by Simon Hawke
"I should be glad to do so," Smythe replied.
"I shall tell you of some places where he may be found," said
Locke. "He is most regular in his habits, and with luck you shall not take long in finding him. The first place you must seek him is the tailor shop of Master Leffingwell…"
"Well, here is another fine mess you have got us into," Shakespeare grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and huddling in his cloak as the small boat bobbed up and down in the choppy current of the Thames. "Pray tell, why is it that you always have to go sticking your nose into other people's business?"
Smythe sighed. "I am sorry, Will. You are quite right, of course. The entire matter was really none of my concern. Thomas is Ben's friend, not ours, and I should, indeed, have kept my foolish mouth shut. I apologise. I truly do."
"Well… we still have some time before our next performance," Shakespeare said, although he sounded a bit dubious. "With any luck, we shall find Thomas at his master's shop, pass on his father's message, and then make it back across the river to the theatre by the first trumpet call."
"I hope so, but I am not so certain," Smythe replied. "We may be cutting it a bit too close. For certain, we shall miss rehearsal."
"Never fear," said the grizzled wherry-man, in a gruff and raspy voice, without missing a stroke as he rowed them across. "'Twill rain cats 'n' dogs within the hour. Ye won't be havin' any show this night, ye can be sure O' that."
Smythe glanced up at the sky. "'Tis a bit gray, indeed," he said,
"but how can you be so certain?"
The wherry-man spat over the side. "I can feel it in me bones, lad. I been scullin' this 'ere river since afore yer birth. If'n I say'tis gonna rain, 'strewth 'n' ye count on rain. Wager on it, if ye like."
He pulled hard and steady on the short oars of the sharp-prowed wherry as they cut through the choppy water. About twenty feet in length and narrow in the beam, the wherry could carry up to five passengers. On this short cross-river journey, though, only Will and Tuck were being rowed by the sole wherry-man, whose powerful arms pulled on the sculls with strong and purposeful strokes.
The Company of Watermen consisted of several thousand wherry-men much like him, a rough-and-tumble lot who plied the waters of the Thames in boats of various sizes, rowing the citizens of London across and up and down the river. With all the traffic on the narrow, crowded, and muddy city streets, many of which still remained unpaved, it was often easier to get around London by travelling the river. Thus, the Company of Watermen was one of the largest companies in the city.
The weather-beaten boatmen, known as watermen or wherry-men or scullers, made their living ferrying the citizens of London on the Thames for the very reasonable fare of about one pence per person. On any given day, their boats dotted the surface of the river like water-flies upon a country pond. There were even Royal Watermen, who rowed solely in service to the queen and her court. A veteran such as the old wherry-man who rowed them had very likely also spent some time serving in the Royal Navy, which often turned to the Company of Watermen for impressment. Consequently, there was little point in questioning his knowledge of the river and the weather. If he said he knew that it would rain, then it would surely rain.
"Well, 'tis a pity that we shall not be able to perform tonight," said Shakespeare, "but all the same, it serves us just as well. I should not have liked hastening back for our performance before we could have done Locke's bidding properly. He is not a man to be trifled with, methinks."
"Ye mean Shy Locker" the wherry-man asked. "You two on a job for 'im, are ye?"
"Shy Locker" said Shakespeare. "Nay, one Charles Locke, a Southwark tavern-keeper, was the man I meant."
"Aye, 'tis 'im," the wherry-man replied. "Shy Locke, they call
'im." He grinned. "Ye want't' know why?"
"Somehow I have the distinct impression that you are going to tell us," Shakespeare said wryly, drawing his cloak about him against the chill.
"'E's an important man in 'is own way, 'e is," the wherry-man replied from somewhere behind his thick and bushy beard as he bent to the oars. "But ye would never know it to see 'im in 'is tavern, mind. 'E 'ides 'is light under a bushel, ye might say, like a shy sort. Never acts important. Never puts on airs. An' yet, not a thief or alley-man in the city plies 'is trade without ole Shy Locke's permission, if ye please."
"There, you see?" Smythe said. "What did I tell you? Greene was right."
