The Merchant of Vengeance

Chapter 12

In her youth, thought Shakespeare, Rachel Locke must have been very beautiful. She was beautiful still, though in a different way. The thick, long, braided hair that was once as black and lustrous as a raven’s wing was heavily silvered now, though traces of the old hue still remained. The body that once was lithe and supple, with sensual, curvaceous hips, long legs, and ripe young breasts, was heavier and thicker now, yet still feminine and graceful in its carriage. Her dark, Mediterranean skin, once taut and smooth, now bore the lines of age, but they spoke less of time and toil than of experience and character. And the eyes, dark as chestnuts and wide as a fawn’s, were still striking and exotic, although they spoke now of weariness and pain. She was dressed plainly, in a simple homespun gown, and did not attempt, as many women did, to compensate for lost youth with accumulated finery. The average man, perhaps, would not look twice at Rachel Locke now, Shakespeare thought, but the observant, thoughtful man would notice her… and stare.

The room fell silent as she came in and took her place upon the improvised stand, a small table and stool that had been placed before the dais. There had truly not been any silence in the room at all at any point during the proceedings, Shakespeare thought. It was like trying to conduct a trial in the middle of a tavern, which in effect was exactly what was being done. However, as Rachel Locke took her place, silence reigned supreme. The serving wenches stopped and watched her. No one spoke and no one moved. This was the grieving wife of one of their own, a mother who had lost her son. And the weight of her grief was palpable upon the entire assemblage.

She glanced up at her husband, and he merely nodded gravely. She folded her hands in her lap, and then her shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep breath and began.

“I shall not speak long,” she said, the timbre of her voice dear and strong. She paused, considering a moment, then began again. “Many of you know me. And if you do not know me, then you know who I am… or at least what I am. I am a woman, and I am a wife. I am a mother, and I am a Jew. And but for that last, I would be thought as good as anyone among you. And yet for that last, I know that there are many who think me something less, even as this man — ” she turned to stare straight at Henry Mayhew “-thinks me something less.

“This is not new to me,” Rachel Locke continued. “I had grown accustomed to it throughout the years. I am what I am, nor would I be aught else. My people, for the most part, were driven from this country before I was ever born. Some were permitted to remain, however… so long as they kept their place and accepted the faith of Christianity. And yet, although their own faith was denied them and they were ordered to accept another, neither were they truly accepted as Christians by other Christians. So then, if they were not accepted by that faith which they were ordered to accept, what were they to accept themselves.”

“If, in my heart, I have always remained true to the faith of my people, neither have I ever been false to the faith of others. I have never dishonored Christianity, nor have I ever dishonored any Christian. I have never hated any other faith, nor have I ever hated anyone for having a faith other than my own. And yet there are those who would profess that theirs is a faith of love who yet seem to have no love for those who do not share their faith.

“My son was a Christian.” Her voice caught slightly, and Shakespeare saw that she had unclasped her hands and now gripped the folds of her gown tightly. “‘Twas his father’s faith, and thus he was raised a Christian. But to this man — ” she turned once more toward Mayhew with a gaze of anthracite “-to this man he was a despised Jew, because his mother was a despised Jew. Indeed, to a Jew, descent is passed on through the mother. Yet how convenient was it for this one aspect of the Jewish faith to be accepted by this man, who did not accept or honor any other aspect of it? Until he knew that my son had been born of a Jewess, he had considered my son a fit mate for his daughter. He had been pleased to have him at his home, to sup with him at his table, and to introduce him to his friends. He gave his consent for his daughter’s marriage to my son, and told Thomas that he would be proud to have him for a son-in-law. And then. he discovered that Thomas’s mother was a Jew.

