His manner had been extremely arrogant and condescending. One might have thought that he was a high-ranking nobleman from the airs that he put on. He was dressed in the height of fashion, wearing a soft gray velvet cloak with a matching bonnet and a dark crimson doublet of brocade with the sleeves pinked to reveal the white shirt underneath. Black breeches and black boots had completed his ensemble, along with a handsome sword, which he wore in a cocky sort of way, resting his hand upon the pommel and posing rakishly, like some swaggering bravo half his age.
He had come, astonishingly, to visit Portia, so that he could “gaze upon her” and “embark upon a contemplation to consider whether or not she would be suitable.” His remarks had left Elizabeth speechless. She simply could not think how to respond to them. However, an immediate response had not been necessary, as it turned out, for the elder Smythe had continued blithely on, wandering about the parlour as if he owned the place, picking up various objects and examining them, scrutinizing each and every one as if he were a pawnbroker attempting to determine their worth.
Apparently, he had not the faintest inkling that she knew his son, or that Tuck had told her certain things about him, such as the fact that he had bankrupted himself and had been living on his brother’s charity, for he had prattled on in a vague yet grandiose manner about his “business” in London and his “country estates,” making it sound as if there were more than one, and the necessity of “making a good marriage” because he was a widower and required a woman to run his household properly and so forth. Elizabeth had been quite taken aback by the whole thing.
Had she not known what she knew, doubtless she would have taken him at face value, as apparently Portia’s father had, but as it happened, she knew better. And yet, despite that, Tuck’s father had seemed so convincing in his manner and his speech that for a moment, although only a moment, she had found herself wondering if it were possible that Tuck might have misled her and not told her the truth about his father. However, a moment’s consideration had told her that simply could not be. Tuck would never lie to her. It was not in his character. He had never been anything but honest and straightforward with her and was one of the few men she knew—indeed, the only man she knew—who had always been so. And when she had started to look closer, she had begun to notice certain things about the senior Smythe that gave the lie to the tale he was spinning.
They were the sorts of things that many people might have missed, but she had learned from Tuck and Will how to observe and note details that most people might observe but never truly noted. For example, his clothes were very fashionable but of a markedly inferior cut, which suggested to her that he had purchased them cheaply from some cut-rate tailor. And when he had moved a certain way and his cloak swung open slightly, she had noted that his doublet was red brocade only on the front and that the back piece, which was covered by the cloak, was sewn from cheaper cloth. His highly polished boots had rundown heels, and his sword, while it had a hilt that was certainly ornate, had a scabbard that showed signs of wear and age.
When he had finished With his self-aggrandizing speech, she had informed him, in a regretful tone, that it would be quite impossible for him to speak with Portia at present, for she was still grieving over a recent loss, the death of a “close friend,” and was consequently feeling much too ill and indisposed to entertain a visitor. She had promised, however, that she would convey his regards to her and carry any message that he wished to leave. The elder Smythe had thanked her, though he had seemed very much put out, and had departed, leaving a flowery message of sympathy and concern and promising to visit again in a few days, when, he hoped, Portia would be feeling better. The entire episode had left Elizabeth feeling stunned, angered, and dismayed.
She had refrained from mentioning anything to the father about her friendship with his son. There was no telling what sort of response that might have brought about. She had been tempted to tell him she knew Tuck, because she had wanted to see if he would be disconcerted and if she could then trap him in his lies, but something had told her that it would be wiser to resist temptation. Now, without his knowing that she knew what she knew, she could communicate the truth to Portia’s father at the earliest opportunity. It was the very least that she could do for Portia, who might otherwise find herself married to this impertinent bounder. Poor Tuck, she thought. Small wonder that he had left home and come to London to make his own way in the world. There, fortunately, was one apple that had fallen very far afield from the tree.
She wondered if she should say anything to Tuck about this new and startling development. Clearly, he knew nothing of it, else he would have warned her that his father might suddenly appear. What would he say to this astonishing coincidence? Or would it only bring him embarrassment and shame? Perhaps it would be better to say nothing. She could not decide.
