"Of course," said Tuck, somewhat awkwardly. He excused himself and allowed his father to lead him away to an empty table in the corner. He sighed as they took their seats. "'Twas rather rude of you to treat them so curtly, Father, if I may say so. These are my friends. The very least you could have done was to exchange a pleasantry or two, instead of treating them all as if they were nothing but dirt underneath your feet."
"They arc nothing but dirt underneath my feet," his father replied with a disdainful grimace. "Bounders, louts, and scallywags, every last man jack of them. Gypsies, moon-men, vagabonds." He snorted. "A fine lot you have taken up with, I can see that."
"They are my friends, Father."
"Indeed. You know that one may judge a man by the company he keeps."
"Well then, if I be judged now, I must surely stand condemned," said Tuck dryly.
"Do not be insolent with me, young man."
"Or else what?" said Smythe wearily. "You shall disown me?
That old and tired hound simply shall not hunt, Father. You have naught left of which you can disown me, not that it would make the slightest bit of difference to me if you did, one way or the other. Do as you please."
"Oh, how very bravely said, now that you know I have suffered some reverses," his father said wryly.
"Reverses, is it?" Smythe replied. "'Strewth, sir, you have lost everything you had, including that saucy young tart who had the presumption to call herself my stepmother when she was scarcely older than myself. You shamefully cheated Uncle Thomas out of his share of the inheritance, foolishly squandered it all, and then fastened on to him like a leech until even he could no longer tolerate your abuses and gave you the boot. Now, at long last, you come to me, your unloved and long-neglected son who had disgraced you by joining a company of players. So, then . what is it you wish of me? More money to spend on clothes and carriages? How much this time?"
"My word, how very high and mighty we seem to have become," his father said scornfully. "Such a lofty, noble, moral tone for a mountebank in motley! I see now what comes of having sent you to be raised by my good brother. You have become as insufferable a prig as Thomas ever was. On you, however, the mantle of morality does not sit quite as well, considering the company you keep."
"Did you come here merely to trade barbs with me, or was there something that you wanted?" Tuck said curtly.
His father glared at him for a moment, looked as if he were about to launch into a sharp rejoinder, and then abruptly changed his tack. He smiled and said, "I was going to ask if you would consider acting as the best man at my wedding."
Tuck simply stared at him, speechless with astonishment.
"Of course, if 'twould be asking too much, then I suppose that I could find someone else to stand beside me when the time comes, although I have no idea who in London I would know well enough to ask," his father said.
Tuck finally found his voice. "You are getting married? But how? When?" He shook his head in confusion.
"As to when, I am not yet quite certain. There are yet some small details that need to be worked out. As to how, well, 'tis quite a simple matter, really. One stands before a minister in church and speaks some nonsense and 'tis done."
"But .. but you are already married!"
His father shrugged. "The ungrateful wench ran off."
"God's wounds! You think that makes a difference?" Smythe replied, astonished at his father's arrogant presumption. "You cannot simply marry once again! 'Strewth, not that I have any fondness for that miserable, smug, and grasping woman you had the poor judgement to marry after Mother died, but 'tis not as if she were a horse that bolted and ran off and you simply went and bought yourself another! For God's sake, 'twould be bigamy if you married someone else! 'Twould be a sin!"
"A minor matter," said his father dryly, with a dismissive wave. "'Tis of no consequence. However, if 'twould make you feel any better, I suppose I could arrange to have the first marriage annulled."
"Annulled? Upon what grounds?" asked Smythe with disbelief. His father shrugged. "'What difference does it make? Doubtless, a suitable justification can be found. She never bore me any children. I suppose I could claim that the marriage was never consummated. And 'tis not as if precedent did not exist. After all, King Henry had it done, you know."
Smythe was absolutely speechless. His mouth worked, but no words would come out. However, his father continued speaking blithely, as if completely unaware of how casually and lightly he had placed himself on the same level as the monarch who had placed himself above the Church of Rome and presided over the Dissolution.
"In any event, 'twould be seemly for someone of my family to be present at the wedding; after all, one must consider appearances, and since my good, dear, sanctimonious brother Thomas has seen fit to wash his hands of me, well, I suppose that leaves only you."
"How kind of you to think of me," said Tuck dryly.
And, apparently unaware of how he had just slighted his own son, the senior Smythe continued by adding insult to injury. "Of course, 'twould never do for anyone to know you were a lowly player, so I have "Said you are a joumeyman armourer. After all, between hammering shoes onto plowhorses and what all, Thomas did teach you to make knives and such, so 'tis not entirely a falsehood, is it? Come to think on it, perhaps you could see your way clear to forging up some trinket as a gift for the father of the bride. You could do it at the shop of that blacksmith friend of yours, what was his name? Well, no matter. 'Twould be a nice gesture, I should think. An ornamental sword or some such thing. How soon do you suppose you could have it ready?"
Smythe stared at the man sitting across from him, the man who he knew beyond a doubt was his father and yet, in almost every other respect save that accident of birth, was nearly a complete stranger to him. He had often felt that in his childhood, but never more so than at that very moment. They shared the same name, but otherwise he could not imagine what the two of them could possibly have in common. He did not even wish to speculate upon the matter. How in God's name, he thought, could I possibly be related to this man?
"Father," he began, somehow managing to find the words, "I fear that I could not possibly comply with your request."
"Well, 'twould not have to be something as fancy as an ornamental sword," his father said. "If that would be too difficult, then I suppose a dagger would do nicely, mayhap with some engraving on the blade—"
Smythe felt the throbbing in his temples building to a point that seemed unbearable. "Father, I do not think you understand," he interjected. "I cannot, and shall not, be a party to any of this duplicitous coney-catching."