by Simon Hawke
"Oh. I see. Well then, I can tell you that Master Greene is a university man and a respected, well-known poet who has written a considerable number of these pamphlets with an aim to keeping the honest citizen informed of the ways in which the criminals of the underworld conduct their shadowy practices, so that good people may avoid being robbed and cozened."
"The underworld, is it?" said Elizabeth. "It all sounds quite dramatic. What makes you think. that he is not simply making it all up?"
"Well, he did not make up Charles Locke, did he?" Antonia countered. "He is real enough. As is Moll Cutpurse, whom he also mentions in this pamphlet."
"And what would you know about Moll Cutpurse?"
"I know that she is real, because Tuck has met her. He has told me so."
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "Did he, indeed? And just where and when, pray tell, did you two have this conversation?"
"Why, at the bookstall, when I purchased this," Antonia replied. "He was buying one, as well. It turns out that he is a great admirer of Master Greene and has read nearly all of his pamphlets about cozeners and coney-catchers." She hesitated. "He asked about you, of course."
"Ah. How good of him."
"As it happens, 'twas he who recommended that I purchase this," Antonia continued blithely.
"Indeed? And why did he do that, do you suppose?" Elizabeth asked, trying to mask her irritation. She felt irritated that Antonia had met Tuck at St. Paul's, and at the same time it irritated her that she felt irritated.
"Why? Oh, I suppose because I told him that I was looking for something new to read and then asked him what he was going to purchase," Antonia replied, as yet unaware of Elizabeth's reaction.
"So now it seems you both have an interest in common," Elizabeth said dryly, wondering even as she said it why her irritation with Antonia was growing. She had always enjoyed Antonia's company before, but now it seemed she was only getting on her nerves. Elizabeth told herself that it was not as if she had any sort of claim on Tuck Smythe, after all. Their relationship, Such as it was, was ill defined, if indeed it could be said to be defined at all. Was it possible that she was feeling jealous of her friend? Though she was young and very pretty, Antonia was a married woman. But then Elizabeth reminded herself that Antonia had also just confessed to having taken lovers. And if she could so easily be unfaithful to her husband, could she not just as easily be unfaithful to a friend? Or had she been already? It was a disquieting thought, and Elizabeth found herself looking at Antonia in a new and not very favourable light.
"Elizabeth, I do believe that you are jealous," said Antonia, as if suddenly reading her mind.
"Nonsense. Why should I be jealous?" asked Elizabeth, crying to keep her tone neutral and hoping that her face was not turning red. 'Tuck is free to meet with anyone he chooses, and at any time he pleases. As are you, I suppose." She flinched inwardly, wishing that she had not added that last comment. It had sounded tart even as she said it.
Antonia glanced at her and raised her eyebrows. "You are jealous!" she said. "And I do believe you disapprove of me."
"Not so much of you as of your behaviour," admitted Elizabeth, somewhat reluctantly.
"My behaviour," Antonia repeated. "Do you mean my behaviour as it regards my husband or my behaviour as it regards Tuck Smythe?"
"I do not know that there was anything in your behaviour as it regards Tuck Smythe that anyone could fault," Elizabeth replied. "Or was there?" She kicked herself mentally for that. It had sounded less like a question than an accusation. She felt exasperated. Why did she keep doing that? What on earth was the matter with her?
"I do not think that there was anything wrong in my behaviour toward him," Antonia replied. "But 'twould seem you are afraid there might have been. Or may yet be, more to the point. Is it because you suspect that I may have designs upon him?"
"Oh, Antonia, do not be ridiculous!" Elizabeth replied, sensing the telltale flush in her face even as she spoke. She wanted nothing more than to end this conversation. It was absolutely maddening.
"Ridiculous, am I?" Antonia replied. "Well, do you want to know what I think?" And she proceeded to tell her without waiting for a response. "I think that you like Tuck a great deal more than you truly care to admit. And though 'twould be the height of folly,
I dare say you may even love him. Nay, hear me out," she quickly added, raising her hand when she saw that Elizabeth was about to interrupt. 'There is much about Tuck to commend him to any woman, as you well know. He is strong and handsome, honest to a fault, amiable and agreeable and possessed of a good heart. But regrettably, he is also a player and poor as a church-mouse, which means that he would never be considered suitable, not by your father certainly and, if you have any sense at all, not by you, either.