After a while, her coach pulled up in front of a small shop ,with a green apothecary sign depicting a mortar and a pestle that hung out over the street. She bid her coachman wait and went inside, through the heavy, creaking wooden door. At once, the familiar, earthy, fragrant aroma of dried herbs seemed to ,wash over her, changing from one moment to the next, depending upon where she stood inside the shop. There was little light inside, and the little that there was came from the small window in the from. Above her, many bunches of drying herbs hung from the beams of the ceiling, filling the air of the small shop with their heady, pungent fragrance.
There were the kitchen herbs, such as sage and savoury, bay and basil, chive, rosemary, thyme, and bulb garlic; and medicinal herbs, such as leopard’s bane, bilberry, cankenvort, feverfew, and elderberry; and many others that she could not identify, some that were not even native to Europe, but came either from the American colonies or from the Orient, though most of those were stored in earthenware or opaque glass jars on the many wooden shelves that lined the walls. There was a long wooden counter in front of one row of shelves, laden with mixing bowls, funnels, mortars and pestles, scoops, knives and cutting boards, and scales with weights and measures, all tools of the apothecary’s trade.
As she came in, a small silver bell above the door rang. A moment later, a painted cloth behind the counter—the poor man’s tapestry—was pushed aside and a very tall and gaunt, nearly skeletal man emerged, dressed in a long black robe and a woven black skullcap from beneath which wispy, snow-white hair hung down to the middle of his chest. He had a high forehead and deeply set dark, mournful-looking eyes. The first rime Elizabeth had seen him, she had been frightened by his appearance, for he looked the very image of a nefarious necromancer, but soon her fear had been dispelled, for he was kind and gentle and possessed the most prosaic and unsorcerous of names.
“Good morning, Freddy,” she said.
“Why, good morning, Mistress Elizabeth,” he replied in his deep, sepulchral voice. “‘Tis a pleasure to see you once again.”
His tone seemed warm and friendly, but for all that, Elizabeth had never seen him smile. She wondered if he could. His expression was perpetually grim and sombre.
“Thank. you, Freddy, you are most kind. I wonder if I might speak with Granny Meg?”
“Of course,” Freddy replied. “She told me just this morning that we could be expecting you.”
Elizabeth had heard him say the same sort of thing before and at first had thought that it was just something that he said to make his wife seem more mystical and prescient, but she had since learned that Granny Meg somehow seemed to know things for which there seemed to be no explanation. Unless, of course, that explanation were a supernatural one, which Elizabeth was now more than ready to believe.
Freddy was ostensibly the apothecary of the shop, but although his knowledge of herbs and remedies was undeniable, it was in fact his wife who was the true apothecary. And, rumour had it, she was in truth much more than that. Granny Meg was widely reputed to be a cunning woman, in other words, a witch. People said she was adept at the art of divination with the cards and tea leaves, and dealt in
arcane brews and potions, even poisons, some said, although there was never any proof. It was even whispered that the queen’s astrologer, Dr. John Dee, consulted with Granny Meg upon occasion.
Elizabeth followed Freddy through the doorway covered by the painted cloth, which depicted stars and moons and suns upon a field of sable sky, and then up the narrow stairway leading to the second floor. The stairs led to the private living quarters above the shop, a small, narrow, one-room apartment longer than it was wide, with whitewashed walls and a clean, planked wooden floor devoid of rushes. It was always kept swept clean, without a speck of dirt or dust. There was only one window, looking out over the street toward the back of the room, and this window was partially obscured from view by a freestanding wooden shelf that held numerous books and also functioned as a room divider and a screen, separating the sleeping area from the rest of the room and cutting off much of the available light.
