"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."
Chapter 4
The Wherry Ride across the choppy, windswept river took them to the area known as the Liberties, outside the city proper on the south bank of the Thames. They disembarked not very far from the Rose Theatre and the Paris Gardens, where the residents of London, or at least those with a taste for bloodier drama than they could see portrayed upon the stage, could watch the sport of bear-baiting in the ring or, on occasion, see a chained ape tormented by a pack of hounds. In this same area, close by the theatre, a number of thriving brothels could be found, as well as several taverns and gaming houses. A short walk in a South Easterly direction took them to the residence of Thomas Locke's parents, Charles and Rachel Locke, on a tree-lined dirt street near the outskirts of Southwark.
"For a mere tavern keeper, Charles Locke lives in a rather large and handsome home," said Shakespeare, observing the three-story, oak-framed house with its white plaster walls and steeply pitched thatched roof.
The timbers of the house had been tarred, blackening them so that they stood out dramatically against the white plaster of the walls. In between the upright timbers were shorter boards arranged in opposing diagonal directions, resulting in a dramatic herring-bone effect that made the house stand out from all those around it.
"Strange that we never should have heard of him before," said Shakespeare. "I would have thought by now that we knew all of the taverns hereabouts."
"Methinks that he is rather more than a mere tavern-keeper," Smythe replied. "When Ben told us his, name, it seemed somehow familiar to me, although I could not then call to mind just why. Yet now it comes to me at last. If this is the same Charles Locke that I
am thinking of, and not just a coincidence of names, then he also owns a brothel and is a master of the Thieves Guild."
Shakespeare glanced at him with surprise. "Now, how in the world would you know something like that?" he asked.
"Of late, I read it in a pamphlet that I bought in a bookstall in
Paul's Walk," Smythe replied.
"Oh, no," said Shakespeare, stopping in his tracks. "Do not tell me 'twas one of Robert Greene's works about the so-called 'dark and murky underworld' of London!"
"Well…"
"Good Lord, Tuck! You saw the man! He was living in his cups, for God's sake, if you could even call that living. I had heard that he was fallen on hard times and dissipated, but the sight of him alone more than confirmed it, to say nothing of his bilious and caustic disposition. How could you possibly take anything he wrote seriously, considering the source?"
"If we were to dismiss the work of every writer ever known to take a drink," said Smythe, "then there would be no literature left in all the world. And I might add, whilst we are on the subject, that you yourself have been known for your supine presence 'neath the tables in many of the lesser alehouses of the city."
"You infernal bounder!" Shakespeare sputtered. "Do you mention me in the same breath as that hopeless, rheumy-eyed, and bloated souse?"
"Not yet rheumy-eyed and not yet bloated, at the least," said Smythe, "but if there be not a flask of brandy somewhere about your person even as we speak, then I shall herewith eat your bonnet!" He swiped the floppy velvet cap off Shakespeare's head and held it underneath his nose. 'Well? What say you now, Master Shakescene?"
Shakespeare stared at him squinty-eyed for a moment, then flatly said, "There is no flask."
"Why, you saucy,
timorous, and motley-minded liar!" Smythe said. "What will you wager that if I picked you up and shook you, one should not fall out from somewhere within your doublet?"
"You would never dare!"
"Oh, would I not!"
Smythe reached out quickly and spun him around, then seized him about the waist from behind and easily lifted him up into the air.
"Gadzooks! Put me down, you great baboon! Have you lost your senses?"