Much Ado About Murder

4

At breakfast the next morning, Molly said nothing as she served them their ordinaries, but Smythe did not find that surprising. In all likelihood, Moll Cutpurse would not have had a chance to speak with her, and so Molly would have no way of knowing yet about the events of the previous night. For that matter, Smythe had no way of knowing when or even if she might be seeing the notorious female thief again. He debated following Molly once again when she went home at the end of the day, but then decided that doing so could only bring him trouble. He did not wish to risk another encounter with Moll Cutpurse and her henchmen on a dark and foggy street at night. The next time might not go so well. And even if he avoided any such encounter, if Molly became angry upon learning that he had followed her last night, as she very well might, then doing so a second time would make matters even worse. Nevertheless, he was still nagged by curiosity. What connection could Molly the tavern wench have with Moll the thief?

After breakfast, he went back up to his room and took from his chest one of Greene’s cony-catching pamphlets that he had purchased at the bookstalls in St. Paul ’s. It had an illustration depicting Moll Cutpurse dressed in men’s clothing and wearing a sword. The drawing was rather crude and did not even remotely do her justice. One would certainly never recognize the real woman from the rudimentary illustration. In all likelihood, the illustrator had never even seen his subject. But then, that was not the point. The point was to convey the idea of a woman living in a man’s world, dressing as a man and acting in a manner contrary to all the natural inclinations of her sex. And certainly, Moll Cutpurse would never have sat for any sort of much more lifelike portrait, such as those of the queen or other well-known aristocrats that were commonly sold at the bookstalls. Having her likeness so widely distributed and well known would doubtless have been a detriment to one in her profession!

According to what Greene wrote, Moll Cutpurse was not only a thief, but a dealer in stolen goods, or a “brogger” in the canting tongue of London ’s underworld. She was also supposed to be a leading figure in the Thieves Guild, which struck Smythe as one of the true ironies of London society, for while thievery itself was unlawful, there was no actual law against thieves having a guild, and so such a guild did, indeed, exist and apparently met at regular intervals in one or another of the city’s taverns. If Moll Cutpurse was one of the leaders of this guild, as Robert Greene claimed, then it should be no surprise that she could quickly summon up a band of surly henchmen to do her bidding. But whatever could Molly O’Flannery be doing associating with such a person?

Smythe tucked the pamphlet away inside his doublet, took his cloak, and went outside. Shakespeare had already left, without saying where he was going, but they knew they would be meeting later on that afternoon to rehearse with the rest of the Queen’s Men at the Theatre. The playhouses might still be closed, but with the news that they might be reopening soon, it was best to be prepared to greet their returning audiences with a well-staged and polished production. Always assuming, of course, that there would be returning audiences, Smythe thought, rather glumly.

There was, unfortunately, no denying that the future of the Queen’s Men seemed anything but bright. Even before they had their recent unsuccessful tour, they had suffered two devastating setbacks. Dick Tarleton, their popular clown, had succumbed and passed away after a long illness and the thundering Ned Alleyn, star of their company and the undisputed leading actor on the English stage, had defected to the Lord Admiral’s Men. Alleyn had left in part because the Rose was a much better playhouse than the Burbage Theatre and in part because its owner, Philip Henslowe, had a pretty, buxom daughter and no sons to inherit his fortune.

It was, on a smaller and much lower scale, not unlike an alliance of nations, Smythe reflected wryly. Henslowe offered up his young daughter in marriage, in return for which he got England ’s finest and most popular actor to play upon his stage and draw larger audiences to his theatre. Alleyn got a better playhouse in which to showcase his talents, a brilliant young poet to write new plays for him, a pretty young wife, and upon his father-in-law’s death, he stood to inherit a small fortune in business interests, including the Rose Theatre and a chain of brothels.

