The Merchant of Vengeance

Chapter 3

The shop of Ben Dickens, the armourer, was one of the busiest in Cheapside. It was always full of hammering and clanging noises as the journeymen and apprentices worked at the forge and at the anvils on the heavy wooden trestle tables in the smoky room, bending and shaping metal into cuirasses and bucklers, leg harnesses and gauntlets, helms, visors and gorgets, elbow cops, and other pieces that made up heavy suits of armour, most of which, in all likelihood, would never see a real battle.

The advent of firearms had made the armoured, mounted knight all but obsolete, save for ceremonial tournaments largely staged for entertainment. And if a nobleman did not require a full suit of polished and elaborately engraved armour for competing in a tournament-although such tournaments were truly not so much competitions as exhibitions and parades-then he would most likely order one, or several perhaps, to stand in a conspicuous location in his home. There it would often become a part of an elaborate display of anus, including swords and shields, pikes and halberds, and maces and axes, all bejewelled or otherwise embellished and mounted on the walls, often over coats of arms, so that they might give ostentatious testimony to the noble aristocracy of their owner, who probably did not have the faintest idea how to employ any of them in combat.

Ben Dickens accepted all this philosophically. Unlike the vast majority of his customers, he had actually been to war and know from firsthand experience just what terrible damage such weapons could inflict. Consequently, he had no trouble will the fact that most of the weapons that he made were put primarily to passive, peaceful uses. Nevertheless, unlike some other armourers who did a brisk business in weapons that looked better than they functioned, Dickens prided himself on crafting weapons that could, if need be, serve their owners every bit as well upon the field of battle as they did upon the wall In some cases, they did, for while most of his clients were members of the aristocracy, more than a few were mercenaries or privateers. Though their weapons were generally plain and unembellished, they were no less well made for lacking ostentation.

As Tuck and Smythe came in, Dickens looked up, saw them, and waved. To one who did not know him, it would have been difficult to tell who the owner of the shop was, for Dickens looked as young as any of his journeymen. Tall, fit, and well formed, with chestnut hair and dark eyes, he was dressed simply in well-worn brown leather breeches and a matching doublet, over which he wore a leather apron. He spoke for a moment to several of his craftsmen, and then approached them with a smile, a very large and ornate war sword in his grasp.

“What do you think?” Dickens asked, holding up the two-handed great sword for Will and Tuck’s examination.

“Well. ‘tis very large,” Shakespeare ventured uncertainly. Dickens sighed and shook his head. “What do you think, Tuck?”

“‘Tis a very handsome sword, indeed,” replied Smythe. “Too bad about the flaw.”

“Hah? There, what did I tell you?” Dickens said triumphantly, turning back to several of his journeymen who were looking on. “Did I not say that he would see it straightaway?”

Shakespeare frowned. “What flaw?” he asked.

“There, in the blade, see?” Dickens pointed it out to him. “‘Tis a flaw in the metal.”

Shakespeare looked more closely. “Now that you point it out, I can see it,” he said, “but ‘tis barely noticeable.”

“Nevertheless, ‘twould make the blade fail in combat,” Dickens said, tossing it aside contemptuously. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Fail how?” asked Shakespeare.

“‘Twould break,” said Smythe, bending down and picking up the sword. “This cannot be one of yours, Ben.”

“It very nearly was,” Dickens replied. “One of my own journeymen tried to pass this off as being acceptable, since ‘twould only be employed for decoration. I gave him the boot. Some of the others thought that I was being too harsh. When you came in, Tuck, I told them that you would spot the flaw in an instant. They disagreed and wagered you would not.” He laughed. “Gentlemen,” he cried out, thumping the table, “pay up!”

With sour expressions, several of the journeymen placed their coins upon the tabletop.

“Consider it a lesson cheaply bought!” Dickens told them.

“Mark me well, for I shall not tolerate inferior craftsmanship!”

“Where shall I put this?” asked Smythe, holding the sword. “I care not,” said Dickens. “What good is it? Throw it out.”

“Why not hang it upon the wall back here, as a symbol of what shall not pass out of this shop?” asked Smythe.