The furnishings were sparse and simple; there were only a couple of sturdy wooden chairs, several three-legged stools, a trestle table, and a number of large wooden chests covered with carpets. The most unusual feature of the room was the large fireplace, in which hung several black cauldrons of various sizes, suspended from iron hooks. It was rare to see a fireplace on the upper floor of a dwelling, unless it was noble’s house, but Granny Meg’s residence was unusual in a number of respects.
Although everything was very clean, the overall impression was one of an astonishing amount of clutter. As in the shop downstairs, the walls were lined with shelving holding what seemed like hundreds of glass and earthenware jars, as well as ancient-looking books and scrolls, which seemed to spill out of the shelves and into stacked piles on the floor. Everywhere one looked, there was something to arrest the gaze. On the shelves were tiny figures carved from stone in the shapes of pregnant women or various fantastic birds or animals. Clay pots of every size—some no larger than a baby’s fist, others as big as beer kegs—contained all sorts of mysterious powders and blends. There were pretty beaded necklaces and amulets of gold, silver, and pewter, as well as tiny leather pouches suspended from thongs and meant to be worn around the neck as charms. Displayed prominently upon one shelf were two daggers, one with a curved, single-edged blade and one a straight, double-edged stiletto, as well as a little brass bell, a censer, a plain-looking silver chalice, a silver bowl, a silken cord, two thick candles, and a short length of willow branch.
The fire was lit, for it was a cool and breezy morning, but most of the illumination in the room came from a shaft of sunlight that shone in through the partially obscured window. Yet even though there were no shadows from the flames dancing on the walls, the space still seemed pregnant with an eldritch atmosphere of tension and anticipation. It always felt as if lightning were somehow about to strike within the room.
Elizabeth walked over toward the shelves, staring at the same objects that had captured her interest more than any others each time she had come here: the daggers, tile candles, the chalice, and the other items all carefully arranged upon one shelf, along with the willow branch… the wand, she thought, as she started to reach toward it.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” Granny Meg said from behind her.
She jumped, gasped, and quickly turned around. “Granny Meg! You startled me!” And to herself she wondered, however does she do that? One moment she wasn’t there, and the very next she was. It was unnerving.
“Forgive me, my dear,” said Granny Meg. She smiled. “How very nice to see you. May I offer you some tea?”
“Please,” said Elizabeth. As Granny Meg poured her a cup from the teapot, Elizabeth marvelled once again at how ageless she appeared. She had to be quite old, for her. waist-length hair was pure white, yet it was not limp, as old people’s hair often was, but thick and lustrous. Her skin was so pale that it was nearly translucent, yet although it was faintly lined in places it was unwrinkled, with no liver spots or blemishes, and seemed to glow with youthful health. Her features were sharp and elfin, bringing to mind a dryad or a fairy. Her chin came nearly to a point, and her cheekbones were high and pronounced. Her nose, also, had a delicate, birdlike sharpness. She was slim and willowy; even at her age, she possessed a figure most women would have envied, but her eyes were her most striking feature. They were a very pale shade of bluish gray, with a startling, penetrating luminescence, like fire opals. Or the eyes of a changeling, Elizabeth thought.
Freddy had melted away without a sound. They both move like ghosts, Elizabeth thought. What if they were? It was an unsettling idea. She had never seen a ghost, but it was said that spirits could sometimes walk among the living. If they could do that, why could they not work in an apothecary shop? And what if the shop were not really a shop, but instead a gateway to the spirit world?
“What troubles you, Elizabeth?” Granny Meg asked. “Sit down. You look as if you have just seen a ghost.”
“Oh, ‘tis nothing quite so frightening, Granny Meg,” she replied, a bit taken aback. It was as if Granny Meg had known what she was thinking. “I am merely concerned about a friend.”
Granny Meg fixed her with a level and unsettlingly direct gaze. “The last time you came to me with such concerns, Elizabeth, I fear that things did not turn out very well.”
Elizabeth looked down at the table. “I know,” she replied softly. “But I meant well, Granny Meg, I truly did. I never meant for Catherine to come to any harm!”
