Elizabeth hesitated, then picked it up with resignation and began to tie it on. “I know who you are,” she said. “You are the infamous Moll Cutpurse. I have heard about you. And I believe I once saw you, at a wedding I attended.”
“I do believe ye did,” Moll replied, in her lilting Irish brogue. “‘Twas a lovely double wedding, too. You were a friend 0’ the first couple, as I recall, an‘ I was a friend 0’ the second. I do not believe that we were ever introduced on that occasion, but ‘tis nice to be remembered, just the same. And now hold out yer hands, if ye would be so kind?”
“We have a mutual friend, as well,” Elizabeth continued, moistening her lips nervously as Moll finished tying up her hands. “I. I believe you know my friend Tuck. Smythe?”
“I do, indeed,” Moll replied, leaning back against the seat cushions. “That’s him up there, drivin‘ the coach.”
Elizabeth stiffened abruptly. “What?”
“Aye, he’s drivin‘ the coach,” repeated Moll. “We gave your coachman the rest 0’ the night off. So just relax an‘ enjoy the ride.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Nay, he could not be a part of this,” she said. “He could not! You are lying!”
“If ye had taken a closer look afore ye got in, ye would have seen that I am tellin‘ ye the truth,” said Moll. “But yer kind never do look at the workin’ classes very much, do ye? Beneath yer notice, as it were. However, ye can rest assured, Tuck did not have any choice in this. We have his friend Will. We took them both, just as we took you.”
“I thought you were a friend of his,” Elizabeth said.
“I am,” said Moll. “He’s a fine lad. Strappin‘ young man like that, he should have been born Irish.”
“Then why are you doing this?” Elizabeth asked.
“Because one O‘ our own was murdered,” Moll replied. “An’ we want justice.”
“Justice,” Elizabeth repeated softly, thinking back to what the cards had said at Granny Meg’s. Disillusionment, bonds broken, misery and sorrow… it was all coming to pass.
“What will happen to us?” Winifred asked fearfully. “Where are we being taken?”
“To a trial,” Moll replied. “An‘ this coach will come in right handy, thank ye kindly, for we have a few more people to pick up after we deliver you lot. ’Twill be a long night, methinks, but it promises to be an interestin‘ one.”
Shakespeare sat and listened as the witnesses came forward to give their testimony. In one respect, at least, he found that Mayhew had been right. So far as any sort of judicial hearing was concerned, this one was a mockery. He had attended several trials before, back home in Stratford, and he had some notion of what proper procedures were. None were truly being followed here.
Criminals being criminals, they, too, had some notion of proper procedure in a trial, at least in an approximate sense, but as this was their trial, they followed their own procedure, and it had much more in common with the carnival atmosphere among the groundlings in a theatre yard than with a courtroom. Serving wenches circulated in the galleries and among the benches and the tables, carrying trays laden with breads and drinks and cheeses, all while testimony was being given, and on occasion a wench would be pulled down into a lap and bussed and squeezed until she squealed, which usually resulted in an outburst of raucous laughter from the onlookers, which in turn brought on another bout of hammer pounding from the dais.
Mayhew sat stiffly, shaking his head in disgust as he watched it all, appalled, and for the life of him, Shakespeare could not determine whether Mayhew was more frightened than outraged or more outraged than frightened. He surely had to realize that Shy Locke was out for blood, his blood, and that his chances of escaping this alive were very slim, indeed. And yet, he did not truly act afraid. Apprehension showed clearly on his features, and he seemed tense and strained, but he Was not displaying fear. Could it be that he was truly brave? Or was it that he was simply resigned to the inevitable and did not wish to have this rabble see him cowering in fear before them? Perhaps it was that, his loss of dignity, that he feared more than he feared anything else, even death. Shakespeare realized he did not like this man, but at the same time he found him fascinating. This was a man to whom proper comportment and behavior was everything, a man to whom appearances and presentation mattered a great deal. And this was why, of course, he could not have suffered to have his daughter married to a Jew.
For himself, Shakespeare did not feel afraid. He had at first, but now he understood that he and Smythe did not really have anything to fear from this assemblage. They had committed no offense against the Thieves Guild, or even against Shy Locke himself. They had had no hand in the death of Thomas Locke, and his father understood that. Locke wanted his revenge, and they were merely there to be part of the process. But Shakespeare was convinced that in this case the process was misguided.
“Why are you helping me?” Mayhew had asked him, after Smythe had left upon his errand together with Moll Cutpurse and her men and the “trial” had stood in recess for a time. “Truly, why? You do not know me and I do not know you. We are nodding to each other. Why should you take this chance for me?”
“I do not believe that I am taking any great chance in rising to defend you,” Shakespeare had replied. “‘Tis not me they wish to harm. Shy Locke believes you killed his son, or else ’twas done upon your orders, one way or the other. For that, he hates you with all of his embittered soul and wishes nothing more than to cut out your heart and have his pound of flesh, to drink hot blood to give cold comfort to his desire for vengeance. I have very little import to his plan.”
“So where do you fit in?” asked Mayhew, puzzled.
“I understand now that my friend and I were brought here to give testimony as to how he learned you had withdrawn consent for your daughter and his son to marry,” Shakespeare answered. “We were the ones who brought him the news, for we had heard it from your son.”
“You knew my son?” asked Mayhew. “You were his friends?”
Shakespeare shook his head. “We had but met that very morning,” he said, “and we did not speak above half an hour. Perhaps not even that.”
Mayhew looked even more perplexed. “I do not understand. Why, then, did you become involved in this?”
Shakespeare rolled his eyes and sighed. “I have asked myself that very question upon more than one occasion since this started,” he replied.
“And what answer have you arrived upon?”
Shakespeare grimaced. “When I arrive upon an answer, I shall let you know.”
“You play at words and speak in riddles,” Mayhew said impatiently.
“I am a poet and a player. What would you have of me?”
“A straight answer, sirrah!”
“Very well, then, I shall trade you like for like. Did you kill Thomas Locke, or order the deed done?”
“Nay, sir, I did not.”
Shakespeare stared into Mayhews unflinching gaze. “‘Strewth, it seems I do believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because, sir, you have the manner of a lout, but not a murderer.”.
“You do not care for me.?”
“Not in the least.”
“Yet you defend me.”
“To the utmost.”
“A straight answer, then, as you had promised. Why?”
“Because I do not think you did it.”
“And that is why?”
“Aye, that is why.”
“That does not seem reason enough to me,” said Mayhew. “Yet ‘tis all the reason that I need,” said Shakespeare.
“I do not understand,” said Mayhew.
“Aye, I know. And more’s the pity.”
And so the trial began. One after another, the witnesses came forward, men and women not known to Shakespeare but apparently well known to the assemblage. Each of them gave testimony to the character of Thomas Locke, how they had known him as he grew from a child into a boy, and from a boy through his apprenticeship and into a young journeyman, how he had loved and honored both his father and his mother, and how a life of promise and success had seemed spread out before him. There was nothing there with which Shakespeare could take issue, and so he did not try. Through it all, Mayhew sat stonily, listening to all, apparently resigned to whatever fate they had in store for him. And as Shakespeare watched him, he decided that Mayhew was, indeed, afraid, but that to the very end, come what may, no matter what, he would not show it, for that would be the ultimate indignity for him. He was a puzzling man, detestable in many ways, and Shakespeare did not like him. But he did not wish to see him dead.