The Merchant of Vengeance (19 page)

"Mind now, Master Locke did not say in what condition 'e wished to see you," he said, his voice calm and otherwise perfectly conversational.

"’E could see you whole… or else'e could see you broke up a bit. It makes not a brass farthing’s worth o' difference to us, one way or the other. The choice is yours my friends. And you 'ave the space o' three breaths in which co make it."

"Right," said Smythe, taking a deep breath. "Well… when you put it that way…" He slowly sheathed the blade and started co unbuckle his sword belt so that he could hand it over to them.

"Now, that's more like it," said the man who spoke. "No need for 'eroics, eh? We understand each other. I would much prefer to keep this friendly like."

"By all means, let us keep it friendly-like," said Smythe with a tight grimace, as he handed over his sword belt.

"Oh, hellspite!" Shakespeare said, in a tone of fearful exasperation. "Why in God's name do you keep doing this to us?"

"Be quiet, Will."

"It never ends! It simply never ends! You positively rain death and devastation upon us!"

"We have not died yet, Will," Smythe replied. "And if we keep our heads about us, we shall not die today. If Master Locke wanted us dead, then we would have been dead already."

"Now, that's what I like," said the leader, his face nearly invisible inside the hood of his cloak. "A man with a practical turn of mind."

He seemed to speak for all the others, who simply stood there motionless, yet watchful and ready. Smythe was all too uncomfortably aware of the two crossbows aimed straight at their chests. He was a good archer, having grown up hunting in the woods around his village, but crossbows made him nervous. He had seen what they could do. And unlike a good, stout English longbow, which required a deliberate pull and release, it did not take much more than a couch to release a bolt from a crossbow. Merely a moment's in attentiveness on the part of either of those two archers and death would come swiftly and decisively.

The clip-clopping of horses' hooves made Smythe look around, though he was careful to avoid any sudden movements. A coach was approaching from the south side of the bridge, the direction from which they had come. It stopped when it drew even with them.

"If you gentlemen would be so good as to turn around," the man said.

They did so, and a couple of the other men stepped forward and tied blindfolds over their eyes.

"Your 'ands behind your backs, please… "

"Tuck, I do not like this," Shakespeare said, trying hard to keep his voice even.

"Nor do I, Will. Steady on. There is naught else we can do but comply with their wishes."

"This is merely to ensure that you do not try anything foolish once we get inside the coach." The man continued speaking to them, though they could no longer see him. "There shall be one of us sitting beside each of you, "with a dagger at the ready. So let us all sit quietly and merely enjoy the ride, eh?"

They were assisted into the coach, and then the door was closed behind them. A moment later, they felt the coach lurch forward. They seemed to be continuing across the bridge and toward the city.

"I do not suppose that Master Locke happened to mention why, specifically, he wished to see us?" Smythe heard Shakespeare say.

"I am quite sure that 'e shall tell you when 'e sees you," came the reply. "Now be quiet, like a good lad, eh?"

"Of course," said Shakespeare, and fell silent.

The silence made their ride seem much more tense and ominous. Smythe listened intently, trying to determine where they were by the sounds coming from outside the coach. It was difficult to tell exactly when they reached the other side and entered the city. He could not see anything. The blindfold had been tied well. Alert to every sound, he listened as hard as he could, but could not determine where they where. He thought he could feel it when the coach turned, but even that seemed uncertain. The blindfold made him realise just how much he depended upon his sight. It must be a terrible thing to be blind, he thought. It felt even worse to be unable to see than to have his hands tied behind his back. He had never felt so helpless.

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 smoking 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.