Simon Hawke [Shakespeare and Smythe 03] Much Ado About Murder(v2)

by Much Ado About Murder (v2. 0) (mobi)

  Shakespeare came up beside him. "Anyone you know?" he asked, casually.

  Smythe frowned. And then he caught his breath. "Good God!" he said.

  "What is wrong? Who is it?" Shakespeare asked.

  "The last man I ever expected to see here," said Smythe.

  "Who?"

  "My father," Smythe replied.

  Chapter 6

  YOUR FATHER?" SHAKESPEARE SAID, STARING at Smythe with surprise. "You mean that man there? But I thought you said that he threatened to disown you if you became a player."

  "He did," said Smythe, "and so he would have, I believe, if he had anything left of which he could disown me when I set out for London with nothing save the clothes upon my back. And even had I stayed, I doubt 'twould have made much difference to him, one way or the other. From the time he sent me off to live with my uncle, we scarcely even saw each other. For all that he is my father, there never has been any love between us. When I left home, I felt certain that I would never set eyes on him again."

  "And yet there he stands," said Shakespeare. "Aye. There he stands."

  Shakespeare glanced at him. "You are quite certain 'tis your father?"

  "Aye, 'tis he."

  "There can be no mistake?"

  "I should think that I would know my own father, Will."

  "Aye… well… perhaps, but…"

  "What?"

  Shakespeare bit his lower lip. "Well… meaning no offense, you understand, but, ah… you told me that your father was a gentleman and that man there does not look much like a gentleman."

  "He never was," said Smythe, with a shrug, "save in his name and his attire. The name he kept. The attire he appears to have lost, along with his fortune."

  As they stood there, looking out across the yard at him, Symington Smythe II stood there, looking back, dressed in a coarse green woolen cloak and cap, a plain brown doublet, homespun breeches, and worn boots. He carried a walking staff and little else. He did not even seem to have a sword. It was a far cry from the rich apparrel that he once habitually wore, although no matter what he wore, how costly or well-tailored, clothes had never seemed to sit well on him. Thomas Smythe had once remarked that for all the money his older brother spent on his varied and expensive wardrobe, it was like trying to caparison a dray horse. Those words came back to Tuck as he stood there, staring at his father, thinking that he now looked more like a bedraggled tenant farmer than a man with his own family coat of arms. Indeed, he thought, as Will had observed, he did not look much like a gentleman. But then, he had never really acted like one, either.

  "Do you not think that you should go and greet him?" Shakespeare asked, raising his eyebrows.

  "I was hoping to find some excuse to avoid it," Smythe replied, with a sigh. "However, I suppose 'twould be the proper thing for a dutiful son to do."

  "Do you want me to come with you?"

  Smythe moistened his lips as he thought about it for a moment. Finally, he made up his mind. "I am grateful for your offer of support, Will, but methinks that this is something I had best see to myself," he replied.

  "Would you like me to wait for you?" Shakespeare asked.

  "Nay, Will, go on. S'trewth, I am not sure what he could want with me, and if there is an argument, I should not wish for you to witness it. I shall see you when I get back."

  "If that is what you wish."

  "I do. Go on. I shall go and speak with him."

  "Will you be all right?"

  "Aye, Will." Smythe clapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks. Go on. I will follow before long."

  Most of the others had already left. A few were still lingering, putting things in order or else talking amongst themselves. Smythe watched Shakespeare walk away. He looked back and called out, "I will see you anon, Tuck," then continued on his way. Tuck's father glanced at him as Will passed him, and Will gave him a polite nod of greeting, but they did not speak. Tuck stood there watching his father for a few moments. Then he smiled to himself. His father would not come to him. He was expected to make the approach, as always. He took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. "Very well then," he said to himself. "On with it."

