“Look sharp, good wherry-man,” Smythe said, flipping him an extra coin. “For a swift passage and the benefit of your wisdom.”
“Thank ye, lad,” the old wherry-man replied, catching the coin. “Mind now, ye go muckin‘ about with the likes o’ Shy Locke and ‘tis fortune’s darlings ye will need to be to come out with your heads all in one piece. Do what ye please, but just remember old Puck the Wherry-man and what ’e told ye.”
“We shall do that, Puck, and thank you,” Smythe replied, as the wherry-man pulled away in search of another fare. “A right good fellow, that,” he said to Shakespeare.
“Aye. A good fellow, indeed. But did you happen to pay any mind to what he said?”
“He said ‘twould rain soon.”
“And that we would do well to avoid any dealings with the likes of this Shy Locke if we wanted to keep our heads from being broken,” Shakespeare said.
“We have already had some dealings with him,” Smythe replied, as they ascended the steps to the street, “and thus tar, we seem to have survived with our heads unscathed:”
‘Thus far,“ Shakespeare replied with a grimace.
“Oh, stop worrying so much, Will,” said Smythe with a grin. “‘Tis a simple enough matter. All we need do is deliver his message to Thomas Locke and there will be an end to it. ’Tis not as if we were embarking upon a precarious journey to some den of thieves!”
“It seems to me that when all of this started, ‘twas merely a simple matter of going to a tavern so that you could meet your favourite pamphleteer,” Shakespeare replied dryly. “Your ’simple matters’ have a disconcerting tendency to become byzantine in their complexity.”
“And this from a man who cannot seem to get a single play finished before he begins a new one,” Smythe replied. “How many are you working on at present? Three? Or is it four?”
“A poet must follow his inspiration,” Shakespeare replied. “He might do better to generate some perspiration by applying himself to only one task at a time,” Smythe said.
“Oh, indeed? And where, pray tell, did you learn your mastery in the craft of poetry? Whilst apprenticing with your Uncle Thomas at his forge? Doubtless, you declaimed the classics to one another between hammer blows upon the anvil. Beat the verses into submission, I suppose. Iambic pentameter, if you will.”
“”I am a what?“
“Oh, never mind,” said Shakespeare, rolling his eyes. “To you, a heroic couplet probably suggests Greek ardor.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
‘“Your education, sirrah, or, more to the point, the lack of it.
‘Tis showing as brightly as a pinked sleeve. I shall take your lead when it comes to smithing or weaponry or knowledge of the criminal underworld, about which you have read so exhaustively and exhaustingly, but when it comes to poetry, my friend, I shall thank you to speak little, or, better yet, speak not at all.“
“Do you know, if you expended as much effort in your writing as you do in tongue lashing, then your productions would be hailed throughout the world,” said Smythe.
“And if you spent half as much time learning your lines as you do in finding fault with me, then London would forget Ned Alleyn and hail you as the greatest actor of all time!”
“Hark, methinks I hear a kite screeching,” Smythe said sourly. “”Whilst I hear a tiresome and rustic drone,“ Shakespeare replied.
“Rustic? Rustic, did you say? And this from a bog-trotting, leather-jerkined Stratford glovemaker! See how yon pot calls the kettle black!”
“Bog-trotting, leather-jerkined glovemaker? Oh, that was vile!”
“Well, if the muddy gauntlet fits…
“”Why, you base and timorous scoundrel! You call me a leather-jerkined bog-trotter whilst you lumber about London in country galligaskins and hempen homespun like some hedge-hopping haggard? You raucous crow!“
“Unmannered dog!”
“Rooting hog!”
“Yelping cur!”
“Honking goose!”
“Balding miscreant!”
“Balding? Balding? ”Why, you vaporous churl…
“Hey, you, down there! Shaddap!” A stream of odoriferous slop came pouring down from a second-story window above them as somebody threw out the contents of a chamberpot, just barely missing them.
“Why, that miserable, misbegotten-”
“Never mind, never mind,” interrupted Shakespeare, pulling on Smythe’s arm to hurry him along. “We really do not have time for this. I should very much like to complete our errand and return in enough time to attend at least part of today’s rehearsal. Henslowe has said that he would be fining us from now on if we did not attend.”
“Well, I suppose you are right,” Smythe grumbled, allowing himself to be led away. He shot a venomous glance back toward the building from whence the excrementory assault had come. ‘We should be nearing Leffingwell’s shop, in any event.“
“I believe ‘tis right around the corner,” Shakespeare said, as they came around a bend in the curving street and entered a small, cobblestoned cul-de-sac containing a number of shops with painted wooden signs hanging out over their doors.
Several of these shops had display windows in the front with one large wooden shutter that was hinged at the bottom, so that it swung down to open and swing up to close, then was latched from the inside. When swung down in the open position, this shutter, supported by chains or ropes, functioned as a display table upon which the craftsmen could show their wares to passers-by in the street. Of course, it was often necessary to fasten the goods down or have someone there to watch them; otherwise a thief could make off with something without even entering the shop. Here, however, such a snatch-and-grab would be rendered more difficult, since these shopkeepers had all joined forces to hire a couple of burly, rough-looking men armed with clubs and daggers to act as guards. They sat upon wooden kegs at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, leaning back against the building walls with their thick arms folded across their massive chests, giving everybody who came past them a close scrutiny.
Smythe and Shakespeare entered the tailor shop where Thomas Locke had served his apprenticeship and now worked as a journeyman. The owner of the shop, a lean and severe-looking master tailor, approached them, looked them over quickly, and did not quite manage to mask his purse-lipped disapproval of their attire, which was neither very fashionable nor very expensive. Still, there was always the possibility that they might be looking to upgrade their appearance, and so he put on a polite smile and asked them if he could be of any assistance.
“In truth, sir, we came in search of Thomas Locke, who we were told is employed here as a journeyman,” said Smythe. “We have a message for him from his father.”
The tailor sighed and rolled his eyes. “Indeed, everyone seems to be looking for Thomas today,” he replied with irritation. “I, too, would very much like to know what has become of him. He should have been here hours ago. ‘Tis most unlike him to be so late.”
“What do you mean, everyone seems to be looking for him?” Shakespeare asked. “Has someone else been here asking for him, as well?”
“Aye, three women came by in a carriage a little while ago,” the tailor replied. “They were asking about him, too. One of them was his betrothed, or so she claimed.”
“Did she give her name as Portia?” Smythe asked.
“Aye, she was the one,” the tailor replied. “A pretty young thing, if you like that sort. A bit on the coltish side, if you ask me, but with the right style of clothing, in a fuller cut, she could present a decent figure, I suppose. I know not who her tailor is, and did not presume to ask, but she could certainly do better. The other one was not all that much different. Antonia, I think she said her name was, a bit more brassy looking, but well dressed in silks and damasks in dark hues that set off her colouring to good advantage. However, the flaxen-haired one, Mistress Elizabeth, now, there was a woman who knew how to wear clothes. The moment I saw that exquisite green velvet cloak, I told myself this was a woman of excellent taste and sensibility.”