The Merchant of Vengeance Page 15

  Having his hands tied behind his back also added an element of physical discomfort to the trip, for if he leaned back against the cushioned seat of the coach, then his arms started to go numb and his shoulders ached. On the other hand, if he moved forward toward the edge of the seat, it took the pressure off his arms and shoulders, bur made his balance more precarious as the wooden wheels of the coach rattled over the cobble-stoned streets, transmitting every bump up through the seats and putting him in danger of pitching forward, which was the last thing he wanted to do, considering that the man sitting next to him had a dagger at his side and might react badly to any sudden movement. All in all, it made trying to keep track of where they were an exercise in futility. Before long, he lost not only all sense of direction but all sense of the passage of time, as well. And that was, doubtless, the general idea, for clearly their abductors did not want them to know where they were going.

  Shakespeare had not made a sound since the man had told him to be quiet, but Smythe could easily imagine how he felt. Will was not a courageous individual by nature. He had a quick wit and a keen mind, but physically he was not very strong. Although he was determined, he was also easily intimidated by men who were more physical and larger in stature. Right now, thought Smythe, he must be very frightened, a feeling that was probably exacerbated by his inability to speak.. Whenever he was nervous or ill at case, Shakespeare had a tendency to be particularly chatty. Not being able to speak at such a time probably had him near to bursting with frustration and anxiety. Smythe wished that he could say something to make him feel better, but that would only goad him on to speak.. He did not wish to antagonize these men. He had no doubt that they would not be squeamish when it came to violence.

  After what seemed like hours, though it could not possibly have been that long, the coach came to a stop. A moment later, the door was opened and the man beside him spoke.

  "Right, then. I am going to take your arm and 'elp you down. Do not make any sudden movements. I would not wish to stab you by mistake."

  "'Tis very considerate of you," said Smythe. "Thank. you."

  "Why, you are very welcome, to be sure. Come on, then. 'Ere we go…

  Feeling himself guided by the grip upon his arm, Smythe felt his way with his foot and then stepped down carefully from the coach. The first thing that he noticed was that the ground beneath his feet was not paved. However, this did not mean that they were out of the city. It merely meant that they were not on a main thoroughfare.

  "Tuck?" Will sounded anxious.

  "I am here, Will. Steady on. Just do as these men say."

  "Oh, we are not so worried about 'im," said their unseen companion. "'E wouldn't be much trouble. You, on the other 'and, look like you might prove an 'andful given 'alf a chance, so we'll be watchin' you right close-like. In other words, mate, be very careful what you do, eh? We understand one another, right?"

  "Quite," said Smythe.

  "There's a good lad."

  Smythe felt himself being patted down.

  "'Allo, 'allo… what 'ave we 'erd A bodkin?"

  He felt his cloak pulled aside, and then a tug as his uncle's knife came free of its sheath upon his belt.

  "You shall not find that of very great value, I assure you," Smythe said. "However, it has some meaning to me, for my uncle made it for me when I was but a lad."

  "Your uncle does right good work," the man replied approvingly, from just behind him.

  "Make certain that I get it back and I shall make you another just as good," said Smythe.

  "Will you, now? Well, that's a right good offer. I shall tell you what I'll do. You promise not to give us any trouble and I shall make certain that you get back your bodkin. And what is more, I shall not only take you up on your kind offer to make me another, but I shall pay you a fair price for it. Agreed?"

  "Agreed," said Smythe. "'Tis very generous of you."

  "Thank you."

  "You are most welcome."

  "I cannot believe that I am listening to this," said Shakespeare. "Be silent, Will."

  "Do as your friend 'ere says, Will. 'Twill be best for all concerned, eh? Now move along."

  Smythe felt a strong hand upon his arm as he was guided forward. They walked a few paces until the man beside him warned him of a step. He stepped up, going up a couple of stairs and apparently over a threshold. He felt a wood floor covered by rushes beneath his feet. There was a smell of tobacco smoke and ale in the air that told him they were almost certainly inside a tavern or an alehouse. He heard conversation going on around him and could make out some snatches of what was being said, though none of it was particularly helpful. There was some laughter, apparently at their expense, judging by the catcalls that ensued, but he felt himself guided on farther. A door was opened and he was ushered through.

  "Goin' up some stairs now," he was told. "Move slowly and 'ave a care."

  Smythe felt his shoulder brush a wall and used it to help guide his steps. He could hear footsteps coming up behind him, but had no way of knowing if Shakespeare's were among them. No one seemed to be in front.

