“Speak then, and tell me how,” said Thomas, looking up at him intently.
“You must find a way to see her so that you can ask her how she truly feels,” said Smythe. “If she truly loves you as you believe she does, as you say you love her, and if your love for one another is truly as great and all-encompassing as you believe, why then, you could elope and make your way to some place where you could live your lives together, as you wish, without hindrance from her father.”
“You are right!” said Thomas, banging his fist upon the table. “You give sound counsel, friend! That is just what I shall do!”
“Well now, wait, Thomas,” Dickens said, glancing at Smythe and taking Thomas by the arm as he got quickly to his feet. “Stay a moment and do not act too rashly. Before your passion drives you to take a course you may regret, consider that you have now nearly completed your apprenticeship. And what is more, your work has begun to attract favourable notice here in London. One year more and you shall become a journeyman, and you shall be well on your way to making a good life for yourself.”
“But what good would any of that be without the woman that I love?” asked Thomas.
“What good would having the woman that you love be without having the means to properly provide for her?” Dickens countered. “And that is something that Portia should consider, also. ‘Tis always best to think with your head and not your heart.”
“That is a simple enough thing for you to say, Ben,” said Thomas, “for you have married the woman that you loved. Your happiness is now assured, and you may think of other things. But I can think. of nothing else but Portia and how I cannot bear to go another day without her!” He turned to Smythe. “Thank you, my friend, for your good counsel and your understanding. I shall do as you advise. And if her love for me is true, as I believe her love to be, then we together shall determine what our course must be!”
He clapped Smythe on the shoulders and hurried out the door. Shakespeare sighed. “The course of true love never did run smooth,” he muttered, “for love is blind and lovers cannot see.”
“What?” said Smythe. “Why do you look upon me so, Ben, with such a February face, so full of frost and storm and cloudiness?”
“I shall wager that he thinks what I am thinking, Tuck,” said Shakespeare, with a disapproving grimace, “that you have just done poor Thomas a profound disservice. If that wench is as besotted with him as he is with her, then they shall doubtless follow your advice and run away together, and thus they will ruin both their lives.”
“But why?” asked Smythe. “Why should their lives be ruined if they are both together and in lover I should think they would be happy!”
“They would, indeed, be together and in love and happy at the very first,” said Shakespeare wryly, “but at the same time, they would be together and in love and poor. For a time, a short time, they could live on love, but ere long, there would doubtless be children from that love, and then they would be together and in love and poor and hungry and with children, and not long after that, they would be together and poor and hungry and with children and unhappy. And soon thereafter, they would be together and poor and hungry and with children and miserable with one another, a state commonly known to one and all as a settled marriage.”
“I am well familiar with your thoughts on marriage, Will,” said Smythe defensively, “but they are not shared by one and all. There are people who find happiness in being together, even if they are poor and hungry and struggling to survive, for being together in such circumstances is a far better thing than being alone.”
“And what of all the years that he has spent in labouring at his apprenticeship?” asked Dickens. “If he runs off with Portia, he shall be throwing all of that away. Why, within a year, his term as an apprentice will have been completed and he would then be free to open his own shop. Already, his work has gained favour with a number of wealthy customers who would have helped his business grow and prosper. In a few years, he would have been successful on his own, perhaps even a wealthy man. And if this Portia was not deemed good enough for him right now, why, in a few years’ time, there would have been a plentiful supply of eager, marriageable young wenches all vying for his favour, without regard to questions of his lineage.”
“And if his heart were broken from losing the one woman that he loved!” Smythe asked. “Then what good would all those eager wenches be?”
“Forgive the lad,” said Shakespeare, “he knows not whereof he speaks.”
“If you believe that I was wrong in what I said to Thomas.”
Smythe said, “then why do you not go after him and tell him so?”