"Robby Greene, what writes them pamphlets?" asked the wherry-man.
"Robby?" Shakespeare said, raising his eyebrows. Somehow, the familiarity did not seem to fit the bitterly resentful ruin of a man that they had met.
"Aye, 'e knows whereof 'e speaks, ole Robby does," the wherry-man continued as he rowed. "A regular chronicler of the underworld,'e is."
"One might think people like that would resent his writing all about them and telling all the world their business," Shakespeare said.
"Aye, one might think that, indeed," the wherry-man replied. "And yet, strange as it might be, they seem to like it. I often 'ear 'em talk about it in the taverns or when I 'ave 'em in me boat. Robby Greene makes 'em famous, see? Get yer name in one o' those pamphlets'e writes an' then yer cock o' the walk in that lot."
"How curious," said Shakespeare. "Much as noblemen often have their pet poets who write sonnets to extol their virtues, so 'twould seem that criminals in London have their own poet in Robert Greene. And, as such, I could see how 'twould be a measure of their status to be mentioned in his writings."
"'Twould help explain why he has a cut-throat like that Cutting Ball at his beck and call," said Smythe.
"Oh, aye, 'e's a bad one, all right," the wherry-man replied with a knowing nod. “I would be givin' 'im a right wide berth if I was you. One time, one o' Robby Greene's creditors sent a bill collector after 'im. The man found 'im, all right, but Cutting Ball was with 'im, and 'e gave the poor sod a choice to eat the bill or 'ave his throat cut."
“I imagine that he ate it rather promptly," Shakespeare said dryly.
"Washed it down with ale, then took to 'is heels like the devil 'imself were chasin' 'im," the wherry-man replied with a chuckle.
"That sounds like just the sort of thing that ruffian would do," said Smythe with a grimace. “I must admit, the more I learn about Master Robert Greene, the less and less I like the man."
"Oh, 'e's an 'orrible man!" the wherry-man exclaimed. "Vile tempered and mean-spirited as they come!"
"And a university man, at that," said Shakespeare. "A master of the am, no less." He shook his head. "He was a good poet in his time. 'Tis a pity what has become of him. A sad thing. A very sad thing, indeed."
"A harbinger of things to come, perhaps?" asked Smythe with a smile.
"Perish the thought!" Shakespeare replied with a shudder. “I should sooner go back to Stratford than see myself reduced to such a state! Nay, I shall not be fortune's fool, Tuck. Thus far, I have achieved some small measure of success, and I an) most grateful for it. I shall endeavour to make the most of it, you may be sure of that, but if I see that my run of luck has ended, then I shall know well enough to quit. I promise you. A wise guest knows not to overstay his welcome at Dame Fortune's table."
"'Ere we be, good sirs," the wherry-man said, as he shipped the oars and let the boat drift up to the flight of stone steps coming straight down the bank to the river. There were many such "pairs of stairs" along the riverside, built expressly for the purpose of small boats pulling up to them. 'Watch yer step, now!"
The warning was as traditional as it was unnecessary. Everyone knew how slick the steps could be, especially on a damp day. The rough-cut stones had been smoothed by both the elements and foot traffic over time and were often slippery. Smythe and Shakespeare stepped out gingerly, one at a time, while the wherry-man held the boat steady, dose to the steps.
"Look sharp, good wherry-man," Smythe said, flipping him an extra coin. "For a swift passage and the benefit of your wisdom."
/> "Thank ye, lad," the old wherry-man replied, catching the coin. "Mind now, ye go muckin' about with the likes o' Shy Locke and 'tis fortune's darlings ye will need to be to come out with your heads all in one piece. Do what ye please, but just remember old Puck the Wherry-man and what 'e told ye."
"We shall do that, Puck, and thank you," Smythe replied, as the wherry-man pulled away in search of another fare. "A right good fellow, that," he said to Shakespeare.
"Aye. A good fellow, indeed. But did you happen to pay any mind to what he said?"
"He said 'twould rain soon."
"And that we would do well to avoid any dealings with the likes of this Shy Locke if we wanted to keep our heads from being broken," Shakespeare said.