For Alleyn, it had been a smart decision and an excellent investment in his future. Sadly, the result of this strategic theatrical alliance did not bode well for the Queen’s Men. With the combination of a better playhouse, the country’s finest actor, and brilliantly innovative new plays produced by their flamboyant young resident poet, Christopher Marlowe, the Lord Admiral’s Men had quickly started to draw audiences away from the Burbage Theatre. The new life that Shakespeare had breathed into their old repertoire had given them something of a respite, but some of the more seasoned players in their company now believed that it was merely postponing the inevitable. At one time the leading players in the land, the Queen’s Men had been reduced to second-raters and, given the sorry state of their finances and the closure of the playhouses, there was serious doubt as to whether or not they could survive.

Smythe did not know what the answer was. Some of the hired men had already given up and found other employment, which was in itself no easy task these days. The city was teeming with people from the country, desperate for work of any kind, and with the shortage of jobs and housing, crime was on the increase. Ministers were preaching sermons from their pulpits in which they not only spoke out against the evils of crime, but also sought to advise the members of their congregations how to avoid being victimized. And if Robert Greene was no longer able to write plays successfully, or even sell his poetry, he was finding a new and thriving market for his cautionary pamphleteering. Even Shakespeare, whose passion for writing plays burned more brightly than the candle flames with which he illuminated his dogged efforts late into the night, was making his money elsewhere, selling laudatory poems to foppish noblemen. He was not too proud. He had a family in Stratford to support, not to mention helping out his fellow players.

For his own part, Smythe knew that his connection to the theatrical world was rather tenuous, at best. He had no illusions about what he could offer to the Queen’s Men. Much as he was loath to admit it, he had no talent as an actor. It was a constant struggle to remember the few lines he was given, and though he felt that he was making some slight improvements in that regard, those few lines were doled out grudgingly and more and more sparingly as time went on. More often than not, he was nothing more than a mere spear carrier. His value to the company was primarily for the strength of his limbs and his skills as a blacksmith and farrier. He was constantly repairing things, or else lifting heavy objects, or ejecting troublemakers and seeing to the horses and making sure the ostlers did their jobs properly during the performances. He had been promoted, in a sense, from a mere ostler to a sort of general, all-around hired man, a sort of apprentice stage manager, but his acting responsibilities were still slight compared to all the others. To some extent, he provided a visual appeal that Shakespeare had termed “stage-dressing.” Will had told him, trying to be reassuring and supportive, that it was always good to have some good-looking bodies on the stage and, regretably, there were few good-looking bodies left among the Queen’s Men. Somehow, Smythe had not felt very reassured to know that he was valued more for his brawn than for his brains.

On the other hand, Liam Bailey believed he had a future as a craftsman. While not quite openly contemptuous of his job with the Queen’s Men, Liam merely shook his head anytime Smythe mentioned it. The burly old smith was not unsympathetic. He understood, at least, what it meant to have a dream. In that, he reminded Smythe of his beloved Uncle Thomas.

The two men had much in common, Smythe thought, as he made his way to Liam Bailey’s smithy. They were both simple and plainspoken men, honest and direct, who enjoyed their work and believed in doing it well and charging for it fairly. But where Thomas Smythe supported his nephew and urged him to follow his dream if that was what he truly wanted, Liam Bailey had no such avuncular disposition and believed in simply saying what he thought. And what he thought was that Smythe was wasting his time working as a player when he could make an honest, useful living as a smith.

Liam Bailey was already busy working at his forge when Smythe arrived. Though it was a cool morning, he was shirtless, wearing only breeches and his well-worn brown leather apron, which was covered with dark singe marks. His torso glistened with a sheen of honest sweat. The curly hairs on his chest and arms were gray and white, giving him something of a bearish aspect, and his grizzled hair was cropped close to his skull, as usual. Few men wore their hair so short, unless they were completely bald, in which case they usually wore wigs, but Liam found long hair both a hazard and a distraction in his work and so he kept it shorn. For an old man, he was in remarkable condition, with a strong, thick chest and big, heavily muscled arms that easily swung sledgehammers that a lot of men would have difficulty even lifting.

He had never even once been to a complete performance at a playhouse, which was a point of pride with him. He understood what plays were all about, of course, and had a general idea of what it was like to see one in a playhouse, for on several occasions he had been called upon to do some work at inns were plays were being performed. He came away with little regard for what he called “the silly posturings and prating noise” of players.