“The consent for the marriage was at once withdrawn, and Thomas was forbidden by Henry Mayhew ever to see or speak with his daughter again. And now…” She swallowed hard, having difficulty speaking, but she gathered herself together and continued. “And now my son is dead, because he was in love with Portia Mayhew and dared plan to elope with her. And there before you this man sits. the architect of a mother’s grief and devastation, and the utter ruin of her life, angrily demanding to know who she is to judge him. After all, who is she but a heathen Jew? And yet, ‘tis not only a woman, a wife, a mother, and a Jew who is crying out for justice.” She turned to gaze at her husband on the dais. “’Tis also a man, a husband, a father, and a Christian who has likewise lost his son and cries out for revenge. Yet who is he to judge him, this man asks? Indeed, who are any of us to judge him? Who are any of us, after all, compared to the likes of him? We are poor, and he is rich. We are of the humble working class, and he is of the vaunted gentry. We are those whose duty is to serve, and he is one whose due is to have servants. We are very different in his eyes. And yet have we not eyes to see with for ourselves? Have we not hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Can we not be fed with the same food and hurt with the same weapons? Are we not subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer as he is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us… shall we not revenge?”

She stared at Mayhew with a look to freeze the soul, her voice trembling with emotion. “If we are like you in the rest, then we will resemble you in that,” she said. She stood and raised her hand, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “The villainy you teach me I will execute,” she cried. “Thou stick’st a dagger in me! I shall never see my son again!”

Mayhew’s face was white. He sat stiffly, facing her, and yet he did nor look away. And Shakespeare wondered, could a guilty man have faced such a gaze unflinchingly?

She closed her cyes and turned away, struggling to keep from breaking down. There was not a sound within the chamber. She won her struggle and managed to compose herself. Then she straightened, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and slowly left the room. For a moment that seemed to stretch on and on, no one spoke. Then Shylocke looked at Shakespeare and said, “And now ‘tis your turn to speak for the accused.”

Shakespeare stood, thinking it would be impossible to follow on the heels of such a speech. He cleared his throat and faced the dais. “With respect to this court, I would like to request a pause in the proceedings to see if my friend has arrived with all of our witnesses, so that we may plead our cause.”

Locke stared at him, clearly not wanting to grant the request, but at the same time not seeing any compelling reason to deny him. He could easily have done so anyway, thought Shakespeare. It was his guild and his court, after all. The fact that he was hesitating was encouraging, indeed. It showed that for all that he might be a thief, he was a fair one.

“Granted,” Locke said after a moment’s consideration. “Fifteen minutes. And then you must proceed.” He slammed the hammer on the table.

Shakespeare glanced around, not certain where to go. After all, he had been brought to this place blindfolded. Fortunately, someone came to his rescue.

“This way,” a young man said, coming up beside him. “Moll has just returned with your friend and the last of the people that you sent them for.”

“They are all here?” Shakespeare asked as he followed the man down a narrow corridor, scarcely able to believe it. “However did you manage it?”

The man simply shrugged. “We persuaded them all to come.”

“Indeed,” said Shakespeare, partly to himself. “I do hope that you did not persuade too strenuously.”

The man shrugged once more. “Well, some required a bit more persuasion than others. But they were all agreeable in the end.”

“I am quite sure they were,” muttered Shakespeare as they entered a small room. As he came in, he saw Tuck and Moll Cutpurse, together with Elizabeth Darcie, a distraught-looking young woman who had to be Portia Mayhew, and an older woman whom he did not know. He frowned.

“And who is this lady?” he asked.

“Madame Winifred Fitzwalter,” Smyrhe replied. “Henry Mayhews intended.”

“But I did not ask you to bring her,” said Shakespeare, turning with a puzzled look from Smythe to Moll Cutpurse.

“They were all together,” Moll replied with a shrug. “And after all, if Mayhew is the man that she intends to marry, then why should she not be present at his trial? I shall leave you to make your preparations. I should be getting back out to the hall.”

“Trial?” asked Winifred, after Moll left the room. “What do you mean? What trial? What has Henry done?”

“He is being tried for the murder of Thomas Locke,” said Shakespeare.

Winifred gasped.

“Tried by whom?” Elizabeth asked. “And by whose authority?

Where are we? What is this place?“

“As to where we are,” Shakespeare replied, “I cannot say, for we were brought here blindfolded, as I surmise were you. As to what this place is, I would venture to say ‘tis an inn, either within the city walls or perhaps across the river, in the Liberties. In either case, we are certainly close by the city, if no longer within its boundaries. As to by whose authority the trial is conducted, ’tis not so much a matter of authority as of main force, though I suppose that one could argue they are much the same. Wherever this place may be, ‘tis the meeting hall of the Thieves Guild, and the trial is being held by them, under the direction of Charles Locke, Thomas’s father, also known as Shy Locke.”

