The Merchant of Vengeance (3 page)

Smythe laughed.

"But that is not a man, you see," said Shakespeare. "That is a masque, a Morris dancer, something all done up in bells and ribbons, nothing but a caricature. That is Marlowe's Tamburlaine, but merely in another costume. And yet, who is he? Who is this Jew?" he asked rhetorically, waving his anus in the air. "What does he think? What does he feel? Has he a wife at home, a child? Does he love them? Does he worry about them? Does he have fears of his own that keep him up at night? And if he is, indeed, as evil as Kit Marlowe paints him, then what has made him so?"

"All very good questions," Smythe replied, nodding. "But 'twould be somewhat tiresome to answer all those questions for the audience in the prologue of a play, would it not?"

"Not if they were
shown
the answers," Shakespeare replied. "
Shown
the answers? How?"

"As a part of the unfolding of the action of the play," said

Shakespeare. "'The more I think about it, Tuck, the more I become convinced that 'tis in this direction that my true path lies! Forget Marlowe's Jew. I will show you a Jew, by God! I will show you one who has a reason to be evil! A reason that any man can readily understand!"

"But Will, you have just admitted that you know no more of Jews than I do," Smythe replied. "And I, for one, know nothing of them. Why, I do not think I could tell a Jew if I chanced upon one on this very street."

"Well, that is a minor problem," Shakespeare said.

"A minor problem? How can you write a Jew when you have never even met a Jew?"

"Marlowe clearly never met a Jew, and yet he wrote one."

"Aye, and you have just finished telling me that his Jew was nothing more than a caricature. If you are determined to outdo him, then you shall have to create a character that is more man than masque, more flesh than bells and ribbons, as you put it."

"Well, a Jew is a man at heart, like any other, surely," Shakespeare said. "Like any other man, he feels sadness, he feels anger, he feels pain…"

"But as you said yourself, Will, where is he?" Smythe replied. "What makes him who he is and what he is? After all, if you are going to outdo Marlowe's Jew of Malta, then do you not think that you should at least learn something of your subject?"

Shakespeare pursed his lips. "Indeed, you are quite right, Tuck.. I suppose I should. The question is… where will we find a Jew in a country that drove them out three hundred years ago?"

Smythe grunted. "I must admit, you have me there. But you did say that some remained behind, did you not?"

"Apparently, a small number who converted."

Smythe shrugged. "Well then, can we not find one of them?"

"I would not have the faintest idea where to look" said Shakespeare with a shrug.

"Well, we know a lot of people. Surely, somebody must know."

"Surely, someone must. We shall ask around, then."

"What about your play about King Henry?" Smythe asked.

"'Twas an ambitious effort, as I recall. Do you not think. you should complete that first, before beginning something new?"

"I have very nearly finished it. And I have already begun work upon another."

"What, this one about the Jew, you mean?"

"Nay, that is still merely an idea, an inspiration, if you will.

Still, I think it may be a worthy one. 'Twould be tempting to beat Marlowe at his own game and have everyone in London know I did it."

"Tempting, perhaps," said Smythe. "But whether it be worthy is another matter. For my part, I am not convinced that this is the best idea you have ever had."

"Great plays can spring from inferior ideas," Shakespeare said. "Look at Marlowe."

"Aye, look at him," Smythe said wryly. "Marlowe dances on the edge of the abyss. His reputation is becoming infamous, and he seems to infuriate as many patrons as he pleases. Are you quite certain that you want to emulate him?"

"Not in all things, perhaps," replied Shakespeare with a grin. "But I could do with emulating his success. And our company could certainly do with some new plays. One takes one's ideas where one finds them, eh?"

"If you say so. Either way, you humoured me in my idea to go and search out Robert Greene, much to your regret now, I am quite sure, so I suppose the very least that I can do is humour you in your desire to out-Marlowe, Marlowe. Let us only hope that you do not wind up suffering by comparison."

"I can assure you, Tuck, that when I am done, I will have penned a Jew that shall prove much more memorable than Marlowe's Jew of Malta."

"Famous last words?" said Smythe, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"We shall see, my friend," said Shakespeare.

"We shall, indeed," said Smythe. "Now all we need to do is find a Jew in a country where there are none."