  He walked across the yard to meet his father. As he approached, he saw that his father looked thinner and there was more white in his hair than before. The dark hair was now liberally streaked. The crow's feet around his eyes looked more pronounced than he remembered, and his features seemed a bit more gaunt. Clearly, he had not been eating as well as was his wont. But in a curious way, the loss of weight seemed to agree with him. He looked older and leaner, but more fit for it. As his son approached, Symington Smythe II drew himself up to stand erect and proud, his chin high, his gaze aloof. It was his "knight's demeanor," as Tuck had always thought of it. Well, the knighthood had eluded him, and though he had somehow managed to cozen his way to an escutcheon, everything else he had now seemed lost to him as well. But the proud "knight's demeanor" still remained, even though it did not go with the clothes.

  " 'Allo, Father," Tuck said, as he came up to him.

  "Son," his father said, curdy. He looked him up and down. "You look well. Seem fit, as always."

  "Did you expect me not to be?"

  "Well… with the indolent life these players lead, I scarcely expected you to look as hale and hearty as you did when you were at your uncle's forge. Hard work always agreed with you."

  "It still does, Father. My life is not quite so indolent as you might imagine it to be. There is much hard work to be done at a playhouse, and I still keep my hand in at a forge. There is a blacksmith here in London who is good enough to give me work anytime I need it."

  His father raised his eyebrows. "So? You are a journeyman blacksmith, then?"

  "Nothing quite so respectable, I fear," Tuck replied. "Liam Bailey lost an apprentice not too long ago, and I fill in for him, after a fashion, every now and then. He pays me. Not a great deal, but 'tis a fair wage."

  The corners of his father's mouth turned down slightly. "I see. And this…" he waved his hand in a sort of desultory fashion, taking in the yard and the theatre all around them, "… this is where you… what is the word? Perform?" He said it with distaste.

  "Aye, among other things," said Smythe. "But then, you already knew that, Father, else you would not be here. I take it Uncle Thomas told you that you could find me here."

  His father pursed his lips and nodded as he glanced around with the air of a courtier who had somehow wandered by mistake into a pigsty. "Aye. You saw fit, it seems, to write to your uncle, but not to me."

  "You had made it plain on more than one occasion that I would be disowned if I decided to go to London and become a player," Tuck replied. "I merely took you at your word."

  His father sniffed. "And you had made it plain when you left home that being disowned meant nothing to you, since I had nothing left to leave you."

  "So… what? That makes us even? Your bankruptcy cancels out my disobedience, is that it?"

  "Do not be insolent. I do not need you to throw my ill fortune into my face. I am quite aware of it, thank you."

  " 'Twas not my intention to be insolent, Father, or to dwell upon your ill fortune, as you call it. I intended no offense."

  His father merely grunted in reply. "I heard your friend call you by some other name," he said. "Is my name no longer good enough for you?"

  Tuck sighed. "My name is still the same as yours," he said. "Tuck is merely what my friends call me. 'Tis a sort of nickname. I rather like it, actually."

  His father sniffed again. "Suit yourself. 'Tis your life. You may choose to call yourself anything you wish, I suppose."

  "Did you come all the way to London merely to find further fault with me, Father, as you always did, or was there something that you wished of me? I shall not be coming home, if that was what you came to ask of me. I have my own life now."

  "You presume I came to London merely to ask you to return?" his father said. "Do you suppose it makes a difference to me what you choose to
do?"

  "I would have thought not," Tuck replied. "But if you did not come for me, why did you come?"

  " 'Tis possible, is it not, that I came for myself? To make a new beginning? To rebuild my fortune? Or do all things have to be concerned only with you?"

  Tuck frowned. "You mean… you have come here to live?" He shook his head, puzzled. "What of your wife?"

  His father looked away. "She ran off."

  "All. Well… I am sorry."

  "No need. I do not require your pity. I could have gone after her, I suppose. Taken a cane to her, as she deserved. But then I thought, why bother? What need have I of an ungrateful and disloyal wench? 'Tis just as well she left. Good riddance to her, I say. Aye, good riddance, indeed."

  "Indeed," Tuck said.

