The Merchant of Vengeance (Shakespeare & Smythe 4)

Smythe spun around. The men who had passed them moments earlier were now behind them. There were four of them, two of whom were armed with clubs, just like the others. The other two, however, now produced crossbows from beneath their long cloaks. That changed things considerably. Half a dozen men armed with clubs did not make for good odds when there were only two of them, and Will was not armed, not that he would have been much help even if he were. But ten men, two of whom were armed with crossbows, made any resistance absolutely pointless—something the man who had spoken to them underscored with his next comment.

"Mind now, Master Locke did not say in what condition 'e wished to see you," he said, his voice calm and otherwise perfectly conversational.

"’E could see you whole… or else'e could see you broke up a bit. It makes not a brass farthing’s worth o' difference to us, one way or the other. The choice is yours my friends. And you 'ave the space o' three breaths in which co make it."

"Right," said Smythe, taking a deep breath. "Well… when you put it that way…" He slowly sheathed the blade and started co unbuckle his sword belt so that he could hand it over to them.

"Now, that's more like it," said the man who spoke. "No need for 'eroics, eh? We understand each other. I would much prefer to keep this friendly like."

"By all means, let us keep it friendly-like," said Smythe with a tight grimace, as he handed over his sword belt.

"Oh, hellspite!" Shakespeare said, in a tone of fearful exasperation. "Why in God's name do you keep doing this to us?"

"Be quiet, Will."

"It never ends! It simply never ends! You positively rain death and devastation upon us!"

"We have not died yet, Will," Smythe replied. "And if we keep our heads about us, we shall not die today. If Master Locke wanted us dead, then we would have been dead already."

"Now, that's what I like," said the leader, his face nearly invisible inside the hood of his cloak. "A man with a practical turn of mind."

He seemed to speak for all the others, who simply stood there motionless, yet watchful and ready. Smythe was all too uncomfortably aware of the two crossbows aimed straight at their chests. He was a good archer, having grown up hunting in the woods around his village, but crossbows made him nervous. He had seen what they could do. And unlike a good, stout Englis

h longbow, which required a deliberate pull and release, it did not take much more than a couch to release a bolt from a crossbow. Merely a moment's in attentiveness on the part of either of those two archers and death would come swiftly and decisively.

The clip-clopping of horses' hooves made Smythe look around, though he was careful to avoid any sudden movements. A coach was approaching from the south side of the bridge, the direction from which they had come. It stopped when it drew even with them.

"If you gentlemen would be so good as to turn around," the man said.

They did so, and a couple of the other men stepped forward and tied blindfolds over their eyes.

"Your 'ands behind your backs, please… "

"Tuck, I do not like this," Shakespeare said, trying hard to keep his voice even.

"Nor do I, Will. Steady on. There is naught else we can do but comply with their wishes."

"This is merely to ensure that you do not try anything foolish once we get inside the coach." The man continued speaking to them, though they could no longer see him. "There shall be one of us sitting beside each of you, "with a dagger at the ready. So let us all sit quietly and merely enjoy the ride, eh?"

They were assisted into the coach, and then the door was closed behind them. A moment later, they felt the coach lurch forward. They seemed to be continuing across the bridge and toward the city.

"I do not suppose that Master Locke happened to mention why, specifically, he wished to see us?" Smythe heard Shakespeare say.

"I am quite sure that 'e shall tell you when 'e sees you," came the reply. "Now be quiet, like a good lad, eh?"

"Of course," said Shakespeare, and fell silent.

The silence made their ride seem much more tense and ominous. Smythe listened intently, trying to determine where they were by the sounds coming from outside the coach. It was difficult to tell exactly when they reached the other side and entered the city. He could not see anything. The blindfold had been tied well. Alert to every sound, he listened as hard as he could, but could not determine where they where. He thought he could feel it when the coach turned, but even that seemed uncertain. The blindfold made him realise just how much he depended upon his sight. It must be a terrible thing to be blind, he thought. It felt even worse to be unable to see than to have his hands tied behind his back. He had never felt so helpless.

Having his hands tied behind his back also added an element of physical discomfort to the trip, for if he leaned back against the cushioned seat of the coach, then his arms started to go numb and his shoulders ached. On the other hand, if he moved forward toward the edge of the seat, it took the pressure off his arms and shoulders, bur made his balance more precarious as the wooden wheels of the coach rattled over the cobble-stoned streets, transmitting every bump up through the seats and putting him in danger of pitching forward, which was the last thing he wanted to do, considering that the man sitting next to him had a dagger at his side and might react badly to any sudden movement. All in all, it made trying to keep track of where they were an exercise in futility. Before long, he lost not only all sense of direction but all sense of the passage of time, as well. And that was, doubtless, the general idea, for clearly their abductors did not want them to know where they were going.

Shakespeare had not made a sound since the man had told him to be quiet, but Smythe could easily imagine how he felt. Will was not a courageous individual by nature. He had a quick wit and a keen mind, but physically he was not very strong. Although he was determined, he was also easily intimidated by men who were more physical and larger in stature. Right now, thought Smythe, he must be very frightened, a feeling that was probably exacerbated by his inability to speak.. Whenever he was nervous or ill at case, Shakespeare had a tendency to be particularly chatty. Not being able to speak at such a time probably had him near to bursting with frustration and anxiety. Smythe wished that he could say something to make him feel better, but that would only goad him on to speak.. He did not wish to antagonize these men. He had no doubt that they would not be squeamish when it came to violence.

After what seemed like hours, though it could not possibly have been that long, the coach came to a stop. A moment later, the door was opened and the man beside him spoke.

"Right, then. I am going to take your arm and 'elp you down. Do not make any sudden movements. I would not wish to stab you by mistake."

"'Tis very considerate of you," said Smythe. "Thank. you."