“Aye, not for me, lad,” he said, when Smythe brought up the question as they worked together at the forge. “Never have I been to a gaming house, nor a bawdy house, neither. I see no purpose in such things. I work hard for my money, so why risk it in a foolish game of chance? Especially when chance plays so little part in it these days. Those gaming houses are all full o’ cheats an’ tricksters just waitin’ for a nice, fat cony to come along that they can skin. An’ as for bawdy houses, even if you do not come away poxed or lice-ridden from some doxy, or knocked over the head and get all your money taken away for bein’ a damn fool, a moment’s pleasure is scarce worth hours’ work, if you ask me. An’ for that matter, why sup from an unwashed trencher that’s already fed dozens more afore you?”

“And what of other entertainments?” Smythe had asked him with a smile, as he worked the bellows.

“Such as what? Baiting bears or bulls or apes, you mean, as they do down at the Paris Garden? Now what offense did a bear or bull or ape ever do to me that I should revel in the torture of the poor, dumb beast? Or go to a good execution, perhaps, eh? Now there’s a splendid evening’s entertainment! Watching some poor and misbegotten wretch have his guts pulled out, or else witness a hanging, or perhaps a whipping? One could always go and abuse some poor sod stuck in the pillory, that might be a pleasant way to pass the afternoon.” He snorted with derision. “Such diversions hold little interest for me.”

“There are other, less violent ways to entertain oneself, you know,” said Smythe. “Have you never gone to Paul’s and bought a book? Or just taken in the sights?”

“Aye, once.”

“Only once? Twasn’t to your liking, then?”

Liam Bailey’s jaw muscles tightened. “A church is a place for prayin’, not for sellin’ things. If the Lord Jesus were to come back and pay a visit to St. Paul’s, why he would drive the blackguards out as he drove out the moneylenders from the temple! An’ he would call back the crowd that wished to stone the harlot and have them bury all the bastards in a rain of rocks. ‘Tis a disgrace what they have brought that goodly cathedral to, if you ask me. ‘Tis supposed to be the house of God, and yet, all manner of sin is found transacted there each day.”

“Have a care, Liam. You are sounding just a wee bit like a Papist,” Smythe said, with a chuckle.

“It need not take a Roman Pope to see that churches in this land have fallen to a sorry state,” the grizzled old smith replied. “Far be it from me to claim that I could know God or understand His will, but I cannot believe that havin’ whores sellin’ themselves in church was what He had in mind.”

“Well, I suppose Paul’s Walk is out, then. What about music and dancing, then? Do you enjoy that?”

“I am Irish. Of course I enjoy music. And I might indulge in a jig or two every now and then, but I am not much of a dancer. Too big and clumsy. And too old.”

“Oh, I do not believe that for a moment,” said Smythe, with a chuckle. “I would bet that you could dance long after most men half your age have dropped from weariness. And singing. I have heard you sing a time or two, whilst you are working. You have a fine, baritone voice.”

“If a man likes his work, why should he not sing? Good, hard work is its own song, if you ask me. But why all this sudden interest in my taste in entertainments?”

“I was simply curious, is all,” said Smythe, with a shrug. “You love what you do. It makes you want to sing. Well, that is how working at the Theatre often makes me feel, although I do not have a voice as fine as yours. When I sing, I fear it sounds like geese farting in the wind. But I do it, so long as it does not greatly grate upon the ears of those nearby.”

“Aye, well, if it makes you happy, then that is all that truly matters, I suppose,” said Bailey, “though for the life of me, I cannot see why a fine, strong lad like you would wish to waste his time with a mincing flock of poppinjays. Here, hand me those tongs…”

The quenching fire hissed and steamed as the red-hot iron was plunged into it.

“Now you take something like a piece of steel,” said Bailey. “It has substance, value, worth. ‘Tis useful, and when made right, by a good craftsman, it can be a thing of beauty. You have that gift, boy. This knife you made for me…”

He took the blade out of its sheath and gazed at it fondly. “A simple thing, really, no embellishments, no fancy decorations or engraving, no wire wrapping, just simple staghorn for the hilt… ‘Tis a good, honest, working man’s knife. And yet, you have made of it a thing of beauty.”