  There was an awkward silent moment that seemed to stretch uncomfortably. It seemed as if neither one of them quite knew what to say next.

  "Have you found a place to stay?" asked Tuck, finally. He dreaded hearing the reply. He could not imagine having to share quarters with his father. There was barely enough room for him and Will. And inflicting his father upon Will would be cruel beyond all measure. But, still, he was his father, after all. "It can be difficult finding a place to stay in London these days," he added, "what with so many people arriving from the country. Rooms are often scarce and—"

  "Oh, I have accommodations," his father replied, with a dismissive wave. "I may have fallen upon hard times, but I am still not without some influence in London, you know. You need not concern yourself on my account. Besides, I have no intention of staying in some hovel of a tavern, sleeping on some flea-infested mattress, next to some unwashed mountebank." He curled his lip in a sneer. "Nay, you need not worry. I was quite capable of securing my own lodgings."

  "I am glad to hear it," Tuck replied, meaning every word. He avoided rising to the bait. He would not have wished to have his father stay at the Toad and Badger, in any case. He did not imagine that Symington Smythe II and his airs would go over very well with Courtney Stackpole. "Well, then, if there is anything else that I can do to help, then you will please be sure to let me know."

  "As it happens, there is," his father replied. "The move to London, the journey, and finding lodgings and all that, has left me a bit out at the elbows, so to speak. Purely a temporary situation, I assure you, and one that I intend to remedy as soon as possible, but in the meantime, if you could see your way clear to granting me a small loan of a few pounds, I would be grateful."

  "Of course," said Tuck, reaching for his purse. "How much will you need?"

  "Oh, that should be sufficient, I should think," his father replied, taking the purse out of his hand. "No need to trouble yourself further. I am sure I can manage with this."

  A bit taken aback, Tuck did not quite know what to say.

  "Oh, and by the by, your uncle asked me to give you this," his father added, handing him a letter. "He sends his warmest affections and all that sort of thing. Well, I am grateful for this, son. I shall try to repay it at the earliest opportunity. No need to trouble yourself further on my account. I can find my own way back. I have a carriage waiting."

  "A carriage?" Tuck said.

  "Aye. Astonishing what these fellows charge. Bloody brigands. But one simply cannot go about slogging through the mud, now can one? Well, I shall be seeing you, I suppose. Good luck and all that sort of thing."

  He turned and walked away without a backward glance.

  "A carriage," Tuck said to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. "He asks me for a loan, takes all my money, and then drives off in a bloody carriage!"

  He glanced down at the letter in his hand. He recognized his uncle's handwriting. For all that Thomas Smythe was just a simple craftsman, his chancery hand was every bit as fine as that of any London scribe. He eagerly opened the letter and read:

  My dear boy,

  I trust this letter finds you well. Your father has promised that he would deliver this to you at the Burbage Theatre, where I told him you could most easily be found. Doubtless, you shall be surprised to see him, and some word of explanation is most likely in order, since I do not expect him to enlighten you, or else if he does, at least to some extent, explain himself, then I would wish for you to hear my side of it.

  In short, I have given him the boot. For all that he is still my brother, I could not bear his insufferable presence in my house one moment longer. I never did begrudge him his inheritance, and although he never once saw fit to share any of it with me, as I continue to believe our father wished for him to do, I bore him no ill will. When, through his own profligate intemperance and uncontrolled ambition, he had squandered nearly the last penny he had left, I took him in, for he was still my family, and I believed that perhaps his fall might have taught him some humility. His wife ran off with some itinerant peddlar, as I understand it, though that is Symington's version of events and, as such, the details are suspect. Still, there is no question that the woman left him when the money was at last all gone, so mayhap there is truth to how he says it came to pass. Either way, it makes little difference. He had no one to take care of him, and no means to do it on his own, and so, somewhat reluctantly, I must confess, I took him in.

