The Merchant of Vengeance (25 page)

"I have already thought of that," Elizabeth replied, as she got down out of the coach. "I know of a place where Portia shall be safe and they shall never think to look for her."

""What do you mean, you do not think he did it?" Smythe asked.

Shakespeare shook his head. "I could be wrong," he said, "but look at him. He is arrogant and angry, and proud, so very proud… indeed, just as you said. He is also frightened, surely, and yet he remains defiant. He is outraged that these common criminals should have dared to take such liberties with him. Aye, and he is a fool, too, I shall grant you that, for he truly does not seem to realise the danger he is in. But amidst all the violent emotions that play across his countenance, I still do not see guilt."

"And upon this reasoning you base your judgement" Smythe asked dubiously.

"Aye, and upon this, as well," said Shakespeare, tapping the side of his nose several times. "'Strewth, I simply do not think he did it, Tuck! It smells all wrong to me. He hath not the aspect of a guilty man."

"If we were to judge all men by their aspects, Will, then many of the guilty would go free and innocents throughout the world would suffer punishment," said Smythe.

"I shall not dispute with you," said Shakespeare. "What you say is sound, indeed. And yet, despite that, I do not think that this man would be clever enough to dissemble and conceal his guilt. More like that he would trumpet it, for if he truly did the deed, he would believe 'twas the right deed he had done."

"Enough!" shouted Locke from the dais, bringing down the hammer. Once more, the room fell silent. "I shall ask you once again, Henry Mayhew, how do you answer to this charge?"

"I am not obligated to make you any answer," Mayhew replied haughtily. "You are no one to sit in judgement over me. If I am to answer to anyone, then I shall answer to God for all that I have done or not done. And to God I would say that I have had no hand in any murder, either of your son or that of any other man."

"And this is your defence?" Locke replied scornfully. "To perjure yourself before God?"

"I would not expect any defense at all in this outrageous mockery of a court," said Mayhew. He glanced around at the crowd, derision clearly written on his face. "Who, after all, among this scrofulous and motley gathering would rise to defend me?"

"I would," Shakespeare called out suddenly, getting to his feet.

Smythe stared at him, aghast. "Will! Have you lost your mind?

Sit down, for God's sake!"

Shakespeare gave his head a brief shake. "Nay, Tuck," he said, keeping his voice low so that only Smythe could hear, "'tis neither you nor I for whom Shy Locke whets his knife. 'Tis Mayhew. We are but a means to his end. And I intend to thwart it if can."

"What concern is this of yours?" demanded Locke, staring at him with a frown. "You were brought here as a witness, so that you could tell your story and depart. And yet you would undertake to speak for this man?"

"I would," said Shakespeare, stepping forward.

A buzz of curious conversation swept throughout the room, and Locke hammered several times for it to cease. "What is he to you?" he asked.

"In truth, Master Locke, he is naught to me," Shakespeare replied. "That is to say, not more than any other man nor less."

"So then why speak for him?"

"Because 'twould seem that someone must," said Shakespeare with a shrug. "After all, why bother with the fiction of a trial if no one is to speak for the accused? I am no friend of his, 'tis true, but then, neither is anyone else amongst this company. If what you wish for is revenge for your son's death, and if you are certain beyond any doubt at all that this man killed him, why then, take your revenge and kill him also. What is to stop you? But on the other hand, if what you wish is justice for your son, and if that is why you have convened this court of your compatriots, rather than merely to put on a show for them as they do down at the Paris Gardens, then someone must perforce speak for the accused, or else there is no justice, nor even any semblance of it. Would you not agree, my friends?" he added, turning to the audience and spreading out his arms to them.

The reaction was immediate. Many of them burst into applause; others still shouted their agreement, calling out such things as 'Well said!" or "Aye, let him speak! Let him speak!" or "A trial! A trial! Let us have a proper trial!"

Locke hammered angrily upon the table, while Smythe noticed Moll Cutpurse smiling to herself. She met his gaze and gave him a wink.

It took a few minutes for order to be restored, and then Locke said, "Very well, player. You may speak for the accused. But mark you, this is no stage for you to prance upon. We shall have no jokes or tricks or Morris dances. This is a serious matter, and you shall comport yourself accordingly. Is that understood?"

