Bailey frowned and grunted, then turned his back upon them and resumed his work.
"Come on, Ben," Smythe said, taking off his apron and hanging it up on its hook, anxious to be off before Dickens irritated Bailey any further. "Good night to you, Liam. I shall return upon the morn."
"Suit yourself," said the smith, without turning around.
Dickens chuckled as they left. "Sour as a green apple, is he not?" he said as they stepped out into the street.
" 'Tis just his way," said Smythe. "Liam Bailey is a good man. He is honest and good-hearted."
"I know he is," Dickens replied. "My old master would never have had aught to do with him else. But unlike a green apple, Bailey sours even further as he ripens. He does not approve of me, I fear."
"He seems like that to everyone," Smythe replied. "Besides, methinks he does not truly know you."
"Nay, he knows all he needs to know, or else thinks he needs to know," said Dickens, good-naturedly, "and that is that I left a good apprenticeship to become a mercenary soldier. And for that sort of 'damned foolishness,' as he called it himself, I do not think that Liam Bailey could ever forgive anyone, least of all an ungrateful apprentice who left the service of a friend of his."
"I have never heard him speak of your Master Moryson," said Smythe. "What became of him? Does he still pursue his craft?"
"He died," said Dickens. The joviality left his tone. "He fell to the sweating sickness the year after I left."
"I am sorry," Smythe said.
"So am I," said Dickens. "He was a good man, and a fair master. He taught me much. Bailey was right, you know. 'Twas ungrateful of me to have left him."
"You did what you felt you had to do," said Smythe. "You wanted adventure, and you knew that you would never find it working in an armorer's shop."
"True," Dickens agreed. "I did want adventure. Very much so. And I found it. Very much so. And now, looking back on it all, I am sorry that I ever left."
"Was it so bad then?"
Dickens shrugged. "'Twas all very different from what I had expected. But then, enough of that. I should not wish to have you thinking 'tis my wont to wallow in melancholy. As I have said before, had I known then what I now know, methinks I would have made some different choices, but there is little to be served in regreting what is past."
"Indeed," said Smythe. "There is much to be said for looking forward."
Dickens smiled. "And to what do you look forward, Tuck?"
"At the moment, I merely look forward to the playhouses opening once more," said Smythe. "S'trewth, we all desperately need the money. And not all the players are able to find other work, as I have been fortunate to do."
"I doubt that fortune has very much to do with it," said Dickens. "I saw what you were doing there. You seem to know what you are about."
"My Uncle Thomas was a smith. He taught me," Smythe replied.
"I would say he taught you well," said Dickens. "And I daresay he was more than just a smith. You were not forging horseshoes back there. You were working on a blade."
" 'Twas his true passion," Smythe replied, adding with pride, "and in the craftsmanship of blades, I never saw him have an equal. Truly, I would put his blades against the finest of Toledo."
Indeed? Thomas Smythe, you say? Mind you, now, I intend no offense toward you nor toward your uncle, but if his blades are truly of such superior craftsmanship, how is it I have never head of him?"
Smythe saw that the question came from curiosity, rather than from skepticism of his claim, so he did not take umbrage. "Our village was a small one," he replied, "and no main thoroughfare ran through it. 'Twas tucked away upon the boundary of a wood, and we received few visitors. When the players came through on tour once in my youth, 'twas a momentous event. The arrival of each itinerant peddlar was regarded as a great occasion." He smiled. "I recall how I used to dream of going to the city to become a player. Naught else did I desire. But not Uncle Thomas. He liked his quiet life. He is a simple man who keeps his own company and keeps it well. He works for the love of the craft, and the pride he takes in it, not for wealth nor fame. And if he had those things, why, I do not believe that he would quite know what to do with them."
"Well, I should much like to see one of your uncle's blades someday," said Dickens.
"You might be disappointed," Smythe replied. "They are rather plain and ordinary looking, not at all showy in appearance… but then again, as a soldier and one who was an armorer's apprentice… Well, here then…" He unsheathed his simple knife. "He made this for me years ago, when I was just a boy. It bears his maker's mark."