"We have already had some dealings with him," Smythe replied, as they ascended the steps to the street, "and thus tar, we seem to have survived with our heads unscathed:"
'Thus far," Shakespeare replied with a grimace.
"Oh, stop worrying so much, Will," said Smythe with a grin. "'Tis a simple enough matter. All we need do is deliver his message to Thomas Locke and there will be an end to it. 'Tis not as if we were embarking upon a precarious journey to some den of thieves!"
"It seems to me that when all of this started, 'twas merely a simple matter of going to a tavern so that you could meet your favourite pamphleteer," Shakespeare replied dryly. "Your 'simple matters' have a disconcerting tendency to become byzantine in their complexity."
"And this from a man who cannot seem to get a single play finished before he begins a new one," Smythe replied. "How many are you working on at present? Three? Or is it four?"
"A poet must follow his inspiration," Shakespeare replied. "He might do better to generate some perspiration by applying himself to only one task at a time," Smythe said.
"Oh, indeed? And where, pray tell, did you learn your mastery in the craft of poetry? Whilst apprenticing with your Uncle Thomas at his forge? Doubtless, you declaimed the classics to one another between hammer blows upon the anvil. Beat the verses into submission, I suppose. Iambic pentameter, if you will."
"“I am a what?"
"Oh, never mind," said Shakespeare, rolling his eyes. "To you, a heroic couplet probably suggests Greek ardor."
"What the devil are you talking about?"
'"Your education, sirrah, or, more to the point, the lack of it.
'Tis showing as brightly as a pinked sleeve. I shall take your lead when it comes to smithing or weaponry or knowledge of the criminal underworld, about which you have read so exhaustively and exhaustingly, but when it comes to poetry, my friend, I shall thank you to speak little, or, better yet, speak not at all."
"Do you know, if you expended as much effort in your writing as you do in tongue lashing, then your productions would be hailed throughout the world," said Smythe.
"And if you spent half as much time learning your lines as you do in finding fault with me, then London would forget Ned Alleyn and hail you as the greatest actor of all time!"
"Hark, methinks I hear a kite screeching," Smythe said sourly. ""Whilst I hear a tiresome and rustic drone," Shakespeare replied.
"Rustic? Rustic, did you say? And this from a bog-trotting, leather-jerkined Stratford glovemaker! See how yon pot calls the kettle black!"
"Bog-trotting, leather-jerkined glovemaker? Oh, that was vile!"
"Well, if the muddy gauntlet fits…
""Why, you base and timorous scoundrel! You call me a leather-jerkined bog-trotter whilst you lumber about London in country galligaskins and hempen homespun like some hedge-hopping haggard? You raucous crow!"
"Unmannered dog!"
"Rooting hog!"
"Yelping cur!"
"Honking goose!"
"Balding miscreant!"
"Balding? Balding? "Why, you vaporous churl…
"Hey, you, down there! Shaddap!" A stream of odoriferous slop came pouring down from a second-story window above them as somebody threw out the contents of a chamberpot, just barely missing them.
"Why, that miserable, misbegotten—"
"Never mind, never mind," interrupted Shakespeare, pulling on Smythe's arm to hurry him along. "We really do not have time for this. I should very much like to complete our errand and return in enough time to attend at least part of today's rehearsal. Henslowe has said that he would be fining us from now on if we did not attend."
"Well, I suppose you are right," Smythe grumbled, allowing himself to be led away. He shot a venomous glance back toward the building from whence the excrementory assault had come. 'We should be nearing Leffingwell's shop, in any event."
"I believe 'tis right around the corner," Shakespeare said, as they came around a bend in the curving street and entered a small, cobblestoned cul-de-sac containing a number of shops with painted wooden signs hanging out over their doors.
Several of these shops had display windows in the front with one large wooden shutter that was hinged at the bottom, so that it swung down to open and swing up to close, then was latched from the inside. When swung down in the open position, this shutter, supported by chains or ropes, functioned as a display table upon which the craftsmen could show their wares to passers-by in the street. Of course, it was often necessary to fasten the goods down or have someone there to watch them; otherwise a thief could make off with something without even entering the shop. Here, however, such a snatch-and-grab would be rendered more difficult, since these shopkeepers had all joined forces to hire a couple of burly, rough-looking men armed with clubs and daggers to act as guards. They sat upon wooden kegs at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, leaning back against the building walls with their thick arms folded across their massive chests, giving everybody who came past them a close scrutiny.