“Dear God,” Winifred said, bringing her hands up to her mouth. “They are going to kill him!”

“I would say that there seems to be an excellent chance of that, unless somehow I can do something to dissuade them,” Shake speare replied.

“What is your role in this?” Elizabeth asked.

“Tuck and I were brought here to give testimony, it seems, to lend an air of credence to this trial. Wc were the ones who had brought Shy Locke the news that his son was planning to elope, and ‘tis for that reason, Locke believes, his son was killed.”

“And now Will is defending Mayhew,” Smyrhe said, “because he does not believe him to be guilty of the crime.”

“But this is madness!” said Elizabeth, glancing from Smythe to Shakespeare. “This is not a real trial or a real court! There is no legal authority here! These people are criminals!”

“Be that as it may,” said Shakespeare, “they are very serious in their intent. And ‘twould also appear, strange as it may seem, that they are seeking justice and, in so doing, are actually striving to be fair.”

“Fair!” said Elizabeth.

“Aye, believe it or not,” Shakespeare replied. “‘Tis curious. They are a rough and raucous bunch, and yet, for all that, this is a serious matter to them and, in their own way, they are approaching it as seriously as they know how. And ’twould appear that they are striving to be fair, perhaps because fairness has so often been denied them. And therein lies Henry Mayhew’s only hope.”

“What do you intend to do?” Elizabeth asked.

“I must do my best to find the truth,” said Shakespeare. Elizabeth frowned. “How?”

Shakespeare sighed. “By seeking to discover lies, perhaps. I do not yet know for certain. But I must do it now, tonight.” He turned to Smythe. “I am told the others are all here, as well?”

Smythe nodded. “They are being kept waiting in separate rooms.”

“What others?” asked Elizabeth.

“You shall find out in due course,” said Shakespeare. He turned to Portia, who had been listening to it all without saying a word. “Mistress Mayhew, you shall shortly be brought out into a hall that is filled with people, people of a rather rough sort that may frighten you, but you must not be frightened. I shall have to put some questions to you, questions that you may not find very pleasant, but you shall have to answer them. I have every confidence chat you can do that.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Will! She has been out of her wits with grief!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“You shall not be able to speak for her out there, Elizabeth,” said Shakespeare. “So I suggest you do not try to do so here.” He turned back to Portia, who simply stared back at him. “All I am asking is that you speak the truth,” he said to her. “And if you will not do it for me, or even for your father, do it for Thomas. You shall honor his memory in doing so.”

The door was flung open. “Right,” said the man who had brought Shakespeare from the hall. “Time to go.”

They were led back to the hall.

The masters of the guild were all at their places on the dais.

Moll Cutpurse had rejoined them. Mayhew sat where Shakespeare had left him, at the table. He looked a little haggard, but someone had brought him a pitcher of ale and some bread and cheese. He had not touched the bread and cheese, but he had partaken liberally of the ale. His tankard was half full and the pitcher was half empty.

“Do not go getting yourself drunk,” Shakespeare told him. “Why the hell not?” asked Mayhew with a grimace. Shakespeare opened his mouth, then shut it once again.

“‘Strewth, you have a point. I cannot think of a single reason.”

“Nor could I,” said Mayhew. He quaffed the remainder of the ale in his tankard and poured himself another.

Locke struck his hammer on the table several times. “Master Shakespeare, are you prepared to begin?”

“I am,” Shakespeare replied, rising to his feet.

“Proceed, then.”

“I should like to call for my first witness my good friend Tuck Smythe,” he said.

Tuck got up and walked over to the seat placed before the dais. “Do you swear before God, upon pain of your immortal soul, that what you say before this court shall be the truth?” asked Locke.

“I do,” said Smythe.

“Be seated.”

“Would you please give your full name to this assemblage?” Shakespeare asked him.