“Now that is an excellent idea,” Dickens said. “I shall do just that. You should come and work for me, Tuck. You know your steel. You would make a splendid armourer.”

Tuck smiled. “You have asked me before, Ben, and I fear my answer has still not changed.”

“But why?” asked Dickens. “You do work for that cantankerous old smith Liam Bailey. What can he offer you that I cannot?”

“The freedom to come and go as I please, for one thing.” Smythe replied. “And I enjoy working in a small smithy, for another. It reminds me of my boyhood, working with my Uncle Thomas. Besides, my first loyalty shall always be to our company, Ben, you know that.”

“Aye, I know,” said Dickens with a smile. “And I understand, too. I was a player once myself, remember. But ‘tis indeed a pity. You would be a wonderful addition to my shop.”

“You are too hard a taskmaster, Ben,” Smythe replied with a grin. “I fear that you would grow impatient with me.”

“Nonsense. But have it your way. My offer stands. There shall be a place for you here anytime you choose.”

“Thank you, Ben,” said Smythe. “Your kind offer means more to me than I can say. Perhaps I may even take you up on it one day. But if I may, I should like to discuss the purpose of our visit.”

“By all means. I am all attention.”

‘Well,“ said Smythe, ”we have considered that of all the people that we know, you are doubtless the most widely travelled and have thus seen much more of the world than anyone else of our acquaintance.“

“Perhaps,” said Dickens with a shrug. “I have travelled widely, that is true, and I have seen much. I would not pretend that this has given me great stores of wisdom, but I may have learned a thing or two along the way. If my experience can be of any benefit to you, then please say how I may be of service.”

“Do you happen to know any Jews?” asked Shakespeare.

Dickens raised his eyebrows. “Now, there is a curious question! Of all the things you could have asked of me, I must say, I would never have expected that. Why do you ask?”

“Will is intent upon writing a play about a Jew, so as to outdo Kit Marlowe’s Jew of Malta,” Tuck replied.

“Well now, you need not have put it quite that way,” Shakespeare said, somewhat petulantly.

“How else should I have put it?” Smythe asked.

“You could have simply said that I was considering writing a play about a Jew and left it at that. You need not have added that I was trying to outdo Kit Marlowe. That makes it seem as if I am trying to compete with him.”

“But you are trying to compete with him. You told me so yourself.”

‘Well, never in so many words.“

“As I recall, it took you a great multitude of words to say so. I merely said it much more sparingly.”

“Perhaps you should be the one to write the play, then!”

“I do not pretend to be a poet… unlike some people of my acquaintance. ”

“Aghh.‘ Aghh! Shakespeare clutched his chest theatrically.

“Stabbed to the quick! Oh, traitorous blade! Et tu, Tuckus! Et tu.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” said Smythe, rolling his eyes.

“I have known a number of Jews, as it happens,” Dickens said, watching them with a bemused expression. “Or was that merely a rhetorical question?”

“‘What are they like?” asked Shakespeare. “Are they at all like Englishmen, or are they very foreign in their nature? And what do you suppose it means to be a Jew?”

“Well, that is a rather difficult thing to say,” Dickens replied with a contemplative frown. “Although I have met some Jews during my travels, I make no claim to any true knowledge of their religion, so as to all the ways in which ‘tis different from ours, I could not even begin to tell you. As to your question about their seeming foreign, I suppose that they might seem rather foreign to most Englishmen. Their customs are very different from ours in many ways, and yet in others they are very much the same. I cannot say what it means to be a Jew, for in truth only a Jew could tell you that. I can venture to say, however, that to be a Jew must require great strength of faith, for I can think of no faith that has been so sorely tested.”

“You mean because they are so reviled by Christians?” Smythe asked.

“In part,” Dickens replied. “But at the same time, ‘tis not so simple as all that. Here in England, they were driven out many years ago, save for a small number who remained and were confined to certain areas, tolerated in large part only because there was a need for them. But in other lands, if they have not likewise been driven out, they have often been very harshly used. And yet despite that, they still cling to their faith. All I can say is that a faith that can claim such strong adherents under such duress must surely offer much to its believers.”