Smythe and Shakespeare entered the tailor shop where Thomas Locke had served his apprenticeship and now worked as a journeyman. The owner of the shop, a lean and severe-looking master tailor, approached them, looked them over quickly, and did not quite manage to mask his purse-lipped disapproval of their attire, which was neither very fashionable nor very expensive. Still, there was always the possibility that they might be looking to upgrade their appearance, and so he put on a polite smile and asked them if he could be of any assistance.
"In truth, sir, we came in search of Thomas Locke, who we were told is employed here as a journeyman," said Smythe. "We have a message for him from his father."
The tailor sighed and rolled his eyes. "Indeed, everyone seems to be looking for Thomas today," he replied with irritation. "I, too, would very much like to know what has become of him. He should have been here hours ago. 'Tis most unlike him to be so late."
"What do you mean, everyone seems to be looking for him?" Shakespeare asked. "Has someone else been here asking for him, as well?"
"Aye, three women came by in a carriage a little while ago," the tailor replied. "They were asking about him, too. One of them was his betrothed, or so she claimed."
"Did she give her name as Portia?" Smythe asked.
"Aye, she was the one," the tailor replied. "A pretty young thing, if you like that sort. A bit on the coltish side, if you ask me, but with the right style of clothing, in a fuller cut, she could present a decent figure, I suppose. I know not who her tailor is, and did not presume to ask, but she could certainly do better. The other one was not all that much different. Antonia, I think she said her name was, a bit more brassy looking, but well dressed in silks and damasks in dark hues that set off her colouring to good advantage. However, the flaxen-haired one, Mistress Elizabeth, now, there was a woman who knew how to wear clothes. The moment I saw that exquisite green velvet cloak, I told myself this was a woman of excellent taste and sensibility."
"Elizabeth?" said Smythe, interrupting him abruptly. "Do you mean Elizabeth Darcie?"
"Aye, Darcie was her name, indeed. Master Henry Darcie's daughter. Now there is a gentleman I would be proud to count among my customers. Mistress Darcie admired some of my bolts of cloth and said she might return and
order a dress or two. Aye, she had excellent taste. Excellent taste, indeed. My most expensive silks and velvets were what caught her eye. In my humble opinion, Thomas would have done himself a deal of good had he set his cap at her rather than that other one."
"Oh, good Heavens!" Shakespeare said, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "How has Elizabeth managed. to become mixed up in this business? Is there nothing the two of you do not stick your noses into?"
"Mixed up in what business?" the tailor asked, frowning. "Thomas has not done anything wrong, has he?"
"Nay, I am certain he has not," replied Smythe. "'Tis only that his father was most anxious to speak with him concerning some family matter and, as we have just come from him, he asked us to convey the message to him."
"Well, if you see him, you may convey another one to him from me," the tailor said. "You may tell him that Master Leffingwell is not in the habit of employing journeymen who do not show up for work. He never behaved this way when he was my apprentice, and if he thinks that becoming a journeyman means that he may now come to work only when it pleases him, then he is very much mistaken. And you may tell him that I shall expect him here tomorrow, promptly, and I shall want a full accounting from him concerning where he was today, indeed I shall!"
"We shall be sure to tell him, Master Leffingwell," said Smythe. "But we are not certain where he may be found. Perhaps you could assist us. Did he not reside somewhere nearby?"
"I can only tell you what I told the three young ladies," the tailor replied. "Thomas has a. room he rents above the mercer's shop across the street. However, as I had already sent one of my apprentices there earlier today, to see if perhaps Thomas had fallen ill, I can of a certainty tell you that he is not there. As to where he may be found, I fear I cannot say. 'Tis not my habit to keep track of everyone who works for me. I merely expect them to be here on time and to do their jobs properly."