Dickens took the knife and examined it. "It balances exceedingly well, and the design, while simple, looks quite strong." He lightly tested the blade. "It holds a fine edge, too. Very fine, indeed." He held it hilt downwards, point up alongside his inner forearm, as if concealing it, and then flipped it around in his grasp, blade held outward, ready to stab or throw. He turned it back around once more, holding his arm down by his side, to try the maneuver once again. It was, thought Smythe, a good way to carry a knife openly, yet unobtrusively, in the event that one expected trouble. Trust a mercenary, he thought, to know that sort of clever trick.
" 'Allo, Ben," said Jack Darnley, suddenly stepping out in front of them from a side street. His fellow apprentice, Bruce McEnery, was right behind him.
" 'Allo, Jack," said Dickens, coming to a halt. "I see you brought your ill-humored shadow with you," he added, smirking at McEnery's perpetual sneer.
"And I see you brought yours," Darnley replied, with a smile. "Tuck is your friend's name, if I recall aright."
"It is," said Smythe. "Tuck Smythe, at your service."
"Fancy running into you again so soon, Jack," Dickens said casually. "One might almost think 'twas more than happenstance."
"As well one might," said Darnley. "We have been keeping an eye on you, you know."
"Have you, now? And what would be the reason for such concern, I wonder?"
As Ben spoke, Smythe became aware of movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see half a dozen apprentices spread out behind them. He groaned inwardly. What pernicious fortune had befallen him that it was the second time in as many days he was being accosted by a street gang? People around them in the street, seeing the congregation, gave them a wide berth, crossing over to the other side and hurrying past without a backward glance.
"We only wanted to make certain that you were all right, Ben," Darnley replied.
"How very land of you and the boys, Jack. And tell me, what made you think that I might not be?"
"The city has changed whilst you have been away, Ben," Darnley said. "London is very different now. 'Tis no longer the same place you remember from the old days."
"Indeed? How very odd," said Dickens. "Why, it still looks much the same to me. S'trewth, and it smells the same as I remember, too," he added, wrinkling his nose. "The heady perfume of Fleet Ditch on the breeze is just as I recall it. Or mayhap 'tis just the fragrance of unwashed 'prentices upon the wind. What think you?"
"You may jest, Ben, but that does not change the truth of what I tell you," Darnley said. "London is now in many ways a different city than the one you left, and few of the changes have been for the better."
"I have an intimation that you intend to educate me as to those changes, Jack," said Dickens, with a smile.
"Indeed, methinks there is a need for it. You see, you left us, Ben, to go off adventuring and seek your fortune in some foreign land, whilst we all stayed here in London to make the best of things, because this is our home. Our home," he repeated, thumping his chest for emphasis. "Our city." He swept out his arm in an expansive gesture, encompassing all their surroundings. "Our streets. And yet, with each and every passing day, we have found our home invaded, as much as any conquering army might invade a country it has vanquished. Only this foreign army marched in piecemeal, coming in dribs and drabs… a few Flemish craftsmen here, some Italian merchants there, German traders, Egyp
tian fortune-tellers and the like, til now you can scarce spit on a street in London without hitting some damned foreigner. Take a look around you, Ben. On any day, a man can see countless good English working men and women out begging in the streets, desperate for a job, a warm place to sleep, a meager crust of bread with which to stave off hunger, and amongst them all go aloof Italian merchants in their silks, snobbish Flemish craftsmen in their three-piled velvet finery, arrogant German shopkeepers stuffed fat with ale and sausages, shifty gypsy moonmen ever ready to cozen some poor and honest working man out of the few brass farthings he has left. 'Tis not the same city that you left at all, Ben. 'Tis a city that the bloody damned foreigners are taking over. And someone has to stop it."
"And that someone would be you?" said Dickens. "You and the Steady Boys, of course."
"Who better?" Darnley asked. "They are driving our people out into the streets, Ben, leaving them homeless, starving, desperate. These damned foreigners should all go right back to where they came from!"
"And if they do not wish to go, why then, you shall drive them out, is that it?" Dickens said.
