The Merchant of Vengeance

Chapter 11

The coach wheels clattered loudly over the wet cobblestones as the driver whipped up the horses to a canter, giving Elizabeth and Winifred a jarring ride over the streets of London. Although the horses were not going at a full gallop, it was nevertheless a risky speed to be driving in the rain, with the slickness of the streets and the poor visibility from the mist and darkness. Fortunately, there was scarcely any traffic, due to the severe weather; otherwise they would almost surely have suffered an accident. Despite the relatively empty streets, however, Winifred was apprehensive.

“Should we not tell the driver to go a little slower?” she asked nervously.

“I am quite sure he would be happy to,” Elizabeth replied.

“But I would not forgive myself if we arrived too late.”

“I suppose you are right,” Winifred replied, holding on to the seat grimly.

“Perhaps ‘twould have been best had you not come,” Elizabeth said to her apologetically.

Winifred shook her head. “Nay, I had to come,” she said. “I could not have borne simply sitting there all alone, wondering what would become of Henry, to say naught of worrying about poor Portia.”

“How long do you suppose it has been since they took him?”

Winifred shook her head. “‘Twould be difficult for me to say for certain. It felt as if I had been lying there tied up for hours and hours, but I do not think it could have truly been that long.”

“What would you guess?”

“An hour, perhaps? I cannot say. I do not think it could have been much longer, although ‘tis possible, I suppose,” Winifred replied.

“An hour,” Elizabeth repeated. “Well, if so, then that is somewhat encouraging. They would have needed to take Master Mayhew to wherever they were taking him, and then they would have needed to have time to question him some more…” She stopped when she saw Winifred close her eyes and shudder. “Forgive me. But we must set aside our delicate natures and screw our courage to the sticking point if we are to be of any use to Portia and her father.”

Winifred nodded. “Of course, you are quite right, Elizabeth. Please, go on. Continue. I shall bear up as best I can.”

“Very well, then. ‘Twould have taken them time to make whatever arrangements they were going to make regarding Portia’s father, and then…” She took a deep breath. “Well, then ’twould depend upon whether or not he could convince them that he truly did not know where Portia was. If he could do that, well, then I am not sure what they would do. On the other hand, if they did not believe him… then I fear ‘twould be a matter of how long he could hold out before he told them that she was staying at my house.”

Winifred bit her lower lip and clasped her hands together tightly, but said nothing.

“Either way,” Elizabeth continued, “we should still have some time to reach Portia, if we hurry.” She frowned, recalling something. “I remember that of late I wrote to Master Mayhew concerning Portia staying at my house. Do you suppose he may have left that letter where they could have found it?”

Winifred shook her head. “I do not know. However, I do recall that letter. He had read it to me. But I do not know what he did with it.”

“Was he in the habit of saving such things?”

Again, Winifred shook her head. “I cannot say. In truth, it strikes me now that I had never paid very much attention to those things. He has a room in the house where he keeps his business papers, and he often works in there. I had never gone in to disturb him. A man needs to have his privacy. But on the other hand, I have never discussed any of his business matters with him and so know nothing of them, really. If something were to happen to him…” She paused, swallowed hard, and then went on. “Well, I would not know how to sort out any of his business matters. I would not know what to do.”

Elizabeth grimaced. “My mother is just the same,” she said. “That is to say, her circumstances are the same. Father takes care of everything. The house, the property, the business, all the money matters-Mother has naught to do with any of those things. She would say ‘twas not a woman’s province to concern herself with such matters, but to keep the house well and see to it that meals are on the table and servants do what they are told and that her husband is free from having to worry about those things. And yet, ’tis clear to me that she would not know what to do if anything were to happen to that husband. She would require some man to come and tell her. And that man could take advantage of her, and what is more, she would never be the wiser.”

“Perhaps,” said Winifred, nodding in agreement. “Yet, that is the way of things.”