So then where does that leave you? As far as I can see, it leaves you with but three choices. The first would be to realize that you could not have a future together, for your father would never agree to the match, which would mean that tile only sensible thing for you to do would be to forget all about Tuck and wait for the right sort of man to come along, one that could be acceptable to both you and your father. However, I have never known you to be particularly sensible, so I rather doubt that you would choose the sensible course."
"I see," Elizabeth replied dryly. "And what would be the second choice?"
'The second choice," Antonia continued, "would be the romantic one, in which you would throw all caution to the winds and defy your father, absconding with Tuck to some far-off place where the two of you could begin a new life together, with both of you as poor as church-mice and struggling to survive as best you could, hoping that you could somehow live on love. And while I do think that you have a romantic side, Elizabeth, I do not think it overshadows your practical nature, though it does tend to interfere with it somewhat. Aside from that, methinks that Tuck would never agree to such a plan, for 'twould place you at a decided disadvantage and take you away from the sort of life to which you have grown accustomed, not to mention that 'twould also take him away from the life of a player, which is what he has always wanted. You would both wind up unhappy, and you would only make one another miserable in the end."
"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 forbid
den 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.
Chapter 3
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."
"You are too hard a taskmaster, Ben," Smythe replied with a grin. "I fear that you would grow impatient with me."
"Nonsense. But have it your way. My offer stands. There shall be a place for you here anytime you choose."
"Thank you, Ben," said Smythe. "Your kind offer means more to me than I can say. Perhaps I may even take you up on it one day. But if I may, I should like to discuss the purpose of our visit."
"By all means. I am all attention."
'Well," said Smythe, "we have considered that of all the people that we know, you are doubtless the most widely travelled and have thus seen much more of the world than anyone else of our acquaintance."
"Perhaps," said Dickens with a shrug. "I have travelled widely, that is true, and I have seen much. I would not pretend that this has given me great stores of wisdom, but I may have learned a thing or two along the way. If my experience can be of any benefit to you, then please say how I may be of service."
"Do you happen to know any Jews?" asked Shakespeare.
Dickens raised his eyebrows. "Now, there is a curious question! Of all the things you could have asked of me, I must say, I would never have expected that. Why do you ask?"
"Will is intent upon writing a play about a Jew, so as to outdo Kit Marlowe's Jew of Malta," Tuck replied.
"Well now, you need not have put it quite that way," Shakespeare said, somewhat petulantly.
"How else should I have put it?" Smythe asked.
"You could have simply said that I was considering writing a play about a Jew and left it at that. You need not have added that I was trying to outdo Kit Marlowe. That makes it seem as if I am trying to compete with him."
"But you are trying to compete with him. You told me so yourself."
'Well, never in so many words."
"As I recall, it took you a great multitude of words to say so. I merely said it much more sparingly."
"Perhaps you should be the one to write the play, then!"
"I do not pretend to be a poet… unlike some people of my acquaintance. "
"Aghh.' Aghh! Shakespeare clutched his chest theatrically.
"Stabbed to the quick! Oh, traitorous blade! Et tu, Tuckus! Et tu."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake!" said Smythe, rolling his eyes.
"I have known a number of Jews, as it happens," Dickens said, watching them with a bemused expression. "Or was that merely a rhetorical question?"
"'Wha
t are they like?" asked Shakespeare. "Are they at all like Englishmen, or are they very foreign in their nature? And what do you suppose it means to be a Jew?"
"Well, that is a rather difficult thing to say," Dickens replied with a contemplative frown. "Although I have met some Jews during my travels, I make no claim to any true knowledge of their religion, so as to all the ways in which 'tis different from ours, I could not even begin to tell you. As to your question about their seeming foreign, I suppose that they might seem rather foreign to most Englishmen. Their customs are very different from ours in many ways, and yet in others they are very much the same. I cannot say what it means to be a Jew, for in truth only a Jew could tell you that. I can venture to say, however, that to be a Jew must require great strength of faith, for I can think of no faith that has been so sorely tested."
"You mean because they are so reviled by Christians?" Smythe asked.
"In part," Dickens replied. "But at the same time, 'tis not so simple as all that. Here in England, they were driven out many years ago, save for a small number who remained and were confined to certain areas, tolerated in large part only because there was a need for them. But in other lands, if they have not likewise been driven out, they have often been very harshly used. And yet despite that, they still cling to their faith. All I can say is that a faith that can claim such strong adherents under such duress must surely offer much to its believers."