“I merely made it as my Uncle Thomas taught me,” Smythe said, though he was pleased by the compliment, coming from a man who knew his steel.

“Do you know that I have had nearly a dozen requests already for ones just like it?” Bailey asked.

“You have?” Smythe said, with surprise. “From who?”

“From my customers,” said Bailey. “Each one of them a craftsman in his own right, mind, men who know good work when they see it. And even though you are still unseasoned, yours is more than merely good. ‘Tis fine work, indeed. Any man who knows can see that.”

“Well…” Smythe said, somewhat sheepisly. He was a bit taken aback. “I do not quite know what to say to that.”

“Say that you shall make them, and I shall take the orders,” Bailey said. He drew the quenched steel from the fire. “You can start with this. I am not saying you should leave your mincing players,” he added, wryly, “but as you know only too well, the playhouses are still closed, and I know you need the money.”

“There is word that they may reopen again soon,” said Smythe.

“And then again, they may not. If so, then you will have some honest work that honest men may then appreciate. And if the playhouses do reopen, why then, you may work here on the knives whenever you can find the time. My customers shall wait. They know that good work is worth waiting for.”

Smythe looked at him. “I see what you are trying to do, Liam.”

The smith looked back at him directly. “I am trying to please my customers and make us both some money in the bargain. If you prefer to act out silly daydreams on the stage, that is your business and none o’ my concern. To each his own, I say. But I can offer you no work as a player, Tuck. This is the work I have. You either want it, or you do not. The choice is yours.”

“I do need the work, Liam,” Smythe replied. “And I did not intend to sound ungrateful. Forgive me. You have been naught but kind to me and ‘tis not my place to go putting on airs.”

“Aah, I would never say you had done that,” said Bailey. “You’re a good lad, Tuck, an’ you have a place here anytime you wish. Now, you get to working on those knives, eh? That should keep you busy for a while.”

Later on that afternoon, just as Smythe was getting ready to leave Liam Bailey’s smithy for the playhouse, Ben Dickens stopped by.

“Why, Ben! I did not expect to see you here,” said Smythe. “What errand brings you?”

“I was coming to see you,” Dickens replied. “I recalled you spoke of picking up some work here and, since ‘twas on my way, I thought I might stop by on my way to the Theatre and walk with you. That is, of course, if you do not spurn my company?”

“Not at all,” said Smythe. “You are most welcome, Ben. Liam, do you know Ben Dickens?”

“Dickens…” Bailey furrowed his brow thoughtfully, staring at him with a vague glimmer of recognition. “You look familiar…”

“I was once apprentice to Master Moryson, the armorer,” said Dickens. “You may remember me, sir.”

“Ah. Indeed, I do remember you,” Bailey said gruffly, with a frown. “You gave up a perfectly good trade to go off and be a soldier. Damned foolishness.”

“Aye, well, perhaps, but it seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Dickens, lightly.

“So now yer back, then?”

“So ‘twould seem.”

“For how long this time?” the old smith asked, sourly.

“For good, I hope,” said Dickens. “That is, for good or ill, I have returned to England, but ‘tis my hope that ‘twill be for good.”

Bailey frowned and grunted, then turned his back upon them and resumed his work.

“Come on, Ben,” Smythe said, taking off his apron and hanging it up on its hook, anxious to be off before Dickens irritated Bailey any further. “Good night to you, Liam. I shall return upon the morn.”

“Suit yourself,” said the smith, without turning around.

Dickens chuckled as they left. “Sour as a green apple, is he not?” he said as they stepped out into the street.

“ ‘Tis just his way,” said Smythe. “Liam Bailey is a good man. He is honest and good-hearted.”

“I know he is,” Dickens replied. “My old master would never have had aught to do with him else. But unlike a green apple, Bailey sours even further as he ripens. He does not approve of me, I fear.”

“He seems like that to everyone,” Smythe replied. “Besides, methinks he does not truly know you.”