“I know that you meant well, Elizabeth,” Granny Meg replied. “But then, you would not be the first who, with the best meaning, had incurred the worst.”
“But this time is different, Granny Meg.”
“Is it?” Granny Meg replied, watching her attentively. “This time you are not meddling in someone else’s fate?”
Elizabeth looked sheepish. “Well… perhaps it may have started out that way,” she said. “I mean, in a manner of speaking, I suppose I did meddle but ‘twas truly her welfare that I was concerned about. And I still am.”
“When people seek to interfere with the destiny of others, they usually do so out of a professed concern for them,” Granny Meg replied with a smile. “So, what is it that concerns you about your friend, Elizabeth?”
“Granny Meg, do you think ‘tis possible that one could go mad with grief?”
“Aye, ‘tis possible,” Granny Meg replied, nodding. “If the grief is felt over a loved one, it may be powerful, indeed. There are some who may grieve for weeks or months or even years, and there are those who may grieve for as long as they may live. Betimes, tile grief may be so powerful that it may even overwhelm the will to live. Do you think. your friend may feel such grief?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I fear so, Granny Meg. The young man she loved was killed, foully murdered by an unknown assassin, and ever since, she has been so struck with grief for him that she does not speak, does not go out, merely sits up in her room all day and all night, stating off into the distance. I have tried to speak with her, but she will not respond. And I am afraid for her. I do not know how to help her.”
“And so you came to me,” said Granny Meg. “Well then, what is it you wish of me, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “In truth, I… I do not know. I came to seek your wise counsel, Granny Meg. I thought, perhaps, that you could tell me what I should do. Mayhap there is some potion or some remedy or charm that would restore my friend to her senses. I would do anything to help her.”
“Perhaps the best thing that you can do is to do nothing.”
Granny Meg replied.
Elizabeth stared at her with dismay. “Nothing? But… but surely there is something that can be done!”
“Oh, there are many things that can be done,” said Granny Meg. “That is not the question. The question is, should they be done?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I… I do not understand. If there was something that could be done to help my friend, then why should I refrain from doing it?”
“Because often the best thing is to let people
find their own way to help themselves,” said Granny Meg. ‘The grief that your friend feels now is of her own making. She has engendered it within herself, and now she nurtures it, and cherishes it, and will not let it go. And the reason that she will not let it go is that it serves some purpose for her.“
“What purpose could that be?” Elizabeth asked.
“‘Tis a question that only your friend could answer,” Granny Meg replied. “Although ’tis possible that she may not know the answer.”
Elizabeth frowned. “You speak in riddles, Granny Meg. I beg of you, speak plainly. Please tell me what you mean.”
“Your friend’s grief may be her struggle for the answer that she seeks,” Granny Meg replied. “Or else it could be her struggle to avoid facing it. Betimes, when faced with a trying situation, one may already know the answer, but be unable to accept it.”
“And what would happen then?” Elizabeth asked.
‘The answer would not change,“ Granny Meg replied. ”Nor >would the situation, unless one accepted it for what it was and faced the answer.“
“So then, you mean that unless she can accept this thing she does not wish to face, then she will be ever thus, trapped within this struggle, within her grief for this young man? Oh, but that is terrible, Granny Meg! What if she can never bring herself to accept it?”
“Sooner or later, Elizabeth, all people must accept their fate, for refusing to accept it shall not change it.”
“What, then, is the remedy for my poor friend?”
“Time,” said Granny Meg. “Time is often the best remedy of all. Time, and patience, Elizabeth. Your patience. The patience of those who care for her.”
Elizabeth shook her head sadly. “I think that I may be the only one who truly cares about her, Granny Meg. Her father has already made another match for her, it seems. And the man with whom this match was made…” She shook her head. “Well, the less said of him, the better.”
Simon Hawke - Shakespeare and Smythe 04 - Merchant of Vengeance (v1. html). Page 16