“Symington Smythe II,” said Tuck.

Winifred caught her breath and stared at him with astonishment.

“And what is your occupation?”

“I am a player with Lord Strange’s Men, and a sometime smith and farrier.”

“Could you explain to this court how it happened that you met Thomas Locke and what was the nature of your acquaintance?”

“You and I had gone together to the shop of Ben Dickens, the armorer,” said Smythe, “who is a friend of ours. ”Whilst there, we met Thomas Locke, another friend of Ben’s, who had arrived in a state of great agitation because the father of his betrothed, Portia Mayhew, had just withdrawn his consent to the marriage and forbidden him from seeing her again.“

“Did he say why this consent had been withdrawn?” asked Shakespeare.

“Because his mother was a Jew,” said Smythe.

“And how did Thomas respond to this?”

“He was most distressed. He said he loved this girl with all his heart and soul and could not live without her. He could not bear the thought of never seeing her again.”

“And what was your response to this?” asked Shakespeare. Smythe hesitated slightly. “I advised him to elope with her.”

“Indeed?” said Shakespeare. “And did you know him well?” Smythe hesitated yet again. “Nay, we had never before met.”

“And yet you took it upon yourself to advise him to elope?”

“Aye.”

“Were you acquainted at all with his intended, Mistress Mayhew?”

“I was not.”

“You had never met her nor even laid eyes upon her, as it hap pens, is that not so?”

“‘Tis so.”

“And yet you still advised Thomas Locke, whom you had only just met, to elope with this girl whom you had never met?”

Smythe spoke under his breath. “Will, what the devil are you doing?”

“Answer the question, please.”

“I did so advise him, aye,” said Smythe with a grimace.

“Are you ordinarily in the habit of advising strangers to elope?”

“Not ordinarily.”

“So then why in this case?”

“Because.. because I understood how he must have felt, I suppose,” said Smythe.

Elizabeth sat up a little straighter in her seat.

“Because something of a somewhat similar nature, so to speak, had occurred in your own life?”

Smythe gave him a hard look. “Aye,” he said after a moment. Elizabeth looked down.

“And what happened then?” asked Shakespeare.

“Thomas said that he would follow my advice and left.”

Smythe replied. “And then Ben took me to task for not minding my own business. As did you.”

“I did, indeed,” said Shakespeare. “And what happened then?”

“Upon listening to you and Ben, I decided that perhaps I had spoken rashly, and we-that is, you and I, not Ben-went together to seek out Thomas’s parents and inform them of what their son intended.”

“The rest you know,” said Shakespeare, turning to face Locke upon the dais. “But for the benefit of this assemblage, we came to you and told you what had happened, whereupon you requested us to deliver a message to your son, asking him to come and see you. When we tried to do so, we found, much to our profound regret, that young Thomas had been slain.” He turned back to Smythe. “Thank you, Tuck. If it please the court, I am finished with this witness.”

“You may step down,” said Locke to Smythe.

“I would now like to call forth Mistress Elizabeth Darcie.”

Shakespeare said.

Elizabeth stepped up to take the stand and was sworn. “Elizabeth,” said Shakespeare, “would you please tell this court your connection with this sad situation?”

“Portia Mayhew is a friend of mine,” Elizabeth replied. “Our fathers know one another.”

“Would you say that you are very dose friends?” Shakespeare asked.

“I would not say that we were very close,” Elizabech replied, “which is to say, I like Portia, but I have not known her very long.”

“You knew she was betrothed to Thomas Locke?”

“I did.”

“And how did you discover that her father had withdrawn his consent for her to marry?”

“When she came to my home, very upset, and delivered the news to Antonia and myself.”

“And who is Antonia?”

“She is a friend of mine, and the wife of Harry Morrison, one of my father’s business acquaintances. She was visiting with me at the time.”

“And how did you respond to this news?” asked Shakespeare. “Well, we sought to comfort her, of course,” Elizabeth replied. “And was that all!”

“Not entirely.”

“As it happens, ‘twas your suggestion to her that she should elope with Thomas, was it not?”

“It was.”

This brought a reaction from the assemblage, and Locke hammered for silence, or at least some reasonable semblance of it.