“Ben, you said that those who had remained in England after most of them were driven out were tolerated only because there was a need for them,” said Smythe. “What did you mean by that? What need?”

“One of the oldest and most common needs in all the world, Tuck,” replied Dickens with a shrug. “The need for money.”

“Ah. I have heard it said that Jews are greedy in their love of money,” Shakespeare said.

“Have you, indeed?” said Dickens with a wry smile.

“Why do you smile so?” Shakespeare asked.

“Because I have heard it said, also,” Dickens replied. “And yet, have you ever considered why people would say so, and then, for that matter, if it were even true?”

Shakespeare shrugged. “I must confess to you that I had not. At least, not until this very moment.”

“And so what does your present consideration tell you?” Dickens asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Having never had any dealings with a Jew, nor even met one, I cannot in truth say yea or nay to that,” said Shakespeare.

“Indeed, and neither can most Englishmen,” said Dickens. “Nevertheless, I have heard it oft repeated as if ‘twere gospel. I think ’tis because the Jews are oft engaged in the trade of money-lending. But why, do you suppose? Why that particular trade more than any other?”

“Truly, I have no idea. Because they have some special aptitude for it, perhaps?” said Smythe.

“Well, some may, and some may not,” Dickens replied, “as would be the case with any man, in any trade, whether he be Jew or Christian. However, if he were a Christian, and thought himself truly devout in his belief, then he could not choose to be a money-lender, for the Holy Scripture forbids usury.”

“It does?” asked Smythe. “I must confess, I have little knowledge of such things, save for The Poor Man’s paternoster, from which my uncle read to me when I was a boy.”

“Well, I am no great scholar in such things myself” said Dickens. “As it happens, ‘’twas a Jew who explained it to me, as I shall now explain to you. In the Bible, there is a verse in which God says, ‘If thou lend money to any of my people that is poor by thee, thou shalt not be to him as an usurer, neither shalt thou lay upon him usury.’ Therefore, if a Christian wishes to remain devout, he must perforce refrain from the trade of money-lending, for to profit from it would be usury. To a Jew, however, the words ‘my people’ could be considered to apply only to other Jews.”

“I see,” said Shakespeare, nodding. “Thus it would follow that if one were a Jew, then nothing would forbid the lending of money at a profit to those who were not your people.”

“Just so,” Dickens replied. “And therein lies the rub. For in almost every nation where their wandering tribes have spread, the Jews have been forbidden to engage in one trade after another, until only one was left to them, the trade of money-lending, which was, conveniently, the only one forbidden to devout Christians. Thus, forced by Christians into the only trade that was left open to them, the Jews then became reviled by Christians for engaging in it.”

“But there are more than a few Christian moneylenders here in London, are there not?” asked Shakespeare.

“Oh, indeed, there are,” Dickens replied. “Not all Christians are so devout in their adherence to the Holy Scripture as they are in their pursuit of profit, which is why there came a time when Italian and French bankers started to arrive in England and the Jews could safely be expelled, for once there was enough Christian money to be borrowed, one did not require money borrowed from the Jews.”

“I Cannot imagine what it must be like to be thrown out of my own country,” Smythe said, shaking his head.

“Can you imagine what it must be like to know you do not even have a country?” Dickens replied. “We were born here in this land and can thus count ourselves Englishmen and Christians, but a Jew who has been born here can only count himself a Jew. And even then, he must do so circumspectly.”

“The Jews have your sympathy, it seems,” said Shakespeare. “No more so than anyone who is unjustly used, Will,” Dickens replied. “Perhaps that is what having been a ‘soldier of misfortune’ has caught me. I have seen men unjustly used too many times to unjustly use a man myself. Now, I shall give a man his just desserts, mind you, as I threw out that laggard who forged yon miserable blade, but to judge a man because of what his faith is or who his people are? That is not justice in my view.”

“Nor mine,” said Smythe. “I, for one, should not like to be judged for who my father is, much less judged for his forebears. I would much prefer to be judged for my own self.”