“Nay, that is the way things are allowed to be,” Elizabeth replied vehemently. “And things are allowed to be that way because we tolerate them. You are fortunate, Winifred, because your late husband left you well taken care of. Before he died, Lord rest his soul, he had made arrangements for you, no doubt with trusted friends, so that you would be provided for and so there would be someone, a man, to take care of his estate and see to it that you were free from such mundane concerns, at least until you had found another husband. And now it seems you have. And if all goes well, Lord help us, and Henry Mayhew is returned to you unharmed, then you shall marry him, and your late husband’s estate shall become his estate, passed on to him, as it were, along with you. Then he shall take it over, and thus shall you continue to be kept free from those concerns. Well, I do not wish to be ‘kept free’ from concern. I wish to be concerned with my own welfare, to make my own choices, and to do what I choose to do, and not what some man, be it a husband or a father or a lover, tells me I should do!”

“‘Twould seem to me that some man has made you very angry, Elizabeth,” Winifred replied.

“Oh, all men make me angry,” she replied with a grimace. “Well, all save one, perhaps, and yet even he has the tendency to irk me now and then. I do not mean to offend you, Winifred, or cause you any more undue distress, but consider your own situation as it stands now. Consider that of my own mother, and that of nearly every woman that I know. mat happens to a woman when her whole world, her very firmament, is encompassed by a man? my, then he becomes her lord, her life, her keeper, her head, her sovereign, one that cares for her and for her maintenance commits his body to painful labor by both sea and land, to watch the night in storms, the day in cold, whilst she lies warm at home, secure and safe, and need offer no other tribute to him but love, fair looks, and tme obedience. And so one might well think ‘tis too little payment for so great a debt. And yet, what is the payment, truly? ’Tis this: Let a woman make a man her entire world, then take that man away, and she has lost her entire world. ”What, then, has she got left? “Where is her foundation and her firmament? What shall become of her when all that she is has been bounded by a man and she has lost that man? ”Why, then she has lost herself. Well, I have no wish to lose myself. And if that means living life without a man, why then, I am prepared to do so and accept spinsterhood without complaint. But I would much prefer to live life with a man whom I have chosen, and who lets me be myself, who does not compass all my borders, but understands that I need to set my own, who is my mate and works with me the way these horses work together so that they might pull this coach, thus sharing all the burden equally.“

“You wish for a great deal,” Winifred replied.

“I wish for no more than what many of the simple, common, working people have,” Elizabeth replied, “perhaps because they do not have aught else. Is that too much to ask?”

“Perhaps not,” said Winifred with a smile. “I hope you get your wish someday, Elizabeth. I truly do, for I should like to live in such a world. And if we do not have that opportunity, then perhaps someday our daughters will.”

The coach pulled up in front of the Darcie house.

“Right, we are here,” Elizabeth said, as the coachman climbed down and opened the door for them. “There is little time to lose. We must bundle Portia up and be off with her, as quickly as possible.”

“But where then shall we take her?” Winifred asked.

“I have already thought of that,” Elizabeth replied, as she got down out of the coach. “I know of a place where Portia shall be safe and they shall never think to look for her.”

“”What do you mean, you do not think he did it?“ Smythe asked.

Shakespeare shook his head. “I could be wrong,” he said, “but look at him. He is arrogant and angry, and proud, so very proud… indeed, just as you said. He is also frightened, surely, and yet he remains defiant. He is outraged that these common criminals should have dared to take such liberties with him. Aye, and he is a fool, too, I shall grant you that, for he truly does not seem to realise the danger he is in. But amidst all the violent emotions that play across his countenance, I still do not see guilt.”

“And upon this reasoning you base your judgement” Smythe asked dubiously.

“Aye, and upon this, as well,” said Shakespeare, tapping the side of his nose several times. “‘Strewth, I simply do not think he did it, Tuck! It smells all wrong to me. He hath not the aspect of a guilty man.”

“If we were to judge all men by their aspects, Will, then many of the guilty would go free and innocents throughout the world would suffer punishment,” said Smythe.

