The Merchant of Vengeance (7 page)

"Forgive me, Ben," said Thomas. "I see now that you have customers."

"Will and Tuck are good friends of mine who came to visit." Dickens replied.

"Perhaps we should depart, Ben," Smythe said.

"Pray do not leave on my account, although I would not wish to burden you with my woeful tale of misfortune," said Thomas. He stared at Smythe a moment. "Say, I know you, do I not?"

"Methinks you do," said Smythe, finally placing him. "You ride a bay mare with a white blaze across her nose and white upon her forelegs."

"The Rose!" said Thomas. "I remember now, you work at the Rose Theatre! That is how I know you, you are an ostler there."

"Among other things," said Smythe.

"And I have seen you there, as well," Thomas said, looking at Shakespeare. "You are a player, are you not?"

"I am," Shakespeare replied. "Will Shakespeare is my name.

And this is my good friend and fellow thespian Tuck Smythe."

"Well met, my friends," said Thomas. "Or mayhap poorly met, for I am in a sad state, indeed."

"This is my good friend Thomas Locke," said Dickens, introducing him. "I know him of old, when we both were young apprentices, before I went off to the wars. He is a tailor, and a right good credit to his craft."

"Forgive me, good sirs," Thomas said. "I am bereft of courtesy today. My manners have all left me. I can scarcely think. what my own name is, much less give it to others. Besides, I know now 'tis not worth giving, for it becomes a plague upon the ears of those who hear it."

"What speech is this?" asked Dickens with a frown. "What terrible misfortune has befallen you that you should so defame yourself?"

"Only this morning I awoke the happiest and most fortunate man in all of London," Thomas said. "Now I am the most miserable and unfortunate man in all the world! Oh, call back yesterday! Bid time return! I was to wed a sweet and gentle lady whose every glance and smile had bestowed a lightness on my heart, but now Portia's father has forbidden her to marry me and I am not allowed to see or speak with her again!"

"'Why, what had you done?" asked Shakespeare.

"I was born!" said Thomas miserably, as he kept pacing back and forth. "Such is my guilty crime! My father is a Christian and my mother is a Jewess, which in the eyes of Jews and Christians all alike thus makes me born a Jew. And for naught but that accident of birth, Portia's father has withdrawn consent for us to marry, saying that he will not have his family defiled by a Jew!"

"Here is a sad coincidence," said Shakespeare softly in an aside to Smythe, who nodded.

"I am sorry, Thomas," Dickens said. "Here, sit down and have a drink." He poured a goblet from the bottle the apprentice brought, then poured goblets for Tuck and Smythe as well and handed them around.

As Thomas tossed back half the goblet in one gulp, Smythe asked, "Who is the girl's father?"

"Henry Mayhew," Dickens replied, "a prosperous haberdasher, and an insufferable stuffed shin. He is a widower with a beautiful young daughter possessed of grace and a most amiable disposition. Until now, he had found in Thomas nothing lacking, and had deemed him eminently suitable to take his daughter's hand in marriage. His consent had already been given, and the marriage was to take place within a fortnight."

"Now he has called it off and withdrawn his consent," said Thomas bitterly. "And Portia is forbidden ever to see or speak. with me again."

"But you have not lived as a Jew, Thomas," Dickens said. "I have often seen you in church, and always known you to live life as a Christian."

"Indeed, 'tis so," Thomas replied. "I was not raised in my mother's faith, but in my father's, not that he is the most Christian of all men, by any means, but he does go to church each Sunday. So I have always done, as well."

"And what of your mother?" Shakespeare asked. "Had she become a Christian?"

Thomas shook his head. "She always went with my father to the church, but she was never truly converted to the faith. She was raised a Jew, and at heart she had always remained a Jew. Nor did my father ever try to force her to be otherwise. She was always circumspect in her belief, for she always knew that there were many who would condemn her for her faith. And who am I to judge her? She is my mother. But woe that I was ever born her son!"

"Oh, but that is a bitter thing to say about a parent," Smythe replied.

"Aye, truly, and ashamed am I to speak. thus," Thomas said, hanging his head. Then he looked up again, with anguish in his eyes. "But what am I to do? I love Portia with all my heart! She is my world, my life, my breath! I cannot bear the thought of losing her, of never being allowed to see or speak with her again! If you had ever been in love, then you would understand my desperate plight!"

"I understand, perhaps better than you know," Smythe replied, thinking of Elizabeth. "But what does your Portia say to this?"

"I do not know," said Thomas, hanging his head and running his fingers through his hair, clutching at his thick locks in exasperation. "I have not spoken with her since her father banished me from his house and from her sight."

"Well," said Smythe, "'twould seem, then, that you must contrive a way to see her, and discover where her heart stands, with her duty to her father or her love for you."

"I am certain that her heart shall be with me," said Thomas, "but her obedience must perforce be to her father."

"Must it?" Smythe asked.

Shakespeare glanced at him, raising his eyebrows with surprise, but saying nothing.

"What do you mean?" asked Thomas. "How could it be otherwise?"

"If you truly cannot bear to lose her, and if she is, indeed, your world, your life, your breath, then methinks that you must take the measure of her love," said Smythe.

"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.