"In every aspect and particular," said Shakespeare, giving him a small bow. "However, before we proceed, I would like to make but two requests of this fine court, with your permission."

"What sort of requests?" asked Locke with a frown.

"For the first, I should like merely to ask if the bonds of the accused could be removed," said Shakespeare. "Surely, they must chafe and pain him, and it does not seem to me as if he poses any threat to anyone given his present circumstances."

Locke made a casual waving motion with his hand. "Granted.

Remove the bonds," he said.

Someone stepped forward and cut the ropes binding Mayhew's wrists.

"Thank. you, sir, whoever you may be," said Mayhew, rubbing his sore wrists and staring at him curiously. "I do not know why you are trying to help me, but I am much obliged to you."

"Do not thank me yet," Shakespeare replied to him, in a low voice, "for you may yet find yourself ungrateful."

"And your second request?" asked Locke.

"I should like for my companion to be released," said Shakepeare.

"Will? What are you doing?" Smythe asked, shaking his head, but Shakespeare turned and held up a hand to him, admonishing him to be silent.

"In order to conduct a proper defense for the accused," Shakespeare continued, turning back to the dais, "'twill be necessary for me to call some witnesses on his behalf. And at present, there are none in this chamber I can call. I should like to have permission to summon several to appear before us."

Once again, this brought on an excited murmuring among the audience. Without resorting to his hammer this time, Locke waited for it to die down of its own. His face bore a sour expression, while Moll Cutpurse and the two other masters of the guild clearly looked amused.

"I see," said Locke, after a few moments. "So you expect me to release your friend Smythe so that he can go and gather witnesses for the defense, or so you say, while in fact he may go and gather sheriff's men to come back here with him? Do you take me for an utter fool?"

"Nothing was further from my mind," said Shakespeare. "Why, the very last thing that I would wish to do is incur any enmity among this company. I think all here would understand how that could be unwise for a man in my position."

This brought on general laughter . Smythe was not laughing, however. He thought his friend had lost his senses, acting as if this were a play and the people all around him merely groundlings. Damn it, Will, he thought, all the world is
not
a stage!

"What I propose," Shakespeare continued, "is that my friend be released in the company of several members of this court, so that they may accompany him upon his errand. In that way, they would ensure he does it properly and returns, and at the same time they could function to persuade said witnesses to come and testify before this court, for it strikes me that such witnesses just might require some slight persuasion."

Again, this brought on laughter and more shouts of encouragement. Smythe saw Moll Cutpurse lean over toward Locke and say something in his ear. Locke listened for a moment, then nodded and banged his hammer several times to bid the audience be quiet.

"Very well, Master Shakespeare," he said. "The court has decided, in all fairness, to grant you your request. Your friend shall be allowed to leave to summon whatever witnesses you choose. You may confer with him in this regard and instruct him how so e'er you wish. But mark you, he shall be accompanied, as you propose, by several members of this court, and if he should so much as attempt to give someone a signal or a message, or else attempt to break away from those we send to escort him, then things shall not go well with either him or you… for we know well who you are and where you may be found and what company you keep, and there shall be no hiding from the thieves Guild, you may rest assured."

Shakespeare bowed. "I quite understand," he said. "And I do humbly thank this court for fairly granting my request."

"In the meantime," Locke continued, "we shall stand in recess for one hour, and then this court shall go forward with the prosecution. And when your witnesses are brought back to this court, if any are brought back to this court, then you may call them and state your case. You shall be given until midnight. If by then your witnesses have not appeared, then we shall conclude without them. You may now instruct your friend as to which witnesses you wish for him to summon to this court. Our esteemed colleague Moll Cutpurse will escort him, together with some members of her company, to make certain that things proceed accordingly."

"I thank the court," said Shakespeare, and hurried back to Smythe.

"You have completely lost your mind," said Smytbe. "'What in God's name do you think you are doing?"