“I shall not dispute with you,” said Shakespeare. “What you say is sound, indeed. And yet, despite that, I do not think that this man would be clever enough to dissemble and conceal his guilt. More like that he would trumpet it, for if he truly did the deed, he would believe ‘twas the right deed he had done.”

“Enough!” shouted Locke from the dais, bringing down the hammer. Once more, the room fell silent. “I shall ask you once again, Henry Mayhew, how do you answer to this charge?”

“I am not obligated to make you any answer,” Mayhew replied haughtily. “You are no one to sit in judgement over me. If I am to answer to anyone, then I shall answer to God for all that I have done or not done. And to God I would say that I have had no hand in any murder, either of your son or that of any other man.”

“And this is your defence?” Locke replied scornfully. “To perjure yourself before God?”

“I would not expect any defense at all in this outrageous mockery of a court,” said Mayhew. He glanced around at the crowd, derision clearly written on his face. “Who, after all, among this scrofulous and motley gathering would rise to defend me?”

“I would,” Shakespeare called out suddenly, getting to his feet.

Smythe stared at him, aghast. “Will! Have you lost your mind?

Sit down, for God’s sake!“

Shakespeare gave his head a brief shake. “Nay, Tuck,” he said, keeping his voice low so that only Smythe could hear, “‘tis neither you nor I for whom Shy Locke whets his knife. ’Tis Mayhew. We are but a means to his end. And I intend to thwart it if can.”

“What concern is this of yours?” demanded Locke, staring at him with a frown. “You were brought here as a witness, so that you could tell your story and depart. And yet you would undertake to speak for this man?”

“I would,” said Shakespeare, stepping forward.

A buzz of curious conversation swept throughout the room, and Locke hammered several times for it to cease. “What is he to you?” he asked.

“In truth, Master Locke, he is naught to me,” Shakespeare replied. “That is to say, not more than any other man nor less.”

“So then why speak for him?”

“Because ‘twould seem that someone must,” said Shakespeare with a shrug. “After all, why bother with the fiction of a trial if no one is to speak for the accused? I am no friend of his, ’tis true, but then, neither is anyone else amongst this company. If what you wish for is revenge for your son’s death, and if you are certain beyond any doubt at all that this man killed him, why then, take your revenge and kill him also. What is to stop you? But on the other hand, if what you wish is justice for your son, and if that is why you have convened this court of your compatriots, rather than merely to put on a show for them as they do down at the Paris Gardens, then someone must perforce speak for the accused, or else there is no justice, nor even any semblance of it. Would you not agree, my friends?” he added, turning to the audience and spreading out his arms to them.

The reaction was immediate. Many of them burst into applause; others still shouted their agreement, calling out such things as ‘Well said!“ or ”Aye, let him speak! Let him speak!“ or ”A trial! A trial! Let us have a proper trial!“

Locke hammered angrily upon the table, while Smythe noticed Moll Cutpurse smiling to herself. She met his gaze and gave him a wink.

It took a few minutes for order to be restored, and then Locke said, “Very well, player. You may speak for the accused. But mark you, this is no stage for you to prance upon. We shall have no jokes or tricks or Morris dances. This is a serious matter, and you shall comport yourself accordingly. Is that understood?”

“In every aspect and particular,” said Shakespeare, giving him a small bow. “However, before we proceed, I would like to make but two requests of this fine court, with your permission.”

“What sort of requests?” asked Locke with a frown.

“For the first, I should like merely to ask if the bonds of the accused could be removed,” said Shakespeare. “Surely, they must chafe and pain him, and it does not seem to me as if he poses any threat to anyone given his present circumstances.”

Locke made a casual waving motion with his hand. “Granted.

Remove the bonds,“ he said.

Someone stepped forward and cut the ropes binding Mayhew’s wrists.

“Thank. you, sir, whoever you may be,” said Mayhew, rubbing his sore wrists and staring at him curiously. “I do not know why you are trying to help me, but I am much obliged to you.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Shakespeare replied to him, in a low voice, “for you may yet find yourself ungrateful.”