"Bloody right I will! Me and the boys. And what is more, the other 'prentice gangs are all getting behind us in this venture!"
"Indeed? Well, then really I must congratulate you, Jack," said Dickens. "You seem to haven taken a disorganized bunch of rakehell roaring boys who have all been at one another's throats and given them a common enemy against whom to unite in opposition. 'Tis an astonishing achievement, truly. And to think that I went abroad to learn the trade of soldiering whilst here you were all of this time, turning yourself into a general completely on your own. I doff my cap to you, Jack. I must say, I am full of admiration at what you have accomplished. Truly, I could not even imagine what a man of your inestimable abilities would ever want from me."
"I want you to join us, Ben," said Darnley, either ignoring Dickens's sarcasm or else missing it completely. " 'Twould be just like the old days once again! You and me, leading the Steady Boys at the forefront of it all… Think of it! We could rouse all the 'prentices in concert and clean out the vermin from this city! And you, as well, Tuck. You can be a part of it. The Steady Boys will always have a place for a strapping, big brawler like youself. Come and join us!"
"I thank you kindly for the offer," Smythe replied, "but I always try my best to avoid brawls whenever possible."
"You mean to say that rather than stand up and be counted for your fellow countrymen, you would prefer to let all these foreigners ruin the livelihoods of honest Englishmen?" said Darnley, with challenge in his voice.
"Tuck has no quarrel with you, Jack," Dickens said.
"Nay, in truth, I do not," Smythe agreed, "but I daresay I have a quarrel with his report. For the truth of the matter is that 'tis not the foreigners in London who are to blame for all the poverty. If the blame should rest with anyone, then it should rest with English landowners who enclose their lands for raising sheep, for as many of my fellow countrymen know all too well, wool is much more profitable in these times than produce. Only as the landed gentry fence in all their lands for grazing sheep instead of tillage, they dispossess their tenant farmers, who are thus left with no work and homeless. And so, not knowing what else they can do, they make the journey to London, desperate and seeking work, only to discover that so many more like them have come that work is difficult to find. But 'tis not the Flemish silversmiths who take the jobs that would have gone to them, as you ought well to know, since you are an apprentice and know something of the crafts. Nor do the Italian merchants compete with them for work, nor the German shopkeepers and craftsmen, for that matter, for a simple country farmer knows nothing of such things. He knows and understands his husbandry, but for the most part, that is the compass of his world, beyond which he sails in ignorance. I suppose 'tis possible that the occasional gypsy here or there may swindle someone, but methinks that they are much more likely to cozen a wealthy Fleming or a prosperous Italian merchant than some poor old sod begging on the street. 'Twould be little profit there. In truth, one should think that quite the contrary to what you claim, each foreign craftsman or merchant who comes to London and opens up a shop creates an opportunity for Englishmen with no ready skills at trade or craft, for every merchant has need of assistants in his shop and every craftsman has need of apprentices."
"I told you 'twould be a waste of time with these two," said McEnery, with a sneer. "An' what with the way that this one speaks, it sounds to me more like he champions these stinking foreigners than stands up for his fellow countrymen!"
"Nay, I beg to differ," Dickens said. "He speaks truly and I, for one, can find no fault in his discourse. If you were to venture out beyond the city walls, then you would soon find that what Tuck says is true. 'Tis not the foreigner who dispossesses English farmers of their homes and livelihoods, but the gentleman who encloses his estate to turn his crop fields into pastureland for greater profit. These enclosures are a plague upon our poor, swelling their ranks as they fatten the purses of the gentry, and in the long run, all shall suffer from it. 'Tis an easy thing to point your finger at the foreigners, Jack, and claim they are to blame, but 'tis not so. You may make a scapegoat of the blameless foreigner, but 'twill not solve the problem. On the other hand, it does give you a cry with which to rally others to your standard, does it not?" Dickens smiled mirthlessly. "You always did want to be the leader, Jack. Well, 'twould seem you have your wish, at last. You have no need of me. And for my part, I have no need of causing pain or trouble to those who have done nothing to offend me. S'trewth, I have done enough of that already. My battlefields are left behind me. Count me out. And as for Tuck, I believe he has already given you his answer."