“Curious,” said Shakespeare. “‘Twould seem that everyone wanted this young couple to elope, save for their parents. And what did you do then?”

“We took a coach and went in search of Thomas,” Elizabeth replied.

“And by ‘we,’ you mean yourself, Antonia, and Portia, is that not so?”

“‘Tis so.”

“Where did you go?”

“To the shop of Master Leffingwell, where Thomas was employed,” Elizabeth replied.

“And what did you discover when you went there?”

“We discovered that Thomas was not there,” Elizabeth replied.

“Master Leffingwell told us that he had not come in to work that day.”

“And was that all he told you?”

Elizabeth frowned. “I believe so.”

“Allow me to refresh your memory. Did you not know that Thomas had a room just across the street in the cul-de-sac, above the mercer’s shop?”

“Oh. Aye, we did. That is to say, I did not know it, Portia did. But we did not go there, because Master Leffingwell also told us that he had sent one of his apprentices there earlier to see if Thomas was at home, and he was not.”

“And so, not seeing any reason to do otherwise, you took him at his word and returned home, thinking to find Thomas later, perhaps the following day. At what point did you discover he,was dead?”

“The very next day,” Elizabeth replied, “when the sheriff’s men came to my house to question us.”

“And why did they wish to question you?”

“Because Master Leffingwell had told them we were at his shop, seeking Thomas.”

“Portia was with you at the time the sheriff’s men arrived?”

“Aye, she was. She had spent the night with me at my home.”

“And how did she respond to this tragic news?”

“As you may well imagine, she was horrified and struck with grief. She fled the room, sobbing.”

“And the sheriff’s men, of course, did not pursue her to press her any further.”

“I should say not!”

“After they left, however, I should imagine that you went to her at once, out of concern?”

“I did, indeed.”

“And did she say anything to you about Thomas’s murder?” Elizabeth moistened her lips and nodded.

“She told you, did she not, that she believed her father was responsible?”.

“She did.”

“And did you believe her?”

Elizabeth hesitated.

“Elizabeth… did you believe her when she said she thought her father was the one responsible?”

“I did,” Elizabeth replied.

“You are doing a bloody marvelous job,” said Mayhew, with a disgusted look at Shakespeare. “Keep it up!”

Locke slammed down his hammer. “Silence!”

“Did you have any knowledge, other than what Portia told you, that led you to believe that Henry Mayhew murdered Thomas Locke, or else paid to have it done?” asked Shakespeare.

Elizabeth moistened her lips again. “Nay, I did not.”

“But you believed it just the same?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Aye. I did believe it.”

“Might I ask why?”

Elizabeth frowned. “Well… who else could have done it?”

“The fact is, anyone in London could have done it,” Shakespeare replied. “What you mean to ask is ‘Who would have done it?’

Is that not so?“

“Aye. What is the difference?”

“Oh, there is a very great difference,” Shakespeare said. “A very great difference, indeed. There could have been any number of people who could have killed him. The question is, who would have had a reason to do so? Aside from Henry Mayhew, that is.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I am sure I do not know.”

“Well, that is what we must endeavor to find out,” said Shakespeare. “I am finished with this witness. I would next like to call Master Leffingwell, the tailor.”

Elizabeth stepped down, and Master Leffingwell was brought out, dressed in his nightclothes. He looked very frightened and disheveled. As soon as he was sworn, Shakespeare tried to reassure him. ‘

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “All you need to do is tell the truth, and you should be home in bed within the hour. Now, please tell the court your name and occupation.”

“M-M-Master William Leffingwell,” he stammered. “I am a’t-tailor.”

“No need to be afraid,” Shakespeare told him once more. “No one shall harm you. All you need do is answer a few questions. ”What was your relationship with Thomas Locke?“

Leffingwell looked terrified, but he managed to compose himself enough to answer. “He… he worked for me. He was my apprentice.”

“And you had known him for the entire seven years of his apprenticeship, of course, is that not so?”

Leffingwell nodded. “Aye, I did.”

“You were generally satisfied with his work, were you not?”

“I was, indeed, aye.”