“And your second request?” asked Locke.

“I should like for my companion to be released,” said Shakepeare.

“Will? What are you doing?” Smythe asked, shaking his head, but Shakespeare turned and held up a hand to him, admonishing him to be silent.

“In order to conduct a proper defense for the accused,” Shakespeare continued, turning back to the dais, “‘twill be necessary for me to call some witnesses on his behalf. And at present, there are none in this chamber I can call. I should like to have permission to summon several to appear before us.”

Once again, this brought on an excited murmuring among the audience. Without resorting to his hammer this time, Locke waited for it to die down of its own. His face bore a sour expression, while Moll Cutpurse and the two other masters of the guild clearly looked amused.

“I see,” said Locke, after a few moments. “So you expect me to release your friend Smythe so that he can go and gather witnesses for the defense, or so you say, while in fact he may go and gather sheriff’s men to come back here with him? Do you take me for an utter fool?”

“Nothing was further from my mind,” said Shakespeare. “Why, the very last thing that I would wish to do is incur any enmity among this company. I think all here would understand how that could be unwise for a man in my position.”

This brought on general laughter. Smythe was not laughing, however. He thought his friend had lost his senses, acting as if this were a play and the people all around him merely groundlings. Damn it, Will, he thought, all the world is not a stage!

“What I propose,” Shakespeare continued, “is that my friend be released in the company of several members of this court, so that they may accompany him upon his errand. In that way, they would ensure he does it properly and returns, and at the same time they could function to persuade said witnesses to come and testify before this court, for it strikes me that such witnesses just might require some slight persuasion.”

Again, this brought on laughter and more shouts of encouragement. Smythe saw Moll Cutpurse lean over toward Locke and say something in his ear. Locke listened for a moment, then nodded and banged his hammer several times to bid the audience be quiet.

“Very well, Master Shakespeare,” he said. “The court has decided, in all fairness, to grant you your request. Your friend shall be allowed to leave to summon whatever witnesses you choose. You may confer with him in this regard and instruct him how so e’er you wish. But mark you, he shall be accompanied, as you propose, by several members of this court, and if he should so much as attempt to give someone a signal or a message, or else attempt to break away from those we send to escort him, then things shall not go well with either him or you… for we know well who you are and where you may be found and what company you keep, and there shall be no hiding from the thieves Guild, you may rest assured.”

Shakespeare bowed. “I quite understand,” he said. “And I do humbly thank this court for fairly granting my request.”

“In the meantime,” Locke continued, “we shall stand in recess for one hour, and then this court shall go forward with the prosecution. And when your witnesses are brought back to this court, if any are brought back to this court, then you may call them and state your case. You shall be given until midnight. If by then your witnesses have not appeared, then we shall conclude without them. You may now instruct your friend as to which witnesses you wish for him to summon to this court. Our esteemed colleague Moll Cutpurse will escort him, together with some members of her company, to make certain that things proceed accordingly.”

“I thank the court,” said Shakespeare, and hurried back to Smythe.

“You have completely lost your mind,” said Smytbe. “‘What in God’s name do you think you are doing?”

‘Trying to determine the truth,“ Shakespeare replied. ”I had hoped to be done with this entire sad affair, but it seems that the fates have bound us up in it inextricably, and now the only thing to do is see it through. We must act quickly now, and think more quickly still, for time is of the essence. We have only until midnight…“

Elizabeth was becoming exasperated. She had tried her best to explain to Portia about the danger she was in, but despite all of her efforts, Portia still refused to leave. Her eyes looked dark and sunken, she appeared gaunt from eating poorly, if she ate at all, and there was a haunted quality about her gaze that reminded Elizabeth of some frightened little animal. But for all that, she was stubborn and kept sitting in her chair and shaking her head that she did not wish to go.

“You try to reason with her,” Elizabeth said to Winifred in frustration. “I am reaching the end of my rope. Another shake of that head and so help me, I shall scream!”