'Trying to determine the truth," Shakespeare replied. "I had hoped to be done with this entire sad affair, but it seems that the fates have bound us up in it inextricably, and now the only thing to do is see it through. We must act quickly now, and think more quickly still, for time is of the essence. We have only until midnight…"

Elizabeth was becoming exasperated. She had tried her best to explain to Portia about the danger she was in, but despite all of her efforts, Portia still refused to leave. Her eyes looked dark and sunken, she appeared gaunt from eating poorly, if she ate at all, and there was a haunted quality about her gaze that reminded Elizabeth of some frightened little animal. But for all that, she was stubborn and kept sitting in her chair and shaking her head that she did not wish to go.

"You try to reason with her," Elizabeth said to Winifred in frustration. "I am reaching the end of my rope. Another shake of that head and so help me, I shall scream!"

"You must calm yourself, Elizabeth, please," Winifred replied. "In her grief, perhaps she does not truly understand."

"Then make her understand, for goodness sake!" Elizabeth replied, throwing up her hands. "This is taking us entirely too much time! We do not have all night! You try to talk some sense into her while I go and pack her things!"

"Portia," Winifred said, crouching down before her and taking both her hands, "Portia, dear, please… listen to me. Elizabeth only has your best interests at heart, you know. We understand that you came here to be with her because you felt safe here. However, 'tis no longer safe for you here, can you understand that? Some terrible men came and took away your father, took him away I know not where, and I very much fear for his safety."

Portia simply looked away from her without saying a word.

Winifred took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the girl's hands. "Portia, dear, you must listen to me, please. Those men who came and broke into your house and tied me up and took your father… those men were asking about you. We believe that they were sent by Charles Locke… Thomas's father. Do you understand, Portia? He is an angry man, Portia, grief-stricken in his own way, just like you, and he wishes revenge for his son's death!"

She turned and looked at Winifred.

"You understand now, don't you?" Winifred continued earnestly. "We simply cannot remain here any longer. We have already tarried far too long. 'Tis growing late, and there is a chance that they may find us here, that they may find you here. Please, Portia, please.! We must leave now."

Portia looked down, nodded, then slowly stood.

"Good," said Winifred, feeling enormously relieved. "Come now, I shall help you with your cloak."

A short while later, they came downstairs, with Elizabeth carrying her bag.

"Is the coach still waiting?" Winifred asked nervously.

"He had better still be waiting, or he shall not receive the extra wages that I had promised him," Elizabeth replied, handing Winifred the bag. "Go on, I shall be with you presently. Let me first instruct the servants what to do and what to say should anybody come."

A few moments later, she pulled up the hood of her cloak and ran out into the rain. The coach was waiting, and Winifred and Portia had already climbed inside. The door was open, and the coachman was already up and waiting in his seat, prepared to leave the moment she got in. Thank Heaven, she thought, we are still in time.

She called out their destination to the coachman, stepped up into the coach, and shut the door behind her. At once, the coachman gave a yell and whipped up the horses, and the coach moved off with a lurch and gathered speed.

With a shock, Elizabeth suddenly realized that both Winifred and Portia were sitting blindfolded in their seats, their hands bound together in their laps. And they were not alone.

"Good evenin'," said a dark-cloaked figure, sitting in the seat across from her, next to Winifred. Elizabeth gasped as she felt her bodkin quickly plucked from her belt inside her cloak. "yell not be needin' that, methinks."

It took a moment for Elizabeth to get over her initial shock. Winifred sat beside the stranger, pale and frozen with fear. Portia sat stiff and immobile.

"Nice little blade, this. Bit small for serious work, else I just might be tempted. Tell ye what… be a good lass an' give me no trouble, an' I just might give it back to ye when we are done."

Elizabeth stared at her captor with sudden realization. "Why, you are a woman!" Winifred gasped with disbelief.

"I was last time I looked," Moll Cutpurse replied. "But then he is not," she added, jerking her head toward the coach window. Elizabeth looked and caught her breath as she saw a swarthy face grinning in at her. There was a man hanging on to the outside of the coach. "An' neither is he," Moll added yet again, jerking her head toward the other window, in the coach door where Elizabeth had gotten in. There, too, a man was clinging to the outside of the coach, leering in at them. "An' there are three more up top," said Moll, pointing at the roof. "So be a good lass an' put this on, eh?" She tossed a blindfold onto Elizabeth's lap.