“So much so that when he completed his apprenticeship, you offered him a position as a journeyman tailor in your shop, is that not so?”

“Indeed, ‘twas so, indeed. He was an excellent tailor. I was pleased to have him in my shop.”

“And in all the time you knew him, did you know him to have any enemies who may have wished him dead?” asked Shakespeare.

“Nay, not Thomas!” Leffingwell replied emphatically, shaking his head. “He was a fine lad, a fine lad, indeed, well loved by everyone!”

“Would it be fair to say that you never knew him to have any enemies at all?”

“Nay, none at all. None at all. He was an excellent young man.

He got on well with everyone.“

“So then you were surprised when you learned that he was murdered?”

“Oh, I was astonished! ‘Twas a horrible thing, a horrible thing, indeed! I could not imagine who would have done such a ching!”

“You knew he was betrothed?”

“I knew that, aye. He often spoke of it.”

“And did you know the young woman to whom he was betrothed?”

Leffingwell shook his head. “Nay, I cannot say I did. He had mentioned her name a munber of times, and I… I think. she may have come to the shop once, but in truth, I cannot say I recall, other than the day she came with those two other women, seeking him. And that must have been the very day he…”

“The day he was killed,” said Shakespeare. Leffingwell looked down and nodded.

“You told the young ladies on that day that Thomas had not come in to work and was not at home,” said Shakespeare. “Just as you told us the very same thing. How did you know that he was not at home?”

“I had sent one of my apprentices over to his room to see if perhaps he had fallen ill, and the lad returned and said he was not at home.”

“But in fact, he was there,” Shakespeare said. “The boy you sent merely knocked upon the door, did he not, and when there was no answer, he returned to say that Thomas was not at home. But had he actually tried the door, as we did when we went there ourselves shortly thereafter, he would have found it open, and he would have found that Thomas was already dead. Thank you, Master Leffingwell. I am sorry to have disturbed your rest and troubled you. You may go home now.”

A a much relieved Leffingwell was escorted out of the chamber, Shakespeare went over to where Smythe sat and whispered in his ear. Smythe glanced up at him sharply, then nodded and left the room, accompanied by one of Moll’s men.

“You have not made much of an argument for the innocence of the accused,” said Locke. “Have you any other witnesses to call?”

“I have, if it please the court,” said Shakespeare.

“Get on with it, then.”

“I call Mistress Antonia Morrison,” Shakespeare said. Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide, and she spun around in her seat as Antonia was escorted in. Until that moment, she had not known that Antonia had been brought here, as well. Like Leffingwell, she looked frightened as they brought her in, but unlike him, she was fully dressed. When she saw Elizabeth, she looked a bit relieved, though still apprehensive.

“Please tell this court your name,” said Shakespeare.

“My name is Antonia Morrison,” she replied.

“Do you know where you are?” asked Shakespeare. “I do not mean exacty where, for I know that you were brought here blindfolded. I mean do you know what this place is?”

She nodded, gravely. “The meeting hall of the Thieves Guild.”

“And you have been told why you have been brought here?”

“To testify at the trial of Henry Mayhew for the murder of Thomas Locke,” she replied.

“So then you understand the import of all this, and that you must, above all, tell the truth?”

She nodded. “Aye, I do.”

Shakespeare looked up and saw that Smythe had returned, together with the man he had left with, as well as several others. He nodded.

“Very well, then. What is your relationship with Portia Mayhew?”

“She is my friend.”

“A close friend?”

“Well, she is more Elizabeth Darcie’s friend than mine. ‘Tis through Elizabeth that we had met.”

“Did you know her father?”

“Nay, I did not.”

“So then would it be correct co say that you have not known Portia Mayhew for very long?”

“Aye, ‘twould be correct.”

“And did you know Thomas Locke?”

“Nay, I did not. I knew of him, for Portia had spoken of him often, but we had never met. And now, I fear, we never will.”

“Indeed,” said Shakespeare, nodding sympathetically. “Where were you when you first learned that Portia’s father had withdrawn his consent for her marriage?”

“I was with Elizabeth Darcie at her home.”