“Nay, he knows all he needs to know, or else thinks he needs to know,” said Dickens, good-naturedly, “and that is that I left a good apprenticeship to become a mercenary soldier. And for that sort of ‘damned foolishness,’ as he called it himself, I do not think that Liam Bailey could ever forgive anyone, least of all an ungrateful apprentice who left the service of a friend of his.”

“I have never heard him speak of your Master Moryson,” said Smythe. “What became of him? Does he still pursue his craft?”

“He died,” said Dickens. The joviality left his tone. “He fell to the sweating sickness the year after I left.”

“I am sorry,” Smythe said.

“So am I,” said Dickens. “He was a good man, and a fair master. He taught me much. Bailey was right, you know. ‘Twas ungrateful of me to have left him.”

“You did what you felt you had to do,” said Smythe. “You wanted adventure, and you knew that you would never find it working in an armorer’s shop.”

“True,” Dickens agreed. “I did want adventure. Very much so. And I found it. Very much so. And now, looking back on it all, I am sorry that I ever left.”

“Was it so bad then?”

Dickens shrugged. “‘Twas all very different from what I had expected. But then, enough of that. I should not wish to have you thinking ‘tis my wont to wallow in melancholy. As I have said before, had I known then what I now know, methinks I would have made some different choices, but there is little to be served in regreting what is past.”

“Indeed,” said Smythe. “There is much to be said for looking forward.”

Dickens smiled. “And to what do you look forward, Tuck?”

“At the moment, I merely look forward to the playhouses opening once more,” said Smythe. “S’trewth, we all desperately need the money. And not all the players are able to find other work, as I have been fortunate to do.”

“I doubt that fortune has very much to do with it,” said Dickens. “I saw what you were doing there. You seem to know what you are about.”

“My Uncle Thomas was a smith. He taught me,” Smythe replied.

“I would say he taught you well,” said Dickens. “And I daresay he was more than just a smith. You were not forging horseshoes back there. You were working on a blade.”

“ ‘Twas his true passion,” Smythe replied, adding with pride, “and in the craftsmanship of blades, I never saw him have an equal. Truly, I would put his blades against the finest of Toledo.”

“Indeed? Thomas Smythe, you say? Mind you, now, I intend no offense toward you nor toward your uncle, but if his blades are truly of such superior craftsmanship, how is it I have never head of him?”

Smythe saw that the question came from curiosity, rather than from skepticism of his claim, so he did not take umbrage. “Our village was a small one,” he replied, “and no main thoroughfare ran through it. ‘Twas tucked away upon the boundary of a wood, and we received few visitors. When the players came through on tour once in my youth, ‘twas a momentous event. The arrival of each itinerant peddlar was regarded as a great occasion.” He smiled. “I recall how I used to dream of going to the city to become a player. Naught else did I desire. But not Uncle Thomas. He liked his quiet life. He is a simple man who keeps his own company and keeps it well. He works for the love of the craft, and the pride he takes in it, not for wealth nor fame. And if he had those things, why, I do not believe that he would quite know what to do with them.”

“Well, I should much like to see one of your uncle’s blades someday,” said Dickens.

“You might be disappointed,” Smythe replied. “They are rather plain and ordinary looking, not at all showy in appearance… but then again, as a soldier and one who was an armorer’s apprentice… Well, here then…” He unsheathed his simple knife. “He made this for me years ago, when I was just a boy. It bears his maker’s mark.”

Dickens took the knife and examined it. “It balances exceedingly well, and the design, while simple, looks quite strong.” He lightly tested the blade. “It holds a fine edge, too. Very fine, indeed.” He held it hilt downwards, point up alongside his inner forearm, as if concealing it, and then flipped it around in his grasp, blade held outward, ready to stab or throw. He turned it back around once more, holding his arm down by his side, to try the maneuver once again. It was, thought Smythe, a good way to carry a knife openly, yet unobtrusively, in the event that one expected trouble. Trust a mercenary, he thought, to know that sort of clever trick.

“ ‘Allo, Ben,” said Jack Darnley, suddenly stepping out in front of them from a side street. His fellow apprentice, Bruce McEnery, was right behind him.

