The Merchant of Vengeance (Shakespeare & Smythe 4)

"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."