Darnley compressed his lips tightly and gazed at him with cold rage in his eyes. Dickens returned that baleful look without regard for its intensity, meeting Darnley's fury with his own insouciance. And although he tried, Darnley found that he could not stare him down.
"You players were always apt with pretty speeches," he said contemptuously, "but try as you might, you still cannot muddy up the truth with mere words. We know who belongs here and who does not. We have eyes, and we can all see for ourselves how the foreigner prospers at the Englishman's expense. The time has come for all good Englishmen to take a stand, and you are either with us, Ben, or else you are against us."
"Take whatever stand you wish, Jack, for I am neither with you nor against you," Dickens said. "What you and your friends do matters not to me, one way or another. So then, 'twould seem that we have settled our discussion. Now Tuck and I have an appointment at the Theatre that we must keep."
He started forward, but McEnery stood in his way defiantly, sneering at him, chin jutting forward in a challenge.
"Stand aside, Bruce," Dickens said, softly.
"And if I should refuse? What then, eh?" McEnergy replied, finding courage in his fellow Steady Boys around him. "Do you think that you can best us all?"
Moving with smooth, deceptive speed, Dickens took Smythe's knife, which he had held blade up, concealed alongside his inner forearm all the while, and before the startled apprentice could react, he flipped it around quickly and thrust it, edge upwards, high between McEnery's legs. With his free hand, he seized McEnery by his belt and held him close, while pressing upwards with the knife, causing McEnery to emit a high-pitched squeak of alarm.
"You know, you may be right, Bruce. Doubtless, I would not prevail 'gainst you all," said Dickens, in an even tone, "but I could do for you right proper. If your lads so much as take one step toward either me or Tuck here, St. Paul's Boys will have themselves a new soprano for their choir."
Darnley looked as if he were about to speak, but before he could say or do anything, Smythe reached out and spun him by the shoulder, then seized him from behind with his left arm around his neck and his right hand behind his head. When Darnley tried to struggle, he simply tightened his grip and, with a choking sound, the apprentice gave up all resistance. Smythe turned hi
m around to face the other apprentices, who had been confident of their superiority and were now all taken by surprise at how quickly the tables had been turned.
"Be so good as to throw your clubs and dirks down in the street," said Smythe. "And then walk away. You can return to pick them up again after we have gone."
When the boys hesitated, Smythe once more tightened his grip.
"Do as he says!" croaked Darnley.
The clubs and knives fell to the cobbles with a clatter.
"Right. Off you go then," Smythe said.
Slowly, truculently, the apprentices moved off.
Dickens then released McEnery. "You can go and join them, Bruce," he said. "But mark me well now, for I give you fair warning… you come after us and I shall run you through ahead of all the others. Now run along, like a good lad."
He waved him away and McEnery shot him a venemous look, then trotted off after his companions.
"You can go with him," Smythe said, releasing Darnley and giving him a shove that almost sent him sprawling. Darnley stumbled, then regained his footing and turned back to gaze at Smythe with a look of intense hatred.
He inhaled raggedly and rubbed his throat. "I shan't forget this," he said, his voice rasping slightly. "We shall finish this another time, when you shall not have the advantage of surprise."
"Indeed?" said Smythe. "S'trewth, I could have sworn 'twas you who had the advantage of surprise… and numbers, come to think of it."
Darnley spat on the street, then turned and walked away.
"I fear that you have made an enemy on my account," said Dickens.
" 'Twasn't on your account," said Smythe. "I never liked him from the start. Not him nor his sneering shadow."
"Well, you are a stout enough fellow, to be sure," said Dickens, "but just the same… watch your back. Jack Darnley is not one to forget a slight, and you embarrassed him in front of all his boys. He shall do much more than merely look to even up the score. He shall want your guts for garters."
"He shall have to come and try to take them, then," said Smythe.
Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 03] Much Ado About Murder(v2) Page 8