“ ‘Allo, Jack,” said Dickens, coming to a halt. “I see you brought your ill-humored shadow with you,” he added, smirking at McEnery’s perpetual sneer.

“And I see you brought yours,” Darnley replied, with a smile. “Tuck is your friend’s name, if I recall aright.”

“It is,” said Smythe. “Tuck Smythe, at your service.”

“Fancy running into you again so soon, Jack,” Dickens said casually. “One might almost think ‘twas more than happenstance.”

“As well one might,” said Darnley. “We have been keeping an eye on you, you know.”

“Have you, now? And what would be the reason for such concern, I wonder?”

As Ben spoke, Smythe became aware of movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see half a dozen apprentices spread out behind them. He groaned inwardly. What pernicious fortune had befallen him that it was the second time in as many days he was being accosted by a street gang? People around them in the street, seeing the congregation, gave them a wide berth, crossing over to the other side and hurrying past without a backward glance.

“We only wanted to make certain that you were all right, Ben,” Darnley replied.

“How very land of you and the boys, Jack. And tell me, what made you think that I might not be?”

“The city has changed whilst you have been away, Ben,” Darnley said. “ London is very different now. ‘Tis no longer the same place you remember from the old days.”

“Indeed? How very odd,” said Dickens. “Why, it still looks much the same to me. S’trewth, and it smells the same as I remember, too,” he added, wrinkling his nose. “The heady perfume of Fleet Ditch on the breeze is just as I recall it. Or mayhap ‘tis just the fragrance of unwashed ‘prentices upon the wind. What think you?”

“You may jest, Ben, but that does not change the truth of what I tell you,” Darnley said. “ London is now in many ways a different city than the one you left, and few of the changes have been for the better.”

“I have an intimation that you intend to educate me as to those changes, Jack,” said Dickens, with a smile.

“Indeed, methinks there is a need for it. You see, you left us, Ben, to go off adventuring and seek your fortune in some foreign land, whilst we all stayed here in London to make the best of things, because this is our home. Our home,” he repeated, thumping his chest for emphasis. “Our city.” He swept out his arm in an expansive gesture, encompassing all their surroundings. “Our streets. And yet, with each and every passing day, we have found our home invaded, as much as any conquering army might invade a country it has vanquished. Only this foreign army marched in piecemeal, coming in dribs and drabs… a few Flemish craftsmen here, some Italian merchants there, German traders, Egyptian fortune-tellers and the like, til now you can scarce spit on a street in London without hitting some damned foreigner. Take a look around you, Ben. On any day, a man can see countless good English working men and women out begging in the streets, desperate for a job, a warm place to sleep, a meager crust of bread with which to stave off hunger, and amongst them all go aloof Italian merchants in their silks, snobbish Flemish craftsmen in their three-piled velvet finery, arrogant German shopkeepers stuffed fat with ale and sausages, shifty gypsy moonmen ever ready to cozen some poor and honest working man out of the few brass farthings he has left. ‘Tis not the same city that you left at all, Ben. ‘Tis a city that the bloody damned foreigners are taking over. And someone has to stop it.”

“And that someone would be you?” said Dickens. “You and the Steady Boys, of course.”

“Who better?” Darnley asked. “They are driving our people out into the streets, Ben, leaving them homeless, starving, desperate. These damned foreigners should all go right back to where they came from!”

“And if they do not wish to go, why then, you shall drive them out, is that it?” Dickens said.

“Bloody right I will! Me and the boys. And what is more, the other ‘prentice gangs are all getting behind us in this venture!”

“Indeed? Well, then really I must congratulate you, Jack,” said Dickens. “You seem to haven taken a disorganized bunch of rakehell roaring boys who have all been at one another’s throats and given them a common enemy against whom to unite in opposition. ‘Tis an astonishing achievement, truly. And to think that I went abroad to learn the trade of soldiering whilst here you were all of this time, turning yourself into a general completely on your own. I doff my cap to you, Jack. I must say, I am full of admiration at what you have accomplished. Truly, I could not even imagine what a man of your inestimable abilities would ever want from me.”