“As would I, Tuck, as would I,” said Dickens. “But then, there are many who do not feel as we do. ‘Twas not all that long ago, remember, when Protestants were persecuted under the rule of ’Bloody Mary‘ right here in our own land. Now the tables have been turned and the Catholics must hide their priests in cubby-holes. And I recall only too well those villainous roaring boys Jack Darnley and Bruce McEnery, along with their murderous crew, the Steady Boys, who wanted nothing better than to break the head of every foreigner in London, for no better reason than that they were foreign. It shames me now to think that I once counted them my friends. Their hatred of all foreigners brought about the murder of my good friend Leonardo, and then doomed them, as well.”

“A fate they richly deserved,” said Shakespeare emphatically. “For the murder, aye,” said Dickens. “But what of the hate that drove them to it?”

“Well, were they not punished for that also?” Smythe asked.

“Of course,” said Dickens. “But what I meant was that they had to learn that hate from somewhere. No child is born with hate. It must be taught. And children learn best from the examples that they see around them. ‘Tis a pity that they do not learn more love than hate.”

“A most ironic sentiment coming from an armourer,” said Shakespeare.

“Perhaps,” Dickens replied. “If this were a better world, or, more to the point, if we who peopled it were better, then there would have been no need for me to have apprenticed in this trade and I would instead have learned another. But a weapon does not kill by itself. It takes a man to wield it. And he may choose to wield it to oppress another or else to defend himself. The choice is his, not mine. For my part, I would be just as pleased to see every weapon that I made hung upon a wall and never taken down save to be polished and hung up once again.”

“In that event, what would it matter if a blade were made well or poorly, so long as its appearance was pleasing to the eye?” Shakespeare asked.

“I shall reply to your question with another question, Will,” said Dickens. “If you wish to write a play about a Jew, then why not simply write one in which you imagine your Jew howsoever you might please? Why ask what a Jew is like? And how Jews may be different from ourselves? And whether or not ‘tis true that they are greedy? Why not simply make your Jew out of whole cloth, repeating all the things that you have heard said about them, whether they be true or not? ’What difference would it make, one way or the other, so long as the play itself was pleasing to the audience?”

Shakespeare smiled and nodded. “I can see why you are an excellent armourer, Ben. When you drive home your point, you make your thrust sharp and to the quick. You are quite right, of course. ‘Tis not enough simply to satisfy the audience. A good poet must first satisfy himself. And even though the audience might not be aware of the play’s faults, I would be aware of them, and that is what would matter most.”

“You see?” said Dickens, clapping him upon the shoulder. “We are not so very different, after all. One good craftsman can always understand another, even if their crafts are not the same, because at the heart of it being true to your craft means crafting truly. Do you not agree, Tuck?”

“Oh, I agree completely,” Smythe replied. “My Uncle Thomas oft expressed a similar sentiment. He used to say, ‘To thine own self be true.’ He meant do what you know is right, regardless of what others may think or counsel.”

“To thine own self be true. I like that,” Shakespeare said. “I wish I had thought of it.”

“Never fear,” Smythe said, “you shall.”

“Go suck an egg.”

The front door of the shop suddenly swung open with a slam, and a very agitated-looking young man came rushing in. “Ben.! Ben!”

Dickens turned toward him with consternation. “Thomas! What is it? ”What is wrong?“

“Oh, Ben, a dreadful thing has happened! I am lost! I am undone!” the young man cried.

To Smythe, the young man looked familiar. Tall, slim, and dark, he was perhaps eighteen or nineteen, clean shaven, with well-formed, handsome features. His shoulder-length black hair was in a state of disarray, no doubt from running through the streets while clutching his bonnet in his hand. It was a soft cap of dove gray velvet, matching his short cloak, and he kept fumbling with it, crushing it up in his hands and turning it nervously, apparently without being aware of what he was doing.

“‘What has happened, Thomas?” Dickens asked with concern. “Good now, sit, you look all out of breath.” He pulled out a stool.

Thomas shook his head. “Nay, I cannot,” he replied. “I must stand, I cannot sit. I am in such a turmoil, I cannot think what to do. I feel as if my heart shall burst!”