“And Portia was there with you?”

“She arrived afterwards.”

“After you did?”

“Aye, that is so.”

“She was upset when she arrived?”

“Very much so,” said Antonia. “She was in tears and most distraught.”

“Because her father had withdrawn his consent for her to marry Thomas?”

Anconia nodded. “Aye, that is so.”

“And did she say why?”

Antonia nodded again. “Because Thomas’s mother was a Jewess.”

Mayhew shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Why did she come to Elizabeth Darcie’s house?”

“Because Elizabeth was her friend, and she was distressed and in great need of a friend.”

“Whose idea was it in the first place that Porcia should elope with Thomas?”

“‘Twas Elizabeth who had suggested it,” Antonia replied. “And what did you think of this idea?”

“Well… I thought ‘twas rather ill advised, to be honest.”

“Indeed? You did not find it… romantic?”

“I found it rather foolish, if you must know,” said Antonia.

“Of course, I did not say so at the time.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I did not wish to seem lacking in sympathy. Portia was very much upset, and I did not wish to make matters any worse for her.”

“I see,” said Shakespeare. “‘Twas most considerate of you. Why did you believe that the elopement would be ill advised?”

“Because if she and Thomas were to have run away together, they would afterwards have been penniless,” Anconia said. “How would they have lived? What would have become of her? Would she have been forced to find work as a laundress or a serving wench? What sort of life would that have been for the daughter of a gentleman?”.

“A life with the man she loved, perhaps,” said Shakespeare.

“Some may find contentment in such a life. Others may have greater needs. Your husband is a very wealthy man, I undersrand, is that not so?”

“Harry has been very successful in his life,” Antonia replied.

‘We are very comfortable.“

“He is also a good many years older than you, is that not so?”

“Aye. But why do you ask? ‘Tis not unusual for men to marry women younger than themselves.”

“Nay, ‘tis not, indeed,” said Shakespeare. He glanced back toward where Smythe stood together with the men who had come back with him. Smythe gave him an emphatic nod. “Especially wealthy gentlemen,” he added. “An older man, well settled in his life and in his habits, can certainly provide a secure and comfortable life for a beautiful young woman. But if he is much older, he may not be able to provide everything that a beautiful young woman may desire, is that not so?”

Antonia frowned. “I am not sure what you mean.”

“I mean that a beautiful young woman like yourself, married to a man many years her senior, may not be able to have all of her desires met. She may have certain needs that he cannot, by virtue of his age, fulfill, is that not so?”

Antonia stiffened. “Your comments are impertinent, sir.”

“Ah, well, I would suggest to you that my comments are most pertinent, indeed,” said Shakespeare. “Have you ever had a lover, Mistress Morrison?”

“You are a bounder, a lout, and a scoundrel, sir,” she replied.

“How dare you?”

Elizabeth held her breath.

“What if I were to tell you, Mistress Morrison, that I happen to know that you are an adulteress?”

She rose to her feet, her hands clenched into fists. “Then I would call you an impudent rascal and a villainous liar!”

“So then you deny that you were having an affair with Thomas Locke?”

Elizabeth gasped. Winifred stared, open-mouthed. And Portia sat stiffly, her gaze fixed upon Antonia unwaveringly.

“Of course, I deny it, you worm! I told you that I did not even know him!”

“You had never met him?”

“Never!”

“I would ask you to look upon these two men,” said Shakespeare, beckoning to Smythe, who came forward with two burly fellows. “Have you ever seen either of these two men before?”

Antonia glanced toward them contemptuously and looked away. “I have never laid eyes upon them.”

“Ah, but they have laid eyes upon you,” said Shakespeare.

“Gentlemen, would you be so kind as to tell this court your names?”

“My name is Evan Drury,” said one of the two men, stepping forward.

“And mine is Ian Davies,” said the other.

“And what is your occupation?” Shakespeare asked.

“We are paid to act as guards in the street where Master Leffingwell, the tailor, Master Jefferies, the mercer, and Masters Hollowell and Jennings, the silk merchants, have their shops,” said Drury.

Antonia turned pale.

