Go on and use it, then,“ said Pope. ”Put it into one of your plays.“
“Indeed! The very thought of it! And by what right would you have me take such license with our language?”
“The right of every bard and poet to coin whatever words or phrases please him,” Pope replied.
Shakespeare raised his eyebrows. “The devil you say! And what do you call this marvellous right of linguistic libertinage?”
“Urm I call it.. poetic license,” Pope mumbled around a mouthful of bread and cheese.
Shakespeare simply stared at him.
“What, no clever rejoinder” Kemp asked archly. Shakespeare shook his head. “Nay, Kemp, I have none. He leaves me quite speechless.”
“Good,” said Pope, his mouth still full. “Now pass the beer.”
“About this poor lad’s murder,” Gus Phillips said once more, getting back to the subject at hand, “you do not suppose that this Shy Locke will hold the two of you to blame I mean, with what Kemp said and all… you do not suppose he will?”
“I most certainly hope that he shall not,” Shakespeare said uneasily. “Truly, I do not see how he can. after all, we did not have anything at all to do with poor Thomas’s murder!”
‘That may not be how he shall see it,“ Kemp replied.
“Well, I doubt very much that he shall even remember our names,” said Shakespeare.
“Only You did tell him that we were players with Lord Strange’s Men,” said Smythe.
Shakespeare frowned. “I did?”
“You did.”
“Bollocks. Well, perhaps he shall not remember it. In any event, we were able to convince the sheriff’s men that we had nothing to do with it, so I am sure we shall be able to convince him likewise, if need be.”
“You had best hope so,” Kemp replied. “Else we may be in need of a new book holder, as well as a new…” he waved his hand dismissively, “whatever ‘tis you are, Smythe.”
“‘Hired man,’ I believe, is the proper term for my position with the company,” replied Smythe tartly.
“‘Strewth! Do you mean to say that we actually pay you?”
Kemp replied with mock astonishment.
“‘Why not?” asked Pope, masticating furiously as he shoved a wedge of cheese into his mouth, immediately followed by a large chunk of barley bread. “He remembers his lines at least as well as you do.”
“Methinks he has you there, Kemp,” said Shakespeare.
“You are both impertinent,” Kemp said with a disdainful sniff.
“Oh, good Lord,” said Smythe, staring toward the tavern entrance with dismay. “As if this day has not brought ill tidings enough.”
Shakespeare followed his gaze, looking at the man who had just walked in and now stood just inside the doorway, glancing around the tavern. “I say, Tuck, ‘tis your father, is it not?” he said.
“Tuck’s father?” Hemings said with surprise. He turned around on the bench, looking over his shoulder. “Truly?”
At once, everyone else turned toward the door. Smythe sighed wearily and brought his hand up to his forehead, which had suddenly begun to ache fiercely. “Oh, this can bode no good,” he said. “No good at all.”
Symington Smythe H swept the tavern with an aristocratic gaze, then spotted his son, tossed his dark brown cloak back, and started toward them with a regal air.
“Tuck, you never mentioned having any family in London.” Hemings said, turning back toward him. “Did you not tell us that you came from a small village in the country?”
“Aye, I did,” Smythe replied. “Unfortunately, my father chose to follow me to London.”
“Ah, Symington, my boy, there you are!” his father said in a tone that sounded so jovial, Tuck knew that it was forced.
“‘Allo, Father,” Smythe said, rising to his feet politely. “Allow me to introduce my father, everyone… Symington Smyrhe II, Esquire. Father, permit me to present the company of Lord Strange’s Men.” They rose and he quickly introduced them all, noting as he did so that his bluff and hearty, hail-and-well-met manner notwithstanding, his father did not really have the slightest interest in meeting any of them. “And, of course, Father,” he added at the end, “you remember my good friend Will Shakespeare.”
“A pleasure, sir,” said Shakespeare with a slight bow.
“Indeed,” replied the senior Smythe, barely even glancing at him. “Son, I wonder if I might have a word with you in private for a moment?”
“Of course,” said Tuck, somewhat awkwardly. He excused himself and allowed his father to lead him away to an empty table in the corner. He sighed as they took their seats. “‘Twas rather rude of you to treat them so curtly, Father, if I may say so. These are my friends. The very least you could have done was to exchange a pleasantry or two, instead of treating them all as if they were nothing but dirt underneath your feet.”
“They arc nothing but dirt underneath my feet,” his father replied with a disdainful grimace. “Bounders, louts, and scallywags, every last man jack of them. Gypsies, moon-men, vagabonds.” He snorted. “A fine lot you have taken up with, I can see that.”
“They are my friends, Father.”
“Indeed. You know that one may judge a man by the company he keeps.”
“Well then, if I be judged now, I must surely stand condemned,” said Tuck dryly.
“Do not be insolent with me, young man.”
“Or else what?” said Smythe wearily. “You shall disown me?
That old and tired hound simply shall not hunt, Father. You have naught left of which you can disown me, not that it would make the slightest bit of difference to me if you did, one way or the other. Do as you please.“
“Oh, how very bravely said, now that you know I have suffered some reverses,” his father said wryly.
“Reverses, is it?” Smythe replied. “‘Strewth, sir, you have lost everything you had, including that saucy young tart who had the presumption to call herself my stepmother when she was scarcely older than myself. You shamefully cheated Uncle Thomas out of his share of the inheritance, foolishly squandered it all, and then fastened on to him like a leech until even he could no longer tolerate your abuses and gave you the boot. Now, at long last, you come to me, your unloved and long-neglected son who had disgraced you by joining a company of players. So, then. what is it you wish of me? More money to spend on clothes and carriages? How much this time?”
“My word, how very high and mighty we seem to have become,” his father said scornfully. “Such a lofty, noble, moral tone for a mountebank in motley! I see now what comes of having sent you to be raised by my good brother. You have become as insufferable a prig as Thomas ever was. On you, however, the mantle of morality does not sit quite as well, considering the company you keep.”
“Did you come here merely to trade barbs with me, or was there something that you wanted?” Tuck said curtly.
His father glared at him for a moment, looked as if he were about to launch into a sharp rejoinder, and then abruptly changed his tack. He smiled and said, “I was going to ask if you would consider acting as the best man at my wedding.”
Tuck simply stared at him, speechless with astonishment.
“Of course, if ‘twould be asking too much, then I suppose that I could find someone else to stand beside me when the time comes, although I have no idea who in London I would know well enough to ask,” his father said.
Tuck finally found his voice. “You are getting married? But how? When?” He shook his head in confusion.
“As to when, I am not yet quite certain. There are yet some small details that need to be worked out. As to how, well, ‘tis quite a simple matter, really. One stands before a minister in church and speaks some nonsense and ’tis done.”
“But.. but you are already married!”
His father shrugged. “The ungrateful wench ran off.”
“God’s wounds! You think that makes a difference?” Smythe replied, astonished at his father’s arrogant presumption. “You cannot simply marry once again! ‘Strewth, not that I have any fondness for that miserable, smug, and grasping woman you had the poor judgement to marry after Mother died, but ’tis not as if she were a horse that bolted and ran off and you simply went and bought yourself another! For God’s sake, ‘twould be bigamy if you married someone else! ’Twould be a sin!”