“‘What are you all gaping at?” Dickens shouted at his workers, who had stopped everything to stare at the new arrival. “Get back to work! You, Robert Go fetch some wine! Be quick about it!” One of the apprentices immediately jumped to obey, and Dickens turned back to the upset young man.

“Forgive me, Ben,” said Thomas. “I see now that you have customers.”

“Will and Tuck are good friends of mine who came to visit.” Dickens replied.

“Perhaps we should depart, Ben,” Smythe said.

“Pray do not leave on my account, although I would not wish to burden you with my woeful tale of misfortune,” said Thomas. He stared at Smythe a moment. “Say, I know you, do I not?”

“Methinks you do,” said Smythe, finally placing him. “You ride a bay mare with a white blaze across her nose and white upon her forelegs.”

“The Rose!” said Thomas. “I remember now, you work at the Rose Theatre! That is how I know you, you are an ostler there.”

“Among other things,” said Smythe.

“And I have seen you there, as well,” Thomas said, looking at Shakespeare. “You are a player, are you not?”

“I am,” Shakespeare replied. “Will Shakespeare is my name.

And this is my good friend and fellow thespian Tuck Smythe.“

“Well met, my friends,” said Thomas. “Or mayhap poorly met, for I am in a sad state, indeed.”

“This is my good friend Thomas Locke,” said Dickens, introducing him. “I know him of old, when we both were young apprentices, before I went off to the wars. He is a tailor, and a right good credit to his craft.”

“Forgive me, good sirs,” Thomas said. “I am bereft of courtesy today. My manners have all left me. I can scarcely think. what my own name is, much less give it to others. Besides, I know now ‘tis not worth giving, for it becomes a plague upon the ears of those who hear it.”

“What speech is this?” asked Dickens with a frown. “What terrible misfortune has befallen you that you should so defame yourself?”

“Only this morning I awoke the happiest and most fortunate man in all of London,” Thomas said. “Now I am the most miserable and unfortunate man in all the world! Oh, call back yesterday! Bid time return! I was to wed a sweet and gentle lady whose every glance and smile had bestowed a lightness on my heart, but now Portia’s father has forbidden her to marry me and I am not allowed to see or speak with her again!”

“‘Why, what had you done?” asked Shakespeare.

“I was born!” said Thomas miserably, as he kept pacing back and forth. “Such is my guilty crime! My father is a Christian and my mother is a Jewess, which in the eyes of Jews and Christians all alike thus makes me born a Jew. And for naught but that accident of birth, Portia’s father has withdrawn consent for us to marry, saying that he will not have his family defiled by a Jew!”

“Here is a sad coincidence,” said Shakespeare softly in an aside to Smythe, who nodded.

“I am sorry, Thomas,” Dickens said. “Here, sit down and have a drink.” He poured a goblet from the bottle the apprentice brought, then poured goblets for Tuck and Smythe as well and handed them around.

As Thomas tossed back half the goblet in one gulp, Smythe asked, “Who is the girl’s father?”

“Henry Mayhew,” Dickens replied, “a prosperous haberdasher, and an insufferable stuffed shin. He is a widower with a beautiful young daughter possessed of grace and a most amiable disposition. Until now, he had found in Thomas nothing lacking, and had deemed him eminently suitable to take his daughter’s hand in marriage. His consent had already been given, and the marriage was to take place within a fortnight.”

“Now he has called it off and withdrawn his consent,” said Thomas bitterly. “And Portia is forbidden ever to see or speak. with me again.”

“But you have not lived as a Jew, Thomas,” Dickens said. “I have often seen you in church, and always known you to live life as a Christian.”

“Indeed, ‘tis so,” Thomas replied. “I was not raised in my mother’s faith, but in my father’s, not that he is the most Christian of all men, by any means, but he does go to church each Sunday. So I have always done, as well.”

“And what of your mother?” Shakespeare asked. “Had she become a Christian?”

Thomas shook his head. “She always went with my father to the church, but she was never truly converted to the faith. She was raised a Jew, and at heart she had always remained a Jew. Nor did my father ever try to force her to be otherwise. She was always circumspect in her belief, for she always knew that there were many who would condemn her for her faith. And who am I to judge her? She is my mother. But woe that I was ever born her son!”

