The wherry-man spat over the side. "I can feel it in me bones, lad. I been scullin' this 'ere river since afore yer birth. If'n I say'tis gonna rain, 'strewth 'n' ye count on rain. Wager on it, if ye like."
He pulled hard and steady on the short oars of the sharp-prowed wherry as they cut through the choppy water. About twenty feet in length and narrow in the beam, the wherry could carry up to five passengers. On this short cross-river journey, though, only Will and Tuck were being rowed by the sole wherry-man, whose powerful arms pulled on the sculls with strong and purposeful strokes.
The Company of Watermen consisted of several thousand wherry-men much like him, a rough-and-tumble lot who plied the waters of the Thames in boats of various sizes, rowing the citizens of London across and up and down the river. With all the traffic on the narrow, crowded, and muddy city streets, many of which still remained unpaved, it was often easier to get around London by travelling the river. Thus, the Company of Watermen was one of the largest companies in the city.
The weather-beaten boatmen, known as watermen or wherry-men or scullers, made their living ferrying the citizens of London on the Thames for the very reasonable fare of about one pence per person. On any given day, their boats dotted the surface of the river like water-flies upon a country pond. There were even Royal Watermen, who rowed solely in service to the queen and her court. A veteran such as the old wherry-man who rowed them had very likely also spent some time serving in the Royal Navy, which often turned to the Company of Watermen for impressment. Consequently, there was little point in questioning his knowledge of the river and the weather. If he said he knew that it would rain, then it would surely rain.
"Well, 'tis a pity that we shall not be able to perform tonight," said Shakespeare, "but all the same, it serves us just as well. I should not have liked hastening back for our performance before we could have done Locke's bidding properly. He is not a man to be trifled with, methinks."
"Ye mean Shy Locker" the wherry-man asked. "You two on a job for 'im, are ye?"
"Shy Locker" said Shakespeare. "Nay, one Charles Locke, a Southwark tavern-keeper, was the man I meant."
"Aye, 'tis 'im," the wherry-man replied. "Shy Locke, they call
'im." He grinned. "Ye want't' know why?"
"Somehow I have the distinct impression that you are going to tell us," Shakespeare said wryly, drawing his cloak about him against the chill.
"'E's an important man in 'is own way, 'e is," the wherry-man replied from somewhere behind his thick and bushy beard as he bent to the oars. "But ye would never know it to see 'im in 'is tavern, mind. 'E 'ides 'is light under a bushel, ye might say, like a shy sort. Never acts important. Never puts on airs. An' yet, not a thief or alley-man in the city plies 'is trade without ole Shy Locke's permission, if ye please."
"There, you see?" Smythe said. "What did I tell you? Greene was right."
"Robby Greene, what writes them pamphlets?" asked the wherry-man.
"Robby?" Shakespeare said, raising his eyebrows. Somehow, the familiarity did not seem to fit the bitterly resentful ruin of a man that they had met.
"Aye, 'e knows whereof 'e speaks, ole Robby does," the wherry-man continued as he rowed. "A regular chronicler of the underworld,'e is."
"One might think people like that would resent his writing all about them and telling all the world their business," Shakespeare said.
"Aye, one might think that, indeed," the wherry-man replied. "And yet, strange as it might be, they seem to like it. I often 'ear 'em talk about it in the taverns or when I 'ave 'em in me boat. Robby Greene makes 'em famous, see? Get yer name in one o' those pamphlets'e writes an' then yer cock o' the walk in that lot."
"How curious," said Shakespeare. "Much as noblemen often have their pet poets who write sonnets to extol their virtues, so 'twould seem that criminals in London have their own poet in Robert Greene. And, as such, I could see how 'twould be a measure of their status to be mentioned in his writings."
"'Twould help explain why he has a cut-throat like that Cutting Ball at his beck and call," said Smythe.
"Oh, aye, 'e's a bad one, all right," the wherry-man replied with a knowing nod. “I would be givin' 'im a right wide berth if I was you. One time, one o' Robby Greene's creditors sent a bill collector after 'im. The man found 'im, all right, but Cutting Ball was with 'im, and 'e gave the poor sod a choice to eat the bill or 'ave his throat cut."
“I imagine that he ate it rather promptly," Shakespeare said dryly.
"Washed it down with ale, then took to 'is heels like the devil 'imself were chasin' 'im," the wherry-man replied with a chuckle.
"That sounds like just the sort of thing that ruffian would do," said Smythe with a grimace. “I must admit, the more I learn about Master Robert Greene, the less and less I like the man."
"Oh, 'e's an 'orrible man!" the wherry-man exclaimed. "Vile tempered and mean-spirited as they come!"
"And a university man, at that," said Shakespeare. "A master of the am, no less." He shook his head. "He was a good poet in his time. 'Tis a pity what has become of him. A sad thing. A very sad thing, indeed."
"A harbinger of things to come, perhaps?" asked Smythe with a smile.
"Perish the thought!" Shakespeare replied with a shudder. “I should sooner go back to Stratford than see myself reduced to such a state! Nay, I shall not be fortune's fool, Tuck. Thus far, I have achieved some small measure of success, and I an) most grateful for it. I shall endeavour to make the most of it, you may be sure of that, but if I see that my run of luck has ended, then I shall know well enough to quit. I promise you. A wise guest knows not to overstay his welcome at Dame Fortune's table."
"'Ere we be, good sirs," the wherry-man said, as he shipped the oars and let the boat drift up to the flight of stone steps coming straight down the bank to the river. There were many such "pairs of stairs" along the riverside, built expressly for the purpose of small boats pulling up to them. 'Watch yer step, now!"
The warning was as traditional as it was unnecessary. Everyone knew how slick the steps could be, especially on a damp day. The rough-cut stones had been smoothed by both the elements and foot traffic over time and were often slippery. Smythe and Shakespeare stepped out gingerly, one at a time, while the wherry-man held the boat steady, dose to the steps.
"Look sharp, good wherry-man," Smythe said, flipping him an extra coin. "For a swift passage and the benefit of your wisdom."