  He ended up taking one step up too many, having no way of telling where the stairs ended, so that he stumbled as he came up onto the second floor. He heard several people laugh. He could hear the sound of many voices all around him, which seemed to indicate that he was in a large and open room. Once again, he smelled ale and the strong odour of tobacco in the air.

  He could not determine how long he had been blindfolded, but noticed how much more he was starting to rely upon his other senses, particularly his hearing and his sense of smell. Things that were not ordinarily so noticeable seemed to take on more significance now that he could not see. Curiously, even in his present highly uncertain circumstances, he found himself thinking that it seemed more and more people were taking up the practice of smoking.

  He was starting to encounter it nearly everywhere he went. He recalled being told that the plant came from the colonies in America and that its leaves, when dried and cured, produced smoke that was said to have healthful properties. It was usually smoked in long clay pipes, but on occasion the pipes were carved from cherry wood. The smell was not altogether unpleasant, especially when compared to many of the usual noxious smells of London, but the one time he had tried a pipe, Smythe had found himself gagging and coughing on the smoke. It had made his eyes water, and the taste of it had seemed far worse than the smell. He could not understand why people seemed to like it. For that matter, he could not understand what could be so healthful about inhaling the acrid smoke from burning leaves, or why anyone should wish to do so. Yet those who smoked seemed to encourage others to do so. It was a habit, they often said, that one needed to "cultivate." Smythe could not understand that, either. If it did not feel good the first time, he saw no reason to try it a second. But wherever it was that they had brought him, the smell of tobacco nearly overwhelmed the smell of beer and ale.

  "I am going to cut your bonds and remove your blindfold now," said the now familiar voice of his abductor at his ear. "You shall find a stool beside you. Sit, and remain seated until you are told otherwise. Right?"

  Smythe merely nodded and swallowed nervously. He could hear an undertone of conversation all around him. He felt his bonds being cut, and a moment later his blindfold was removed.

  He blinked several times. Even in the dim light, it seemed too bright at first, but his eyes quickly grew accustomed to it. As he rubbed his wrists, which felt a bit sore from the bonds, he glanced around.

  Will was seated next to him, on a wooden stool, about four feet away. He was looking frightened. Their stools had been placed out in the centre of the room, and it was a large room, with a wood floor strewn with rushes. All around the perimeter of the room were wooden trestle tables where men sat upon either benches or wooden stools similar to theirs. Smythe saw the one that had been placed beside him and sat down upon it.

  The men… no, Smythe now noticed that there were women among them .. were sm
oking and drinking and talking boisterously, many of them laughing, some pointing toward them and making comments to those around them. Directly in front of them, Smythe saw a table that had been placed upon a small wooden stage, a sort of dais. There were several wooden barrels placed behind this table, as seats. There was no one at this table at present, but as he watched, several men and one woman came out and took their seats upon these kegs. He recognized two of them at once as Charles "Shy" Locke and the notorious Moll Cutpurse.

  "Tuck!" said Will. "Do you see?"

  He took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. "Aye, Will," he replied. "I do. Lord save us."

  One of the men up at the table on the dais picked up a large wooden mallet and brought it down several times upon the table, bringing the conversation all around them to a halt.

  "This meeting will come to order!" he announced loudly.

  Smythe did not need to be told what meeting it was. The presence of Shy Locke and the infamous Moll Cutpurse meant that it could only be a meeting of the Thieves Guild of London, the largest and most notorious organization of the underworld. And from where they were sitting, it looked as though there was going to be some sort of trial.

  Chapter 9

  Elizabeth’s mind was in a turmoil as her coach drove down the street. She had desperately needed to get away for a while. She needed some air. She needed some time away from Portia, whose despairing grief had made the entire house seem to feel oppressive. She needed time to think. And most of all, she felt she needed some advice.

  So that had been Tuck's father, she thought with wonder, as her coach's wheels rattled over the cobblestones. Once she had gotten over her initial shock at seeing him, there had been no question in her mind that he could have been anyone else. The physical resemblance had been telling. Like his son who shared his name, Symington Smythe II was tall and fair haired, and there was a remarkable similarity of features, save that he was slim and not as brawny or as strapping as his son. However, there all resemblance between father and son ended. Much as she had strong affection for the son, she had thoroughly detested the father, and not just because the few things that she had heard about him from Tuck would have disposed her to dislike him anyway.

  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 op
aque 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.