“Because I know Thomas well enough to know that once he sets his mind on something, he cannot be dissuaded,” Dickens replied. “And because, Tuck, I know all too well how foolish a young man in love can be. ‘Twas only a few years ago that I was that young man, and I had set my mind upon a course that took me off to foreign wars in the mistaken notion that I would return wealthy from the spoils. As it happened, I was fortunate to have returned at all, and in one piece. Yet back then, I turned deaf ears to all the prudent counsel I received, as now Thomas turns deaf ears to mine.”
“Then why does my counsel bear more weight with him than yours, a man who knows him better?” Smythe replied.
“Because you have shown him a way that he may achieve his heart’s desire,” Dickens said.
“Mayhap not so much his heart, methinks, as some vital organ lower down,” said Shakespeare wryly.
“Oh, that was base,” said Smythe. “Anyone can see that Thomas is very much in love.”
“Is it Thomas that you are truly thinking of or is it not yourself?” asked Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows.
“What? What do you mean?” asked Smythe.
“Methinks that Thomas finds himself in a situation not all that much unlike your own,” Shakespeare replied. “You are hopelessly moonstruck over Elizabeth Darcie, whose father, while he does not forbid your friendship, would never grant consent to proper courtship. She is much too valuable a piece of goods to waste upon the likes of you, when she might still attract and wed a wealthy gentleman or, better still, a nobleman. And because he knows that you are an honourable young man, and also because he is indebted to you, Henry Darcie permits you to see his pretty daughter, whom he trusts not to do anything foolish. Thus, you two have a friendship made piquant by the pain of exquisite frustration, where you both yearn for what you both know you cannot have. Now here comes young Thomas, plagued with another Henry, less tolerant than yours, and for that, perhaps, less cruel. You hear his story, and you are moved to counsel him to do that which you wish that you could do yourself, but know that you cannot. You counselled Thomas not for his sake, but for yours. He heard your counsel; and not Ben’s, because when one is in love, one hears only that which one wishes to hear. Now he has gone to do that which he wishes to do.”
“For that you lay the blame with me!” asked Smythe, glancing from Will to Ben and back again.
“Thomas is old enough to make up his own mind,” said Dickens with a shrug. “Still, ‘tis a young and reckless mind, and you need not have set spurs to it.”
“Mayhap some wise counsel from his parents could serve to give him pause and rein in unwise ambition,” Shakespeare said thoughtfully.
“And at the same time allow you the opportunity to meet a Jew?” asked Smythe.
“Is there any wrong in that?” asked Shakespeare.
“Perhaps not,” said Smythe. “For if I am wrong in what I said and you and Ben are right, then I must try to check Young Thomas in his headstrong flight.”
Dickens shook his head. “‘Why is it that you two seem to find trouble no matter where you go?”
“Methinks that trouble has a way of finding us,” said Shakespeare. “But then we are not the first who, with the best meaning, have incurred the worst. Come, Tuck, let us away, and see what other mischief we can accomplish on this day.”
Chapter 4
The Wherry Ride across the choppy, windswept river took them to the area known as the Liberties, outside the city proper on the south bank of the Thames. They disembarked not very far from the Rose Theatre and the Paris Gardens, where the residents of London, or at least those with a taste for bloodier drama than they could see portrayed upon the stage, could watch the sport of bear-baiting in the ring or, on occasion, see a chained ape tormented by a pack of hounds. In this same area, close by the theatre, a number of thriving brothels could be found, as well as several taverns and gaming houses. A short walk in a South Easterly direction took them to the residence of Thomas Locke’s parents, Charles and Rachel Locke, on a tree-lined dirt street near the outskirts of Southwark.
“For a mere tavern keeper, Charles Locke lives in a rather large and handsome home,” said Shakespeare, observing the three-story, oak-framed house with its white plaster walls and steeply pitched thatched roof.
The timbers of the house had been tarred, blackening them so that they stood out dramatically against the white plaster of the walls. In between the upright timbers were shorter boards arranged in opposing diagonal directions, resulting in a dramatic herring-bone effect that made the house stand out from all those around it.
