to our company, Ben, you know that.”

“Aye, I know,” said Dickens with a smile. “And I understand, too. I was a player once myself, remember. But ‘tis indeed a pity. You would be a wonderful addition to my shop.”