“Oh, but that is a bitter thing to say about a parent,” Smythe replied.

“Aye, truly, and ashamed am I to speak. thus,” Thomas said, hanging his head. Then he looked up again, with anguish in his eyes. “But what am I to do? I love Portia with all my heart! She is my world, my life, my breath! I cannot bear the thought of losing her, of never being allowed to see or speak with her again! If you had ever been in love, then you would understand my desperate plight!”

“I understand, perhaps better than you know,” Smythe replied, thinking of Elizabeth. “But what does your Portia say to this?”

“I do not know,” said Thomas, hanging his head and running his fingers through his hair, clutching at his thick locks in exasperation. “I have not spoken with her since her father banished me from his house and from her sight.”

“Well,” said Smythe, “‘twould seem, then, that you must contrive a way to see her, and discover where her heart stands, with her duty to her father or her love for you.”

“I am certain that her heart shall be with me,” said Thomas, “but her obedience must perforce be to her father.”

“Must it?” Smythe asked.

Shakespeare glanced at him, raising his eyebrows with surprise, but saying nothing.

“What do you mean?” asked Thomas. “How could it be otherwise?”

“If you truly cannot bear to lose her, and if she is, indeed, your world, your life, your breath, then methinks that you must take the measure of her love,” said Smythe.

“Speak then, and tell me how,” said Thomas, looking up at him intently.

“You must find a way to see her so that you can ask her how she truly feels,” said Smythe. “If she truly loves you as you believe she does, as you say you love her, and if your love for one another is truly as great and all-encompassing as you believe, why then, you could elope and make your way to some place where you could live your lives together, as you wish, without hindrance from her father.”

“You are right!” said Thomas, banging his fist upon the table. “You give sound counsel, friend! That is just what I shall do!”

“Well now, wait, Thomas,” Dickens said, glancing at Smythe and taking Thomas by the arm as he got quickly to his feet. “Stay a moment and do not act too rashly. Before your passion drives you to take a course you may regret, consider that you have now nearly completed your apprenticeship. And what is more, your work has begun to attract favourable notice here in London. One year more and you shall become a journeyman, and you shall be well on your way to making a good life for yourself.”

“But what good would any of that be without the woman that I love?” asked Thomas.

“What good would having the woman that you love be without having the means to properly provide for her?” Dickens countered. “And that is something that Portia should consider, also. ‘Tis always best to think with your head and not your heart.”

“That is a simple enough thing for you to say, Ben,” said Thomas, “for you have married the woman that you loved. Your happiness is now assured, and you may think of other things. But I can think. of nothing else but Portia and how I cannot bear to go another day without her!” He turned to Smythe. “Thank you, my friend, for your good counsel and your understanding. I shall do as you advise. And if her love for me is true, as I believe her love to be, then we together shall determine what our course must be!”

He clapped Smythe on the shoulders and hurried out the door. Shakespeare sighed. “The course of true love never did run smooth,” he muttered, “for love is blind and lovers cannot see.”

“What?” said Smythe. “Why do you look upon me so, Ben, with such a February face, so full of frost and storm and cloudiness?”

“I shall wager that he thinks what I am thinking, Tuck,” said Shakespeare, with a disapproving grimace, “that you have just done poor Thomas a profound disservice. If that wench is as besotted with him as he is with her, then they shall doubtless follow your advice and run away together, and thus they will ruin both their lives.”

“But why?” asked Smythe. “Why should their lives be ruined if they are both together and in lover I should think they would be happy!”

“They would, indeed, be together and in love and happy at the very first,” said Shakespeare wryly, “but at the same time, they would be together and in love and poor. For a time, a short time, they could live on love, but ere long, there would doubtless be children from that love, and then they would be together and in love and poor and hungry and with children, and not long after that, they would be together and poor and hungry and with children and unhappy. And soon thereafter, they would be together and poor and hungry and with children and miserable with one another, a state commonly known to one and all as a settled marriage.”