“Have you ever seen this woman before” asked Shakespeare. “Aye, many times,” said Davies.

“Where did you see her?”

“In the street where we are paid to sit and guard the shops,” said Drury.

“Specifically, in what circumstances did you see her?”

“She often went to visit the young gentleman who lived above Master Jefferies’s shop,” said Drury.

“This would be Thomas Locke?” asked Shakespeare.

“Aye, sir. We saw them together upon more than one occasion,” Davies said.

“And did they seem as if they knew one another?”

“Oh, I would say they knew one another very well, indeed, sir,” Davies replied with a smirk.

“So you would also say that they most likely knew one another often?” Shakespeare asked.

“I would venture to say they did, sir,” Davies replied, grinning.

“I would venture to say so, indeed.”

The reaction of the audience was instantaneous and tumultuous. Locke hammered away upon the table repeatedly, trying to restore order. Antonia stood absolutely motionless, white as a ghost. Elizabeth simply sat there, numbly shaking her head with disbelief. Winifred was speechless.

“Lies!” screamed Antonia, her voice rising above the din. “Lies.!

Lies.! Foul lies! These men have been paid to lie about me!“

“Silence.!” Locke shouted, hammering upon the table again and again. “Silence I say.!”

“I call Portia Mayhew!” said Shakespeare.

Slowly, Portia stood. For a moment, she and Antonia simply stared at one another. The room became very still. Shakespeare turned his back upon Antonia and came over toward Portia.

“When did you learn that Thomas and Antonia were lovers?” he asked her gently.

She kept her gaze firmly fixed upon Antonia. ‘The day he told me that she was pregnant with his child,“ she replied. She winced and brought her hand up to touch her ear.

“And what day was that?” asked Shakespeare.

“The day I killed him,” she replied softly. She winced once more and shook her head several times.

There was a collective gasp in the room.

“Oh, my God,” Elizabeth murmured.

Mayhew turned to face his daughter with astonished disbelief.

“Nay, it cannot be!” he said.

“Tell us what happened, Portia,” Shakespeare said. “Please.”

“He confessed to me that he and Antonia had been lovers,” she replied in a flat tone. “He said that she had seduced him, and that he had not been able to resist. He begged for my forgiveness and said that he was weak.”

Once more, she winced, as if with pain, and touched her ears. “He said that a man had needs… and then he told me that Antonia was pregnant with his child, and had threatened to tell my father unless he helped her to be rid of it. So he took her to see a cunning woman, and obtained for her a brew of pennyroyal and mugwort that would banish the child before it quickened…

She bit her lower lip and shook her head once more, wincing as if with pain.

“And then he told me that it was finished with Antonia and that it did not matter, but that all the trouble he had gone to would be in vain if I did not run away with him at once, because my father had discovered that his mother was a Jew and had forbidden us to marry.”

There was not a sound within the room. No one spoke. Nobody moved.

“And what happened then?” asked Shakespeare softly.

“I felt as if my world had crumbled all around me,” she said wearily. “I turned away from him… my head was spinning… and then I saw his dagger where he had laid it down upon the table… there was a roaring in my ears, a terrible roaring, like the wind… a sound so loud… so very, very loud… oh, I hear it still… I hear it still… It will not go away!” She brought her hands up to her ears to block out a sound that only she could hear.

“Make it go away! Please, make it go away!”

She sank to her knees upon the floor, rocking back and forth, her hands covering her ears.

“Make it go away!” she whimpered. “Please, make it go away!”

“Oh, Portia!” Mayhew cried, crouching at her side and putting his arms around her. “My poor Portia!”

Charles Locke rose to his feet, staring down at her, holding the hammer clutched tightly in his fist. Then he looked down at it, dropped it on the table, and walked out of the room without a word.

Antonia still stood there, as if rooted to the spot, staring at Portia with horror and dismay. Mayhew sobbed quietly as he held his daughter, who seemed no longer able to hear him. Or anything else.

Smythe came up to Shakespeare and took him by the arm.

“However did you guess that she had done it?” he asked.

Shakespeare shook his head. “I had no idea,” he said.

“‘Strewth, I thought Antonia had killed him.”