Chapter 2

You do not look well, Elizabeth," said her friend Antonia, as they sat upon a bench, embroidering together in the garden. "Does my presence weary you?"

Elizabeth Darcie shook her head, brushing back a stray blond tress that had fallen loose from underneath her linen coif. "Nay, 'tis not so, my good, dear friend. I am neither weary nor yet unwell, thanks be to God. I am but feeling a bit sad today."

"I had hoped to cheer you with my company," Antonia said, putting down her needlework on the stone bench. "Yet I perceive that I have failed."

"Nay, I am grateful for your company, Antonia, truly," Elizabeth replied. "If my mood is pensive this day, the blame lies not with you. I was merely thinking of our friend Portia's impending marriage."

"And this makes you sad?" Antonia cocked an eyebrow at her friend. "Is it for her that you feel sad or for yourself?"

"Nay, not for her," Elizabeth replied, putting down her own embroidery with a sigh. "I am happy for Portia, truly. Thomas Locke is a most excellent young man. He has fine prospects. He is now nearly done with his apprenticeship and shall soon become a journeyman tailor. Already, his work is becoming known in fashionable circles. He shall do well. There is no doubt that he shall make something of himself."

"Despite his rather humble origins, you mean," Antonia said.

"Well, though some may hold it so, in my estimation, what his father does should be no reflection upon him," Elizabeth replied. "Thomas is making his own way in life. And 'tis not at all uncommon these days for a successful merchant or a guildsman to become a gentleman. Prosperity can do much to improve one's social standing."

“I am quite sure that Portia's father had considered that when he consented to the match," Antonia said dryly. "After all, 'tis one thing to allow one's only daughter to wed a tavern-keeper's son, and a tavern in the Liberties, no less. 'Tis quite another to let her wed a journeyman tailor who shall doubtless have his own shop before long and may one day become a gentleman."

"Aye," said Elizabeth. "Some things are more easily overlooked when the prospects of success and social betterment are in the offing."

"Unlike the prospects for a poor player who is not even a shareholder in his company?" Antonia said.

Elizabeth glanced at her with surprise, momentarily taken aback, then smiled wanly. "Am I so easily compassed, then?"

"Aye, by one who loves you well and knows your heart," Antonia replied, taking her hand. "Tuck Smythe is also an excellent young man. However, unlike Portia's young man, Thomas, he does not seem to have favourable prospects. He is also making his own way in life, as best he can, but as a poor player, I fear he can offer your father no reason to overlook his lack of social standing."

Elizabeth sighed. "Did you know that his father is a gentleman?" Antonia's eyes grew wide. "Tuck's father? A gentleman? But you have never told me this!"

"'Tis true," Elizabeth said, nodding. "He told me so himself once. But he does not like to speak of it."

"But why?"

"It seems that his father had squandered all of his money."

Elizabeth explained. "'Twas my understanding that he had barely avoided debtors' prison and was living on his younger brother's charity. 'Tis why Tuck is both poor and a player. He told me that he had always wanted to join up with a company of players, ever since he was a boy and saw a travelling troupe come through his town, but his father would not hear of it and threatened to disown him if he did. And so Tuck was sent to live and apprentice with his uncle, who was a smith and farrier. He lived with him until he learned that his father had gone bankrupt. With his inheritance gone, his father's threat was rendered moot and Tuck had nothing to prevent him from setting out to follow his hearts desire. Thus, he came to London and became a player. He does not like to speak about his father. 'Twas the only time he had ever even mentioned him, and then he never spoke of him to me again."

"Poor Tuck," Antonia said, shaking her head. "And yet… his father, for all that he may now be destitute, is nevertheless still a proper gentleman, is he not? That is to say, the heralds had granted him a coat of arms?"

Elizabeth clucked her tongue. "Aye, they did, but I know what you are thinking, and 'twould never do," she said.

"Why not?" Antonia asked "Your father wants nothing more than to make a good marriage for you. He has tried again and yet again to arrange a suitable match."