“I want you to join us, Ben,” said Darnley, either ignoring Dickens’s sarcasm or else missing it completely. “ ‘Twould be just like the old days once again! You and me, leading the Steady Boys at the forefront of it all… Think of it! We could rouse all the ‘prentices in concert and clean out the vermin from this city! And you, as well, Tuck. You can be a part of it. The Steady Boys will always have a place for a strapping, big brawler like youself. Come and join us!”

“I thank you kindly for the offer,” Smythe replied, “but I always try my best to avoid brawls whenever possible.”

“You mean to say that rather than stand up and be counted for your fellow countrymen, you would prefer to let all these foreigners ruin the livelihoods of honest Englishmen?” said Darnley, with challenge in his voice.

“Tuck has no quarrel with you, Jack,” Dickens said.

“Nay, in truth, I do not,” Smythe agreed, “but I daresay I have a quarrel with his report. For the truth of the matter is that ‘tis not the foreigners in London who are to blame for all the poverty. If the blame should rest with anyone, then it should rest with English landowners who enclose their lands for raising sheep, for as many of my fellow countrymen know all too well, wool is much more profitable in these times than produce. Only as the landed gentry fence in all their lands for grazing sheep instead of tillage, they dispossess their tenant farmers, who are thus left with no work and homeless. And so, not knowing what else they can do, they make the journey to London, desperate and seeking work, only to discover that so many more like them have come that work is difficult to find. But ‘tis not the Flemish silversmiths who take the jobs that would have gone to them, as you ought well to know, since you are an apprentice and know something of the crafts. Nor do the Italian merchants compete with them for work, nor the German shopkeepers and craftsmen, for that matter, for a simple country farmer knows nothing of such things. He knows and understands his husbandry, but for the most part, that is the compass of his world, beyond which he sails in ignorance. I suppose ‘tis possible that the occasional gypsy here or there may swindle someone, but methinks that they are much more likely to cozen a wealthy Fleming or a prosperous Italian merchant than some poor old sod begging on the street. ‘Twould be little profit there. In truth, one should think that quite the contrary to what you claim, each foreign craftsman or merchant who comes to London and opens up a shop creates an opportunity for Englishmen with no ready skills at trade or craft, for every merchant has need of assistants in his shop and every craftsman has need of apprentices.”

“I told you ‘twould be a waste of time with these two,” said McEnery, with a sneer. “An’ what with the way that this one speaks, it sounds to me more like he champions these stinking foreigners than stands up for his fellow countrymen!”

“Nay, I beg to differ,” Dickens said. “He speaks truly and I, for one, can find no fault in his discourse. If you were to venture out beyond the city walls, then you would soon find that what Tuck says is true. ‘Tis not the foreigner who dispossesses English farmers of their homes and livelihoods, but the gentleman who encloses his estate to turn his crop fields into pastureland for greater profit. These enclosures are a plague upon our poor, swelling their ranks as they fatten the purses of the gentry, and in the long run, all shall suffer from it. ‘Tis an easy thing to point your finger at the foreigners, Jack, and claim they are to blame, but ‘tis not so. You may make a scapegoat of the blameless foreigner, but ‘twill not solve the problem. On the other hand, it does give you a cry with which to rally others to your standard, does it not?” Dickens smiled mirthlessly. “You always did want to be the leader, Jack. Well, ‘twould seem you have your wish, at last. You have no need of me. And for my part, I have no need of causing pain or trouble to those who have done nothing to offend me. S’trewth, I have done enough of that already. My battlefields are left behind me. Count me out. And as for Tuck, I believe he has already given you his answer.”

Darnley compressed his lips tightly and gazed at him with cold rage in his eyes. Dickens returned that baleful look without regard for its intensity, meeting Darnley’s fury with his own insouciance. And although he tried, Darnley found that he could not stare him down.

“You players were always apt with pretty speeches,” he said contemptuously, “but try as you might, you still cannot muddy up the truth with mere words. We know who belongs here and who does not. We have eyes, and we can all see for ourselves how the foreigner prospers at the Englishman’s expense. The time has come for all good Englishmen to take a stand, and you are either with us, Ben, or else you are against us.”