“I am well familiar with your thoughts on marriage, Will,” said Smythe defensively, “but they are not shared by one and all. There are people who find happiness in being together, even if they are poor and hungry and struggling to survive, for being together in such circumstances is a far better thing than being alone.”

“And what of all the years that he has spent in labouring at his apprenticeship?” asked Dickens. “If he runs off with Portia, he shall be throwing all of that away. Why, within a year, his term as an apprentice will have been completed and he would then be free to open his own shop. Already, his work has gained favour with a number of wealthy customers who would have helped his business grow and prosper. In a few years, he would have been successful on his own, perhaps even a wealthy man. And if this Portia was not deemed good enough for him right now, why, in a few years’ time, there would have been a plentiful supply of eager, marriageable young wenches all vying for his favour, without regard to questions of his lineage.”

“And if his heart were broken from losing the one woman that he loved!” Smythe asked. “Then what good would all those eager wenches be?”

“Forgive the lad,” said Shakespeare, “he knows not whereof he speaks.”

“If you believe that I was wrong in what I said to Thomas.”

Smythe said, “then why do you not go after him and tell him so?”

“Because I know Thomas well enough to know that once he sets his mind on something, he cannot be dissuaded,” Dickens replied. “And because, Tuck, I know all too well how foolish a young man in love can be. ‘Twas only a few years ago that I was that young man, and I had set my mind upon a course that took me off to foreign wars in the mistaken notion that I would return wealthy from the spoils. As it happened, I was fortunate to have returned at all, and in one piece. Yet back then, I turned deaf ears to all the prudent counsel I received, as now Thomas turns deaf ears to mine.”

“Then why does my counsel bear more weight with him than yours, a man who knows him better?” Smythe replied.

“Because you have shown him a way that he may achieve his heart’s desire,” Dickens said.

“Mayhap not so much his heart, methinks, as some vital organ lower down,” said Shakespeare wryly.

“Oh, that was base,” said Smythe. “Anyone can see that Thomas is very much in love.”

“Is it Thomas that you are truly thinking of or is it not yourself?” asked Shakespeare, raising his eyebrows.

“What? What do you mean?” asked Smythe.

“Methinks that Thomas finds himself in a situation not all that much unlike your own,” Shakespeare replied. “You are hopelessly moonstruck over Elizabeth Darcie, whose father, while he does not forbid your friendship, would never grant consent to proper courtship. She is much too valuable a piece of goods to waste upon the likes of you, when she might still attract and wed a wealthy gentleman or, better still, a nobleman. And because he knows that you are an honourable young man, and also because he is indebted to you, Henry Darcie permits you to see his pretty daughter, whom he trusts not to do anything foolish. Thus, you two have a friendship made piquant by the pain of exquisite frustration, where you both yearn for what you both know you cannot have. Now here comes young Thomas, plagued with another Henry, less tolerant than yours, and for that, perhaps, less cruel. You hear his story, and you are moved to counsel him to do that which you wish that you could do yourself, but know that you cannot. You counselled Thomas not for his sake, but for yours. He heard your counsel; and not Ben’s, because when one is in love, one hears only that which one wishes to hear. Now he has gone to do that which he wishes to do.”

“For that you lay the blame with me!” asked Smythe, glancing from Will to Ben and back again.

“Thomas is old enough to make up his own mind,” said Dickens with a shrug. “Still, ‘tis a young and reckless mind, and you need not have set spurs to it.”

“Mayhap some wise counsel from his parents could serve to give him pause and rein in unwise ambition,” Shakespeare said thoughtfully.

“And at the same time allow you the opportunity to meet a Jew?” asked Smythe.

“Is there any wrong in that?” asked Shakespeare.

“Perhaps not,” said Smythe. “For if I am wrong in what I said and you and Ben are right, then I must try to check Young Thomas in his headstrong flight.”

Dickens shook his head. “‘Why is it that you two seem to find trouble no matter where you go?”

“Methinks that trouble has a way of finding us,” said Shakespeare. “But then we are not the first who, with the best meaning, have incurred the worst. Come, Tuck, let us away, and see what other mischief we can accomplish on this day.”