  I had forgotten just how difficult a person he could be, and how trying was his temper, and how utterly selfish and ungrateful he was, and always had been. I shall not recite the entire litany of offenses that he gave to me, nor regale you at length with how, in his foolish thoughtlessness, he had nearly managed to burn down my home. I gave him money every time he asked, and for all I gave him, he ever asked for more. Much of it, I know, he spent on drink. As for the rest, he squandered it in gambling or else in madcap schemes with the intent of somehow making back his fortune. Do not, I pray you,

  give him any money, for he shall only waste it in some foolishness. I have given him enough to see him through upon his journey and to find some lodgings once he reaches London, as well as to sustain him for some time, until he can find a job and make some sort of life for himself. What he does after that is none of my concern, for after all of the indignities and hardships he has visited upon me, I have washed my hands of him.

  Do not, I pray, allow him to presume upon your sympathies. You have a good heart and a land nature, neither of which you have inherited from him, to be sure, and I do fear that he may try to take advantage of you. Thus, I caution you to keep a firm hand on your purse strings and exercise sound judgement in whatever he may ask of you. Remember that he had sent you away because he found a son to be too much of a burden. Be wary now should the father prove too much of a burden to the son. Write soon and God keep you.

  Your loving uncle,

  Thomas Smythe

  Tuck shook his head and gave a small snort as he put away the letter. "Sound advice, Uncle, if a bit too late. Small wonder he did not give me the letter first." He sighed. "Well, let us hope that Will has some money left from those sonnets he had sold, else I shall not be eating supper on this night."

  He wrapped his cloak around him and set off back toward the Toad and Badger on foot, thinking all the while about his father traveling in a carriage that he was going to pay for with money he had borrowed from his son. Not that Tuck truly expected the "loan" to be repaid. He knew his father far too well for that. Even his own brother, who was as patient as his father was arrogant, had finally reached the limit of that patience. And now the problem would be his. Well, thought Smythe, he would take his uncle's advice to heart. He would not allow his father to presume upon their relationship only to take advantage of him. He would give him what help he could, within reason, but he would not suffer himself to be cozened. He was no longer quite so naive.

  It was already dark as he drew near the Toad and Badger and due to the lateness of the hour, the streets were for the most part deserted. On occasion, a coach or carriage would drive past, clattering along the cobblestones, but there were few pedestrians. Smythe was still preoccupied with his brief reunion with his father as
he walked, and the conflicting emotions the meeting had brought up, and so he failed to note that anything was amiss until he heard the sound of running footsteps very close behind him.

  As he turned, the club that would have struck him squarely on top of the head came down instead on his shoulder with a numbing impact. He cried out with pain and brought his arm up to ward off the next blow that came whistling toward him. The shock of it nearly broke his arm. The next blow came so quickly that he couldn't block it. The club struck him in the side of the head, grazing his skull, and he saw stars.

  There were several of them, he could not tell how many, and they were all around him, raining down blows. He couldn't even draw his knife. He was too busy trying to ward off the blows that just kept coming. In desperation, he put his arms up over his head to protect himself, then lowered his head and charged, bellowing like a bull. He collided with one of his attackers and threw his arms around him, driving him backward until they struck a wall and the impact drove all the wind out of his assailant.

  There were more of them, however, and they did not let up. Smythe felt blood running down the side of his head and he could not see straight. With an abrupt finality, it suddenly struck him that he might be killed. Somehow, he found the strength to fight back, absorbing the punishing blows as he wrested a club away from one of his assailants and started dealing out some of his own. Then he heard somebody yelling and a moment later realized that someone else had joined the battle on his side.

  His vision swimming, he swung the captured club around in all directions, flailing away madly, and moments later, the attackers were on the run. He sank down to his knees in the street, unable to stand any longer. Everything was spinning.

  "Tuck! Tuck!"

  He thought he recognized the voice, but he could not be certain. There seemed to be a ringing in his ears. "Ben?"

  "Hang on, Tuck. Hang on. I must try to stop the bleeding."