"Aye, much to our mutual regret," Elizabeth replied. "I have told you of the disaster that was so narrowly prevented not so long ago, thanks to Tuck and his friend Will. I shudder to think now that I could easily have been killed by that impostor posing as a nobleman. As a result, it seems my father has learned his lesson and has at long last stopped trying to arrange a marriage for me.

Besides, I told him that I would sooner die a spinster than wed a man I did not love."

"But if you were to tell him that Tuck's father is a gentleman, then surely he would be more amiably disposed toward him," Antonia said.

"Just so long as I conveniently neglected to tell him that Tuck's father is also destitute, you mean," Elizabeth replied. She shook her head. "'Nay, I could never do that to him. I could not mislead my father so, nor would Tuck stand for it even if I could. He is proud and honest to a fault. And for all of his insufferable pomposity, Father tolerates Tuck now, in part because he is indebted to him and in part because he knows now that Tuck is honourable and would never do anything against his wishes. Father trusts Tuck, as he trusts me. In truth, I do believe he trusts him more than he trusts me. 'Tis the only reason he allows our friendship, albeit he does not entirely approve."

"But you would like it to be much more than just a friendship." said Antonia.

Elizabeth sighed. “I do not know. In truth, I am not certain what I want."

'Well, do you love him?"

"At times, I think I do. And yet, at other times, he vexes and exasperates me so, I think that if I were a man, I could take a club to him and beat him senseless!"

Antonia laughed. "That sounds very much like love to me."

"Oh, and you know so much about it!"

"'You might be surprised at what I know," Antonia said slyly.

"You may be older, Elizabeth, but do not forget, I am the one who is married."

"Everyone is married," Elizabeth replied dismissively. "Marriage merely teaches a woman what it means to be a wife. I have not observed that marriage has much to teach a woman about love."

"Once married, a woman can learn to love her husband, even if she does not love him from the start," Antonia said with a shrug.

"I suppose that one can also learn to love a tonic of tart vinegar and scurvy-grass if one must drink it daily," Elizabeth replied dryly. "However, that still does not make it a pleasant-tasting brew."

"You shall make a fine spinster, methinks," Antonia replied.

"You already have the tongue for it. Here I am trying to help you with my best advice, and you abuse me for it."

"Forgive me, Antonia," Elizabeth said. "'Twas unkind of me, I know. I am simply in a dreadful humour. Perhaps 'tis my lot in life to be a spinster."

"Oh, what arrant nonsense," said Antonia. "You have had more than your share of suitors. And if you had not frightened all of them off with your shrewish tongue. and wilful manner, then you would have an army of them still. Why, you could have a husband at any time you chose, if only you would behave more amiably toward those who came to court you. The trouble with you is not a lack. of suitors. What you seem to want, Elizabeth, is what you cannot have."

"And what is that, do you suppose?"

"You want a man, but you want him only on your terms. What you want is a husband who is not a husband, one who is strong enough to tame you, but at the same time does not attempt to rein you in. You want a man with whom you can discourse as an equal, and to whom you do not owe obedience, unless it be your choice.

You want someone who can provide for you, but at the same time with whom you can feel passion." Antonia shook her head. "Elizabeth, my dear, you do not want a husband. 'What you want is a lover."

"Antonia! That is a scandalous thing to say!"

Antonia merely shrugged. "Nevertheless, 'tis true. 'Tis what you truly seem to want. And 'twould seem that Tuck. Smythe could be all of those things for you, save one. He could not provide for you. But then, you have your father to do that, at least for the present. Then, when he finally tires of supporting you and puts his foot down once and for all and insists upon your taking a husband, why then, rake one who can provide for you and does not make too many demands. And then keep Tuck as your secret lover."

"Antonia!" Elizabeth was shocked. "You cannot possibly be serious!"

"And why not, pray tell?"

"You mean that you would wish me to be unfaithful to my husband?" Elizabeth asked, astonished at the very suggestion.

"What I would wish is for you to be happy," Antonia replied calmly. "If you could find your happiness in being faithful to a husband, then I would wish no more for you. But if not, then I would wish for you to find some means whereby you might find the happiness you seek. I was merely suggesting one path that you could take. The choice is yours."

"Could…" Elizabeth hesitated and glanced at her friend askance. "Could you ever be unfaithful to Harry?"