“You must calm yourself, Elizabeth, please,” Winifred replied. “In her grief, perhaps she does not truly understand.”

“Then make her understand, for goodness sake!” Elizabeth replied, throwing up her hands. “This is taking us entirely too much time! We do not have all night! You try to talk some sense into her while I go and pack her things!”

“Portia,” Winifred said, crouching down before her and taking both her hands, “Portia, dear, please… listen to me. Elizabeth only has your best interests at heart, you know. We understand that you came here to be with her because you felt safe here. However, ‘tis no longer safe for you here, can you understand that? Some terrible men came and took away your father, took him away I know not where, and I very much fear for his safety.”

Portia simply looked away from her without saying a word.

Winifred took a deep breath and tightened her grip on the girl’s hands. “Portia, dear, you must listen to me, please. Those men who came and broke into your house and tied me up and took your father… those men were asking about you. We believe that they were sent by Charles Locke… Thomas’s father. Do you understand, Portia? He is an angry man, Portia, grief-stricken in his own way, just like you, and he wishes revenge for his son’s death!”

She turned and looked at Winifred.

“You understand now, don’t you?” Winifred continued earnestly. “We simply cannot remain here any longer. We have already tarried far too long. ‘Tis growing late, and there is a chance that they may find us here, that they may find you here. Please, Portia, please.! We must leave now.”

Portia looked down, nodded, then slowly stood.

“Good,” said Winifred, feeling enormously relieved. “Come now, I shall help you with your cloak.”

A short while later, they came downstairs, with Elizabeth carrying her bag.

“Is the coach still waiting?” Winifred asked nervously.

“He had better still be waiting, or he shall not receive the extra wages that I had promised him,” Elizabeth replied, handing Winifred the bag. “Go on, I shall be with you presently. Let me first instruct the servants what to do and what to say should anybody come.”

A few moments later, she pulled up the hood of her cloak and ran out into the rain. The coach was waiting, and Winifred and Portia had already climbed inside. The door was open, and the coachman was already up and waiting in his seat, prepared to leave the moment she got in. Thank Heaven, she thought, we are still in time.

She called out their destination to the coachman, stepped up into the coach, and shut the door behind her. At once, the coachman gave a yell and whipped up the horses, and the coach moved off with a lurch and gathered speed.

With a shock, Elizabeth suddenly realized that both Winifred and Portia were sitting blindfolded in their seats, their hands bound together in their laps. And they were not alone.

“Good evenin‘,” said a dark-cloaked figure, sitting in the seat across from her, next to Winifred. Elizabeth gasped as she felt her bodkin quickly plucked from her belt inside her cloak. “yell not be needin’ that, methinks.”

It took a moment for Elizabeth to get over her initial shock. Winifred sat beside the stranger, pale and frozen with fear. Portia sat stiff and immobile.

“Nice little blade, this. Bit small for serious work, else I just might be tempted. Tell ye what… be a good lass an‘ give me no trouble, an’ I just might give it back to ye when we are done.”

Elizabeth stared at her captor with sudden realization. “Why, you are a woman!” Winifred gasped with disbelief.

“I was last time I looked,” Moll Cutpurse replied. “But then he is not,” she added, jerking her head toward the coach window. Elizabeth looked and caught her breath as she saw a swarthy face grinning in at her. There was a man hanging on to the outside of the coach. “An‘ neither is he,” Moll added yet again, jerking her head toward the other window, in the coach door where Elizabeth had gotten in. There, too, a man was clinging to the outside of the coach, leering in at them. “An’ there are three more up top,” said Moll, pointing at the roof. “So be a good lass an‘ put this on, eh?” She tossed a blindfold onto Elizabeth’s lap.

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.

And then the prosecution called forward its last witness.

“The court calls Rachel Locke!‘

Shakespeare sat forward on the edge of his seat. The boy’s mother, he thought. And ironically, it struck him suddenly that all of this had started when he had told Smythe that he would like to meet a Jew. And now, finally, he would have his chance.