“Take whatever stand you wish, Jack, for I am neither with you nor against you,” Dickens said. “What you and your friends do matters not to me, one way or another. So then, ‘twould seem that we have settled our discussion. Now Tuck and I have an appointment at the Theatre that we must keep.”

He started forward, but McEnery stood in his way defiantly, sneering at him, chin jutting forward in a challenge.

“Stand aside, Bruce,” Dickens said, softly.

“And if I should refuse? What then, eh?” McEnergy replied, finding courage in his fellow Steady Boys around him. “Do you think that you can best us all?”

Moving with smooth, deceptive speed, Dickens took Smythe’s knife, which he had held blade up, concealed alongside his inner forearm all the while, and before the startled apprentice could react, he flipped it around quickly and thrust it, edge upwards, high between McEnery’s legs. With his free hand, he seized McEnery by his belt and held him close, while pressing upwards with the knife, causing McEnery to emit a high-pitched squeak of alarm.

“You know, you may be right, Bruce. Doubtless, I would not prevail ‘gainst you all,” said Dickens, in an even tone, “but I could do for you right proper. If your lads so much as take one step toward either me or Tuck here, St. Paul ’s Boys will have themselves a new soprano for their choir.”

Darnley looked as if he were about to speak, but before he could say or do anything, Smythe reached out and spun him by the shoulder, then seized him from behind with his left arm around his neck and his right hand behind his head. When Darnley tried to struggle, he simply tightened his grip and, with a choking sound, the apprentice gave up all resistance. Smythe turned him around to face the other apprentices, who had been confident of their superiority and were now all taken by surprise at how quickly the tables had been turned.

“Be so good as to throw your clubs and dirks down in the street,” said Smythe. “And then walk away. You can return to pick them up again after we have gone.”

When the boys hesitated, Smythe once more tightened his grip.

“Do as he says!” croaked Darnley.

The clubs and knives fell to the cobbles with a clatter.

“Right. Off you go then,” Smythe said.

Slowly, truculently, the apprentices moved off.

Dickens then released McEnery. “You can go and join them, Bruce,” he said. “But mark me well now, for I give you fair warning… you come after us and I shall run you through ahead of all the others. Now run along, like a good lad.”

He waved him away and McEnery shot him a venemous look, then trotted off after his companions.

“You can go with him,” Smythe said, releasing Darnley and giving him a shove that almost sent him sprawling. Darnley stumbled, then regained his footing and turned back to gaze at Smythe with a look of intense hatred.

He inhaled raggedly and rubbed his throat. “I shan’t forget this,” he said, his voice rasping slightly. “We shall finish this another time, when you shall not have the advantage of surprise.”

“Indeed?” said Smythe. “S’trewth, I could have sworn ‘twas you who had the advantage of surprise… and numbers, come to think of it.”

Darnley spat on the street, then turned and walked away.

“I fear that you have made an enemy on my account,” said Dickens.

“ ‘Twasn’t on your account,” said Smythe. “I never liked him from the start. Not him nor his sneering shadow.”

“Well, you are a stout enough fellow, to be sure,” said Dickens, “but just the same… watch your back. Jack Darnley is not one to forget a slight, and you embarrassed him in front of all his boys. He shall do much more than merely look to even up the score. He shall want your guts for garters.”

“He shall have to come and try to take them, then,” said Smythe.

“Try he shall, you may count on it,” Dickens replied. He handed Smythe’s knife back to him. “My thanks. It served me well, as it turns out. Let us hope it serves you equally. Keep it close by.”

“I always do,” said Smythe.

“And if you do not scorn my counsel, I would consider strapping on a rapier,” Dickens added. “The Steady Boys were never great believers in fair fighting. Under Jack’s leadership, I should think they are much less so now.”

Smythe sighed. “You are not the first to give me that good counsel, Ben. And for the life of me, I cannot say why ‘tis so difficult to follow. I simply cannot seem to get into the habit of wearing a sword everywhere I go. I am likely to trip over it, although I must admit, there have been a few times when the habit of carrying a rapier would have served me well.”

“Then I do earnestly beseech you to cultivate it,” Dickens said.