“Strange that we never should have heard of him before,” said Shakespeare. “I would have thought by now that we knew all of the taverns hereabouts.”
“Methinks that he is rather more than a mere tavern-keeper,” Smythe replied. “When Ben told us his, name, it seemed somehow familiar to me, although I could not then call to mind just why. Yet now it comes to me at last. If this is the same Charles Locke that I
am thinking of, and not just a coincidence of names, then he also owns a brothel and is a master of the Thieves Guild.“
Shakespeare glanced at him with surprise. “Now, how in the world would you know something like that?” he asked.
“Of late, I read it in a pamphlet that I bought in a bookstall in
Paul’s Walk,“ Smythe replied.
“Oh, no,” said Shakespeare, stopping in his tracks. “Do not tell me ‘twas one of Robert Greene’s works about the so-called ’dark and murky underworld‘ of London!”
“Well…”
“Good Lord, Tuck! You saw the man! He was living in his cups, for God’s sake, if you could even call that living. I had heard that he was fallen on hard times and dissipated, but the sight of him alone more than confirmed it, to say nothing of his bilious and caustic disposition. How could you possibly take anything he wrote seriously, considering the source?”
“If we were to dismiss the work of every writer ever known to take a drink,” said Smythe, “then there would be no literature left in all the world. And I might add, whilst we are on the subject, that you yourself have been known for your supine presence ‘neath the tables in many of the lesser alehouses of the city.”
“You infernal bounder!” Shakespeare sputtered. “Do you mention me in the same breath as that hopeless, rheumy-eyed, and bloated souse?”
“Not yet rheumy-eyed and not yet bloated, at the least,” said Smythe, “but if there be not a flask of brandy somewhere about your person even as we speak, then I shall herewith eat your bonnet!” He swiped the floppy velvet cap off Shakespeare’s head and held it underneath his nose. ‘Well? What say you now, Master Shakescene?“
Shakespeare stared at him squinty-eyed for a moment, then flatly said, “There is no flask.”
“Why, you saucy, timorous, and motley-minded liar!” Smythe said. “What will you wager that if I picked you up and shook you, one should not fall out from somewhere within your doublet?”
“You would never dare!”
“Oh, would I not!”
Smythe reached out quickly and spun him around, then seized him about the waist from behind and easily lifted him up into the air.
“Gadzooks! Put me down, you great baboon! Have you lost your senses?”
Then Shakespeare yelped as Smythe turned him upside down and shifted his grip so that one hand grasped each of his ankles. “Now,” Smythe said, “what shall I do, I wonder? Shake you or make a wish?”
“Tuck! Damn you for a venomous double-dealing rogue, let me down at once, I say!”
“Hmmm, now what was it you said just now?” asked Smythe, holding him aloft. “There is no flask, eh? Was that what you said?” He started shaking the helpless poet up and down.
“Tuuuuuuuuuuck!”
Something fell out of Shakespeare’s doublet and struck the damp ground with a soft thud.
‘Well, now!“ said Smythe, ”what have we here?“ He turned slightly so that Shakespeare, still held upside down, could see what was lying on the ground.
“Is that a flask, or do mine eyes deceive me?”
“Ohhhhh, I am going to beat you with a stick!” said Shakespeare through gritted teeth as he vainly tried to strike out behind him. Smythe merely held him out farther away, at arm’s length.
“Aye, I do believe that is a flask I see down there at my feet. I do not suppose ‘twould happen to be yours, by any chance?”
“God’s body! You are as strong as a bloody ox!” said Shakespeare. “Let me down, I pray you, the blood is rushing to my head.”
Smythe released him. “Very well, then. Down you go.”
It was not very far to fall, no more than a foot or so, but from the way Shakespeare cried out, it might have been a precipice that he was dropped from. He fell to the ground in a heap, groaning.
“Now then,” Smythe said, looking down at him with his hands upon his hips, “what was it you were saying about not taking seriously anyone who drank?”
“You know very well what I meant, you great, infernal oaf,” grumbled Shakespeare, getting up and dusting himself off. “There is a deal of difference between a man who drinks in moderation and a man who drinks to excess.”
“Moderation?” Smythe replied. “Compared to you, half the drunks in London drink. in moderation, and the other half are bloody well abstemious!”
“Gentlemen,” a deep voice said from behind them, “if the two of you are intent upon a brawl, might I suggest a tavern, or perhaps some wooded place where you could maul each other to your hearts’ content?”
They turned to see a tall, gray-bearded, and barrel-chested man with sharp, angular features and thick, shoulder-length gray hair standing between them and the front entrance to the Locke house. In his right hand, he held a stout quarter-staff with one end resting lightly on the ground. “Either way,” he continued, “I would much prefer that you conduct your mischief elsewhere, and not at my front door, if you please.”
“Master Charles Locke, I presume?” Smythe said. He started toward him, but immediately stopped when he saw Locke raise the quarter-staff and hold it across his body in the defensive posture of a man who was prepared to fight.
“Who are you?” Locke demanded, gazing at him suspiciously. “What do you want?”
Smythe held out his hands, palms forward. “Your pardon, good sir, we mean you no harm. My friend and I were merely having a bit of sport, is all. As it happens, ‘tis you we came to see. My name is Tuck Smythe, and this is my friend Will Shakespeare.”
Locke frowned and maintained his staff held at the ready. “I know you not. What is it you want of me?”
“‘Tis a matter concerning your son,” said Shakespeare.
“Thomas?” Locke said, narrowing his eyes. “‘What have you to do with him?”
“In truth, not a very great deal,” Smythe replied. “We have met him for the first time but this afternoon, at the shop of our good friend Ben Dickens, the armourer.”
“I know of him,” said Locke curtly. “And yet I still know naught of you.”
“We are players, good sir,” said Shakespeare, “at present with the august company of Lord Strange’s Men.”
“And so what is that to me?”
“Indeed, sir, it may be naught to you,” Shakespeare replied, a touch defensively, “but the news we bring you of your
son may not be naught at all.”
“Bah! Do not plague me with your riddles, you mountebank! What news have you of my son? Speak plainly and try not my patience!”
“We believe that your son is planning to elope,” said Smythe.
“Elope!” Locke gave out a barking laugh. “What nonsense! What earthly reason would he have to do such a damned fool thing?”
“Because the father of the prospective bride has now withdrawn his consent to the marriage and forbidden Thomas ever to see or speak with her again,” Smythe replied.
“And we have heard this from your son’s own lips this day.” added Shakespeare.
Locke frowned and lowered his staff. “Indeed? And did he tell you why Mayhew has done this?”
Smythe hesitated slightly, then replied, “He said ‘twas because his mother is a Jew.”
For a moment, Locke simply stood there, saying nothing. His already stormy countenance betrayed little more response. Then he finally replied. “If you are lying about this because you are bent upon some sort of mischief, then so help me Almighty God, I shall have your hearts cut out.”
Shakespeare swallowed nervously and turned a shade paler. Smythe merely returned Locke’s steely, level gaze. “Sir, I know full well just who you are, and that you are fully capable of making good upon your threat. Given that knowledge, then, consider how foolish we would have to be to play at making mischief for a man such as yourself.”
Locke’s gaze never wavered. He merely nodded once, then curtly said, “Why do you come to me with this? What concern is it of yours? Did you hope to gain some favour or ask for something in return for imparting this most unfortunate news?”
“Indeed, sir,” Shakespeare began, “the truth of the matter is that we had thought the doing of a favour for a man in your particular position could be of some considerable benefit to struggling players such as ourselves, and —”
Smythe interrupted him before he could continue. “Nay, the truth, sir, is that ‘twas all my fault and, as such, my conscience did bid me cry to make amends.”
“Oh, Good Lord…” muttered Shakespeare, rolling his eyes. “Explain yourself,” said Locke curtly.
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